The New Flesh: Michael A. Kechula

Showing posts with label Michael A. Kechula. Show all posts

When Charlie left the bakery with a bag full of donuts, he was abducted by aliens. The next thing he knew, he was sitting in a chair in their spacecraft with the donuts in his lap. Facing him were a dozen green Martians. All were holding clipboards and taking notes.

“Welcome aboard,” said the tallest one. “My name is Glarp. We won’t keep you long. We just want to remove one of your eyes for analysis. Don’t worry, you won’t feel a thing. What’s that in your lap?”

“A bag of donuts.”

“What’s a donut?”

“Something good to eat.”

Glarp nudged the greenie next to him. “Take one and taste it. If it’s really good, we’ll reverse engineer it, duplicate it, and open donut shops back home.”

As the Martian approached, Charlie extended a glazed cinnamon twist. When the alien took a bite, he screamed, and fell to the floor convulsing. In seconds, he disintegrated into a pile of dust.

Charlie grabbed another cinnamon twist from the bag and pointed it at the Martians. “OK, you bums. Put your hands up. This bag’s full weapons of mass destruction. The one I’m holding is powerful enough to blow this spaceship to smithereens. If you don’t return me to Earth immediately, I’ll set it off.”

Trembling, the Martians did as Charlie commanded.

When he arrived home, his wife hollered, “Where the hell have you been for the last three hours? I’ve been dying for a donut.”

When he tried to explain, she called him an idiot.

“You don’t understand,” he said. “I’ve made a remarkable discovery. Donuts are more than what they seem. In fact, they can be used as very effective weapons against Martians. Do you realize with a cinnamon twist, we may be able to end alien abductions forever? I’m gonna call Homeland Security right now and tell them.”

The agent who answered the phone called Charlie an idiot and hung up.

Charlie wrote to the President, Congress, and heads of the armed forces. Nobody bothered to respond.

When he called radio talk shows, the hosts derided him and terminated his call before he could explain how donuts could be used to kill Martians and defend the country against invasion.

The only way I’ll be able to convince anybody is if I run for Congress, he mumbled. When I’m elected, I’ll have some clout. And when they interview me on CNN and Fox News, I’ll be able to tell everybody about the fantastic power of donuts.

Charlie got elected to Congress and managed to wrangle an appointment to the Armed Forces Committee. During a secret hearing about UFOs and what the Air Force was doing to defend the country against alien intrusions, he finally got a chance to tell a general how cinnamon twists affected Martians.

During a break in the hearings, he approached the general in charge of US Air Defense Forces and explained his ideas on defending the nation against Martians.

“You want me to remove one of the four air-to-air missiles on our UFO-chasing fighter planes and replace it with a donut?” asked the incredulous general.

“Right. I have reason to believe that all UFOs come from Mars. I have reliable information about a situation where an abductee killed a Martian with a glazed cinnamon twist. Not only that, the guy got away by threatening to blow up their spacecraft with a cinnamon twist. I’m sure by now the word got around Mars, and every UFO pilot and crew know about this. So, I figure if we shoot cinnamon twists at UFOs, instead of missiles, we’ll scare them off for good. I suggest we run a test.”

The general agreed. A month later, two Air Defense fighter planes were scrambled to intercept a UFO over Phoenix. Instead of shooting missiles to scare it away, each pilot fired an oversized cinnamon twist. The pilots were amazed when the UFO suddenly changed direction and hightailed it into outer space at warp speed. After that incident, no UFOs were ever seen again over Detroit.

The same thing happened when UFOs were spotted over Chicago and New York. Consequently, the President issued an executive order stating that all Air Force attack planes guarding against UFO intrusions were to be armed with four oversized, glazed, cinnamon twists.

Nevertheless, some UFO’s managed to get through the global radar shield undetected, and abducted dozens of Earthlings. When Congressman Charlie learned this, he spoke of his abduction experience during a congressional hearing. Afterward, he sponsored a bill to provide every citizen in the United States with a fresh cinnamon twist, every day for life. It passed unanimously.

Before long, all citizens wore cinnamon twists around their necks, 24/7. As a result, alien abductions ceased completely.

Earthlings can once again enjoy munching cinnamon twists, instead of wearing them in self defense.

"Weapons of Mass Destruction"

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Michael A. Kechula is a retired tech writer. His stories have been published by 129 magazines and 36 anthologies. He’s won first place in 10 contests and placed in 8 others. He’s authored three books of flash fiction, micro-fiction, and short stories: The Area 51 Option and 70 More Speculative Fiction Tales; A Full Deck of Zombies--61 Speculative Fiction Tales; I Never Kissed Judy Garland and Other Tales of Romance. eBook versions available at www.BooksForABuck.com and www.fictionwise.com Paperbacks available at www.amazon.com.

“Congratulations,” said the voice on Harry’s phone. “You won third prize in our Birthday Boy contest.”

“But I didn’t enter any contests.”

“You didn’t have to. Our company’s computer selected your name from thousands of American men whose birthday is today.”

“What’s the name of your company?”

“Zombies-R-Us.”

“Never heard of you.”

“I’m surprised, considering we’re a multi-billion dollar company with stores throughout America.”

“So what did I win?” Harry asked.

“One of our delightful pet zombies. It does everything dogs, cats, and birds can do. It comes with a rotary switch and keyboard embedded in its back. If you want it to be a canary, just turn the switch to the bird setting. When a light blinks on the keyboard, type the word canary. Your pet zombie will start hopping around and warbling like a canary. If you get tired of having a canary around, you can turn the switch to one of dozens of dog and cat breeds. On the other hand, if you just want it to be a zombie, don't touch any of the switches.”

“I have a dog. What do you suggest I do with it when my pet zombie arrives?”

“Throw it in the trash, feed it to your new pet, or trade it in for a discount on a bag of our wonderful zombie food pellets which are chock full of vitamins, minerals, antioxidants, and putrefaction retardants.”

“What's putrefaction?”

“Rotting of skin and body organs. Our pet zombies are inoculated and coated with shellac to keep their rot rate to a minimum. However, to keep your pet zombie fresh and supple, just feed it one food pellet a day. By the way, if you let the zombie eat your dog, you won’t have to feed it for a whole week.”

Ignoring the comment about his dog, Harry asked, “How much is a bag of food pellets?”

“A dollar for three month’s worth. So, where would you like us to deliver your prize?”

Harry gave his address.

“Congratulations once again. I’m sure you’ll just love your new pet.”

“Wait a minute,” Harry said. “Don’t zombies eat human brains?”

“Not the ones we sell. On the other hand, in the extremely rare situation where there’s a slight malfunction, and one bites your skull open while you’re sleeping, we stock blood-and-brains stain remover for your pillow case. Comes in a spray can. So, have you decided what you’ll do with your dog now that it’s obsolete?”

“Yeah. I’ll feed it to the zombie.”

“Ah, a most humane decision. We’ll bring a container shaped like a zombie food pellet when we deliver your prize. Just put your dog inside, and feed the pellet to the zombie. But we need to know the size of your dog so we can bring the right container. ”

“It’s a tiny, teacup poodle.”

When Harry hung up, he picked up his doggie, Honeybun, looked into her loving, sparkling eyes, and said, “You’ve been a pretty good pet. But it costs two dollars a week to feed you. You just ain’t cost effective anymore, considering these terrible economic times.”

Thinking she was being praised, Honey Bun wagged her tail and licked her beloved master’s hand

* * *

Honeybun thought she was playing a new, exciting game when Harry pushed her into a container shaped like a zombie food pellet, and handed it to his new, salivating pet.

"Third Prize"

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Michael A. Kechula is a retired tech writer. His stories have been published by 129 magazines and 36 anthologies. He’s won first place in 10 contests and placed in 8 others. He’s authored three books of flash fiction, micro-fiction, and short stories: The Area 51 Option and 70 More Speculative Fiction Tales; A Full Deck of Zombies--61 Speculative Fiction Tales; I Never Kissed Judy Garland and Other Tales of Romance. eBook versions available at www.BooksForABuck.com and www.fictionwise.com Paperbacks available at www.amazon.com.

It’s very easy to kidnap somebody. I know. I did it, and got away with it.

It wasn’t done for ransom, political reasons, or rape. Hell, I’m extremely wealthy, apolitical, and get serviced regularly by a bevy of acrobatic call girls.

I did it to get satisfaction for receiving eight, preprinted, nondescript, 3 x 4 inch, generic, reject slips from those bastards at Hollybird Publishing.

I’d sent them magnificent novella manuscripts. Eight in four years. And they didn’t have the damn decency to type or write a single word on their rejections. The preprinted rejection slips they stuffed into my self-addressed stamped envelopes were barely legible. And they all said the same thing about my novellas not meeting their current needs. Damn jerks!

Before I even dreamed of kidnapping, I was pretty happy-go-lucky. Money does that. At thirty-six, I’d seen it all, been everywhere, and done it all, with one exception: I’d never written a best seller. It shouldn’t have mattered. But one day, walking into a huge library, I noticed the mountain of books. Not a single one bore my name. The thought bugged me.

As new books were added to library shelves, my frustration increased. To relieve my distress, I wrote eight, sci-fi western novellas. Masterpieces. Followed every rule of fiction. My opening sentences had gripping hooks, the kind that knock your drawers off. My descriptions were divinely inspired. The dialog was crisp, dynamic, incredibly moving.

Self-publish or use the vanity press? Nope. Anybody can do that. I wanted my creations to bubble to the top by their sheer magnificence. I wanted to inspire and change readers’ lives.

But all I got were crummy reject slips.

Enough! I’d make them pay. Principle was involved. I made a plan.

First, I added a 40 x 50 foot, luxury bedroom and bath to my estate. Installed every convenience.

Then, a few calls to Hollybird identified Ms Victoria Chubbs the Editor-in-Chief. I paid triple the going rate for a private investigator who’d keep secrets. I learned where Chubbs lived, dined, and shopped. White Plains, New York. Tavern on the Green. Macy’s. But, she’d bought groceries at Wal-Mart, ten Sundays in a row.

That’s where I snatched her.

I locked her in the new bedroom.

When the chloroform wore off, she panicked. “Where am I? What’s going on? I wanna go home.”

“There’s nothing to worry about,” I said gently over the intercom. “The bar’s full. Snacks are behind the bar. You’ll get gourmet meals. All your needs will be met scrupulously and respectfully. I’m not a rapist, or insane.”

“Please let me go.”

“After you complete certain tasks, I promise to release you unharmed, with twenty thousand dollars in your handbag. Make yourself at home. Look around. You’ll never rest your head in a more sumptuous room, and enjoy better food. Wait until you see the bathroom. Think of this as a vacation. A working vacation.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“In the desk are eight manuscripts. Each bears a rejection slip from Hollybird. Read all the manuscripts and write in longhand why they were rejected. Make suggestions for improvement. That’s all. Just that.”

“You gotta be kidding.”

“Nope. Dinner is at 7:00. Coq Au Vin. I’ll serve it through the dumbwaiter by the bar. Meanwhile, have a drink to settle your nerves.”

She looked around warily. Hopefully the fabulous surroundings and the vodka she poured would help calm her.

The surveillance camera showed her heading for the bathroom.

“I guess you’re gonna watch,” she said.

“The bathroom’s surveillance-free. I’m not a voyeur.”

Later, she ran her hand down the beautiful marble columns and exquisite tapestries. She examined paintings, and toyed with the satellite radio. She watched CNN on wide-screen, high-definition TV.

After dinner, she opened the first manuscript.

“Are you there?” she called.

“Yep.”

“I guess I have to say everything is just peachy, or else you’ll-”

“I won’t harm you. I’ll accept your honest opinion. Let the chips fall.”

“This opening line is…well…unsatisfactory, ‘It was a dark and stormy night when Brace Brute, the ambidextrous, bi-sexual, Martian sheriff half-galloped toward the groveling town of Destiny, heading for the Bucket of Blood saloon, knowing that buried beneath was the Ark of the Covenant.’”

“Write down why you think it’s bad.”

She scribbled.

“This description doesn’t work. ‘His nose dribbled like the anus of a horse with diarrhea.’ It’ll turn your readers off. Makes me wanna puke.”

“Don’t’ tell me everything. Write it all down.”

Four days later, all eight manuscripts had been critiqued.

After feasting on Boef de l’Orange de Mandarin, she complained of dizziness.

“A sedative was in your espresso. When you awake, you’ll be near a pay phone. Hang on to your purse; I’ve put twenty thousand dollars inside. When you return to Hollybird, burn those miserable preprinted reject slips. Henceforth, make your readers and editors handwrite comments on all rejections. Show some respect for writers.”

“But, we get hundreds of unsolicited manuscripts every day.”

“Find a way to do it. And sign them yourself. Oh, and I wanna see faster turnaround, too. Unless you’d like to return here for an extended vacation.”

She shook her head and passed out.

At midnight, I took her to a park, then called 911.

I read her critiques. What a bitch! She wouldn’t know talent if it bit her in the ass.

Four months later, I sent a fabulous 500-page pirate story to Hollybird Publishing.

After three weeks, a two-page rejection letter arrived signed by Victoria Chubbs. Her highfalutin words said my story stank.

Originally against the idea, I decided to self-published the pirate story. It was too good to leave unpublished. I donated copies to all the libraries in town. It looks good on the shelves.

I’m bored with writing.

I think I’ll compose a symphony.

"The Bastards of Hollybird"

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Michael A. Kechula is a retired tech writer. His stories have been published by 128 magazines and 36 anthologies. He’s won first place in 10 contests and placed in 8 others. He’s authored three books of flash fiction, micro-fiction, and short stories: The Area 51 Option and 70 More Speculative Fiction Tales; A Full Deck of Zombies--61 Speculative Fiction Tales; I Never Kissed Judy Garland and Other Tales of Romance. eBook versions available at http://www.booksforabuck.com/ and http://www.fictionwise.com/ Paperbacks available at http://www.amazon.com/.

I moved three times to get away from Joey. But somehow he discovered where I was.

I dreaded the idea of moving again to avoid that psycho bastard. He thought I was his reincarnated wife. When I didn’t respond to his amorous advances, he threatened me.

A restraining order didn’t discourage him. I moved to another city.

I was tired of running. If only there was a way to spot Joey sneaking up on me, I could bash his skull.

Then I got an idea. I went to an auto parts store and bought a rear view mirror. I mounted it on my head, but it kept falling off. Next, I strapped it to my shoulder, but I still couldn’t stabilize the damn thing. It was even worse on my buttocks.

Terribly discouraged, I saw an advertisement that offered hope: “Body Mod, a specialist in body modifications, announces a new facility in Chicago.”

The ad included several testimonials. One in particular caught my eye: it showed a picture of a man with three arms. His testimonial said, “Now I can do almost twice the work. My company is so pleased with my increased performance, they gave me a huge raise. Now I can make more widgets than ever. And when I play baseball, I never miss a catch. Thanks, Bod-Mod."

I made an appointment.

“How can we help you?” asked a Body Modification Designer.

I told her about Crazy Joey and my fears. When she proposed a fantastic resolution, I signed a contract and underwent surgery.

After my recovery, Joey tried to jump me from behind while I was walking my dog at night in the park. They buried him a couple days later.

Absolutely delighted with my new abilities, I decided to go into business for myself. I became so successful, I wrote Bod Mod a testimonial, which they’ve included in their latest TV ads.

The ads show me with a bald spot on the back of my head. An eye sits in the center. As the camera zooms in on my new eye, I smile and say: “I’m Lisa Snerd. I sure love my third eye. It's changed my life. I’m now a successful detective with a seven-figure income. I can do far more surveillance than any of my competitors. My caseload is ten times the national average since Bod Mod added the extra eye to my head.”

Then I approach the Chief Surgeon of Bod Mod and say, “Thanks for including little extras, like making a special floppy hat with a slit in the back. It’s very stylish.”

At that moment the camera zooms to show the hat.

“Plus this hat helps me see everything that’s going on behind me without anyone noticing. And a very special thanks for installing .30 caliber, sawed-off machine guns in both shoulder blades. Now I don’t fear anybody, including terrorists. I’ll be back next year for another modification. I love you guys. You’re the best!”

"Crazy Joey"

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Do you believe in zombies?” I asked Sanders, a private detective.

“About as much as the Easter Bunny,” he replied.

“My fiancée, Dr. Helen Harlow, believes they exist.She took a sabbatical from the university and went to Haiti to find one. She wants to bring it here to Phoenix to conduct experiments. Look, I feel the same way you do about zombies. I tried to reason with her, but she wouldn’t listen. So, I figured I’d stand aside while she got it out of her system. I got emails from her several times a day until a week ago. Then, nothing. I called her hotel a hundred times, but she hasn’t answered my messages. I think something terrible’s happened to her.”

“Maybe she changed her plans, and went somewhere else.”

“She would’ve told me. We’re supposed to get married in four weeks.”

Sanders agreed to go to Haiti to find her. Three days later he called from Haiti.

“Sorry, but I got bad news. The few people who knew of her said she disappeared. The clerk at her hotel said she never checked out. He pointed me to a chambermaid named Bahody, who cleaned Helen’s room. Interviewing her was a waste of time. All she’d talk about was zombies and how they kidnap people who venture out at night — especially white women. I ran into dead ends and a bunch of superstitious jerks. This is one helluva weird place. I can’t wait to get outta here.”

Feeling desperate, I decided to look for her myself. I took two weeks’ vacation from my job and flew to Haiti.

When I arrived, I showed Helen’s photo to taxi drivers and street vendors. They shrugged indifferently.

I headed to Hotel Balzac where Helen had stayed. As soon as I arrived, I asked for Bahody, the chambermaid.

“Who are you?” Bahody asked.

“Ed Walsh. Dr. Harlow’s my fianceé. I’m sure she mentioned me.”

“Many times. She’s crazy in love with you. But it’s too late for love. Take my advice, Mr. Walsh. Go home. Forget her. She’s gone forever.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“You can look from now until doomsday. You’ll never find her.”

“How can you say such a thing?”

“It’s not me who says it. My sister speaks to voodoo gods. They told her Dr. Harlow is lost forever. Zombies stole her.”

“Nonsense. Zombies don’t exist.”

“Is that what they taught you in America? If so, they teach lies.”

“Okay, let’s say zombies kidnapped her. Where would they’ve grabbed her? Is there a place in the city where zombies prowl?”

“There’s not just one place. Zombies are everywhere in Haiti.”

“Tell me what happened the last night you saw her.”

“It was the night of the full moon,” she said. “The air was foul. The drums spoke of doom. I begged her not to walk to Café Blanc alone. She wouldn’t listen.”

“Why did she go there?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where is it?”

“Don’t go there,” she said. “You’ll lose your soul.”

“Stop talking nonsense, and tell me how to get to Café Blanc!”

“No. It’s an unholy place. Even rats die when they get too close.”

“Then I’ll get directions from the concierge.”

“If you must go, take this for protection.” She tried to push a small, black, red-eyed statue into my hand.

I called her a stupid, superstitious woman and stormed out.

A waiter at Café Blanc remembered Helen. “She drank much rum with a voodoo priest, a dangerous man from Destrudo. They left together.”

“Where’s Destrudo?”

“In the jungle. They say it’s a terrible place with zombies and terrifying voodoo ceremonies.”

I couldn’t find anybody who’d risk driving me anywhere near Destrudo.

“Perhaps Mobu will take you,” someone whispered. “They say he’s from Destrudo. A strange man who talks slow like a zombie. Some say he’s husband of a white zombie. There he is now.”

I approached his battered jeep. Waving twenty dollars, I said, “I hear there’s a white woman in Destrudo. Take me to her.”

“You...not...fear...ride...in...dark...with...zombie?” he asked with breath reeking of jungle rot.

“Save the baloney for gullible tourists,” I said boarding the jeep.

“You...not...think...me...zombie?”

“Nope. Let’s go. I don’t have all night.”

“Foolish...American.”

I snickered at his ludicrous words and slow speech.

Ten minutes later, I was on the verge of screaming. While driving manically through jungle paths, his skin took on a greenish glow and vibrated. Weirdest thing I ever saw.

“I changed my mind,” I yelled. “Stop the jeep!”

But he went faster. I figured my only escape was to jump. Just as I was about to, he slammed the brakes.

“White...woman...there,” she said, pointing to a jungle clearing.

Something with the same greenish glow approached. It had Helen’s face!

“Helen,” I called. “It’s me, Ed.”

Moaning, she touched my face. Her fingers were icy. Their stench sickened me.

When I tried to shove her into the jeep, her putrid teeth ripped flesh from my cheek. The pain was horrendous. I tried to get away, but tripped.

Suddenly, Helen and Mobu were biting my face and howling.

I don’t know how I broke loose. I raced through the jungle until I blacked out. I’m not sure how I got back to the city.

* * *

Since that horrible night, my cheeks have dripped pus continuously. Modern medicines can’t stop the flow.

Shamans have exorcised me. I’ve sacrificed chickens to voodoo gods. I’ve consumed putrid, hoodoo potions. But nothing heals my wounds, or stops Helen and Mobu from invading my dreams and feasting on my flesh.

Last night when I looked in the mirror, my pus-filled face was glowing...and vibrating.

"The Sabbatical"

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“Alien eyeballs. Get your ice-cold alien eyeballs. Only five cents each,” yelled a pushcart vendor.

“Gimme one,” a kid said.

“On a roll or stick?”

“Roll. With lotsa mustard and onions.”

The vendor removed something that looked like a mottled green golf ball from a large pickle jar filled with murky yellow fluid. Plopping it onto a roll, he smeared it with mustard and onions.

“Yum,” the kid said. “I love alien eyeball sandwiches.”

“How about you?” the vendor asked Jim.

“I’ll pass,” Jim said. “Are those green things really alien eyeballs?”

“Yep. Direct from Mars. This batch was ripped out of their eye sockets and flash frozen just yesterday.”

“Do they come from dead aliens?”

“Nope. Eyeballs from dead aliens taste lousy. These come from live aliens.”

“They must be nuts to let somebody rip their eyeballs out.”

“Look at it this way: they get paid for every one that’s extracted. Plus, they get a gold star pasted in their eyeball amputation books. When the book’s full, they get a free trip to Disneyland. I’ve run into them in the Magic Kingdom. They’re smelly, obnoxious bastards.”

“I wonder how they get along without eyeballs?” Jim asked.

“No problem. They got fifteen on each head. And their eyeballs grow back in hours. Sure you don’t wanna try one? If you don’t like it, I’ll refund your money.”

“Okay, gimme one on a stick.”

The vendor removed an eyeball from the jar and put it on a cutting board. When he jammed a sharpened lollypop stick into one end, the eyeball twitched violently.

“Good grief!” Jim said. “Looks like it’s in pain.”

“Nah. These are so fresh the severed nerves ain’t settled down yet.”

The eyeball was still twitching when Jim took a bite. “Mmm. Delicious. It’s so crunchy.”

Before long, he gobbled six.

That night, Jim had a lucid dream in which his eyeballs turned green. An alien appeared, rammed a corkscrew into the left one, ripped it out of Jim’s head, and ate it. Searing pain threw Jim out of bed. He screamed when he saw blood gushing from his empty eye socket.

Emergency room surgeons wanted to reattach Jim’s eye, but nobody could find it.

“What happened to your eyeball?” they asked.

“An alien ate it.”

Figuring he was a self-mutilating, cannibalistic loon, they summoned a psychiatrist.

“Aliens don’t exist,” the psychiatrist said. “If they did, why would an alien rip your eyeball out and eat it?”

“Maybe to get revenge for all the alien eyeballs I ate yesterday,” Jim said.

“You ate alien eyeballs?”

“Yeah. Six. You hafta try them, Doctor. They’re fabulous. Wish I had one right now.”

The shrink transferred Jim to a padded cell.

Next day he woke up he found a new, green eyeball on his face. An army of astonished doctors examined the greenish mass.

“You’ve made medical history,” a doctor said. “Hundreds of journalists are clamoring for photos and interviews. Schools want to arrange field trips so kids can see your green eyeball. It’s one of the wonders of the world.”

Enjoying his sudden fame, Jim welcomed visitors, especially when the hospital installed a coin-operated turnstile in the room’s doorway. Jim and the hospital agreed on a 50-50 split. The entire population of Chicago paid a buck a head to view the weird-looking, green eyeball in a pickle jar.

Now affluent, Jim ignored job offers that poured in from every circus and freak show in the world.

Soon, Jim found himself craving alien eyeballs. He asked friends to locate the vendor, and buy a dozen. Their search was unsuccessful.

Jim’s cravings grew so acute he ripped out his green eyeball and nibbled it. Finding it tastier than alien eyeballs, he ate the whole thing.

Miraculously, Jim’s eyeball grew back in an hour. But, his hunger pains returned just as quickly. Consequently, Jim gobbled his new eyeball as fast as he could chew. The faster he ate his eyeball, the faster it grew back, and the more his appetite increased.

After three hours of continuous eyeball eating, Jim’s stomach exploded. Though he died, his green eyeball grew back fresh as ever.

The coroner, who performed Jim’s autopsy, tasted the eyeball out of morbid curiosity. Finding it exquisitely delicious, he became immediately addicted. Barricading himself and Jim’s corpse inside the morgue’s freezer room, he ate Jim’s regenerating eyeballs until his stomach exploded.

Doctors collected bits of Jim’s eyeball, cloned it, and mass-produced green eyeballs. They packing them in pickle jars in offshore secret laboratories. They announced a new, exciting snack food in spectacular ads during the Super Bowl.

The world was electrified, especially when learning the new snackie was low-cal, low sodium, fat free, loaded with vitamins, and eliminated erectile dysfunction permanently. Before long, American green eyeballs became the snack choice of billions.

The sudden drop in demand for authentic, freshly cut alien eyeballs created severe economic problems on Mars. Matters got worse when aliens realized they could no longer fill their eyeball amputation books with gold stars and win free Disneyland trips. They threatened interplanetary war.

Meanwhile, three billion Earthlings’ stomachs exploded when snackers ignored the Surgeon General’s warnings about excessive ingestion of cloned, green eyeballs, especially those packed in pickle jars.

Unable to raise an army because of massive depopulation, Earth sued for peace.

The Martians demanded two concessions: the destruction of every American cloned green eyeball, and the right to free trips to Disneyland, even if their eyeball amputation books contained only a single star.

Earth acquiesced.

Soon afterward, red noses from another galaxy began showing up on Earth. They were so tasty, Earthlings quickly forgot all about alien eyeballs.

Intense intergalactic war still rages between Martians who supply green eyeballs and outer-galactic aliens who provide red noses. Since blockades by the combatants have made both commodities unavailable, Earthlings have switched to potato chips.

So far, no Earthlings’ stomachs have exploded from gorging on potato chips.

And for now, Disneyland is free of smelly, obnoxious aliens with green eyeballs.

"A Wonderful Snack"

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Twenty minutes after Liz ingested the small blue pill, she was absolutely pleased with her new appearance.

"I always wanted to become a beautiful mermaid," she said, peering into a mirror.

Heading to the Pacific Ocean in her rusted Yugo, she couldn't wait to join the mermaid community.

Unfortunately, they rejected her. "To be a member," they said, "you gotta be born in the ocean. You weren't. Get lost."

Fleeing with filthy curse words ringing in her ears, she spotted the Golden Gate Bridge. Climbing to the top, she decided to hurl herself onto the jagged rocks below.

While she tottered on a girder, passersby spotted her. A crowd quickly gathered.

"Look at that weird thing on top of the bridge," a woman yelled. "What the hell is it?"

"Looks like a damn alien to me!" a guy answered. "Jump you freak!"

The growing crowd chanted the guy's words dozens of times.

Liz was only too happy to accommodate them. As she climbed over the rail to jump, she heard somebody calling. "Hey, up there. What are you?"

Looking below, she saw ten dolphins. One had a megaphone.

"I'm a mermaid. But I used to be a woman. I took a pill I bought through an ad in the Weekly Tattler. It turned me into a mermaid."

"You're very beautiful," the dolphin said. "Why are you jumping?"

"I can't live with humans looking like this. Listen to the nasty names they're calling me. Even the mermaid community rejected me. Nobody wants me. I'm gonna throw myself on the rocks."

"Don't. It'll hurt. And you'll end up a gooey mess. Go to the other side of the bridge. There ain't any rocks there. When you jump, you'll fall into the water. Then you can join us. We swim, and play all day. We're on our way to Hawaii. Then we're off to Tahiti. Come along. We're gonna have lotsa fun."

"You really want me?"

"Yep."

"You don't care that I'm a mermaid who used to be a woman?"

"Nope."

"OK...I'll join you. Thanks so much for wanting me. You'll never be sorry for taking me in. I'm a good cook. And I know first aid in case your fins ever get cut or something. I'm gonna go to the other side of the bridge, then I'll jump. Gimme a couple minutes to switch sides."

Her new friends swam to the other side and waited.

Soon, Liz was atop the highest girder on the opposite side.

"Before I jump, I want everybody to know I was an ugly duckling my whole life. Nobody ever loved me. I spent everything I had on a pill to become a beautiful mermaid. I thought once I became one, everybody would love me for sure. But that didn't happen. Now I hate everybody. Especially all you bastards down there who urged me to jump onto the rocks. You don't care if I live or die, or if I hit the rocks and turn into a gooey mess. But these wonderful dolphins care. To hell with the world and everybody in it. People stink! Dolphins are the most loving creatures in the universe"

She spread her arms and jumped.

Half way down, she saw ten sharks shedding their dolphin costumes.

"Ugly Duckling"

----------------------------------

The impact of the .44 magnum bullet decapitated the Barbie doll’s head. Though the head flew across the room and landed hard on the kitchen floor, its bloody mouth continued to taunt Harry by repeating for the millionth time, “You’re a jerk, you’re a jerk, you’re a jerk...”

Harry grabbed the severed head, threw it against the wall with all his might, then stomped it thirty-six times. Still, it continued to hurl invective. “You’re a jerk, you’re a jerk, you’re a jerk...”

“Forget Barbie,” said his new girlfriend, a Kewpie Doll he’d won in an Ebay collectibles auction. “I’m far more valuable and collectable than her, anyway. There’s millions of her, but only a handful of me.”

“Yes, and you’re far more exotic,” Harry said, raising the Kewpie to his lips and giving it a French kiss.

The Barbie head used the distraction to roll itself around the kitchen floor. Finding a wooden match, it managed to grab it between its bloodied teeth. Then it rolled back to where Harry was standing. Using all the energy it could muster, it scraped the match head across the floor. When the match lit, the head hurled itself upward to Harry’s pants cuff. The cuff caught fire, instantly.

None of Harry’s clothes were fireproof, contrary to the guarantees made by the Chinese manufacturer in Shanghai. Consequently everything he wore burst into flames.

Though the Kewpie Doll tried her best to douse the fire with a fire extinguisher, she wasn’t successful. Since she was also made in China - at a factory right next door to the factory where all of Harry’s clothes were made - she was just as flammable.

Soon the lovers were a pile of charred remains.

Savoring the revenge it had taken, the doll head rolled around until it spotted a tube of Super Glue. With the gyrations of an Olympic acrobat and herculean effort, the head managed to glue itself back onto its body.

The restored Barbie doll showered, then called the local newspaper, and placed an ad in the Personals column. Before long, a lonely, rejected man going through the middle age crazies, responded.

“Do you own a Kewpie Doll?” she asked before answering his question about her moving into his apartment.

“No,” he said.

“Do you own a pistol?”

“No."

“Are all your clothes made in China?”

“Of course. I can’t find any made in America.”

“Good. I’m yours. Let’s go to your place and fool around.”

On the way, she suddenly realized how much fun she had when she torched Harry. As she replayed scenes in her head of him covered with flames, and how loud he screamed from the excruciating pain, she noticed a powerful urge within her to do it again.

“Would you do me one big favor, even if it sounds weird?” she asked her new beau.

“Sure. Just name it, Honey.”

“I’d like you to put a few wooden matches on the kitchen floor. There’s a little trick I learned with matches that I’d like to show you.”

"The Break Up"

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“What do you suppose this Martian robot is saying?” asked the President of the Reorganized States of America. “It hasn’t stopped talking since you brought it to my office.”

“I don’t have the slightest idea, Sir,” said the Chief of Staff. “Linguists from the State Department are on the way. They should be here any moment.”

Meanwhile, the robot kept babbling.

“Do you think the Martians made this machine to look like them?” asked the President. “If so, I hope the ugly bastards never land. The whole world would panic.”

“I have to admit,” said the Defense Secretary, “I never figured anything in the universe would have a square head. Or four arms. Not to mention those eight things that are sticking out where legs should be.”

At that moment the receptionist buzzed the President. “Sir, the linguists are here.”

“Send them in.”

A dozen nerdy-looking civil servants entered. One of them said, “That thing just spoke in an obscure Swahili dialect used by only a few hundred African natives.”

“What did it say?” asked the President.

“Repeat or die.”

“Now it’s saying the same words in Southern Chinese,” said another linguist.

“Hey, it just said the same thing in Latin,” said another.

Within minutes, the robot had repeated the same words in seventy-five languages in which the linguists were fluent: “Repeat or die.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” the President asked the Secretary of State.

“Sounds like a death threat. But I don’t get why it’s saying repeat. Repeat what?”

More linguists were brought in from nearby universities. Within five hours, over 250 languages spoken on Earth, including obscure dialects, had been identified. When the words were translated, all said the same thing: “Repeat or die.”

The President’s staff contacted London, Paris, Moscow, Beijing. The heads of state from those countries were also scrutinizing similar robots that kept saying, “Repeat or die,” in a thousand languages and dialects.

The Secretary General of the Amalgamated Nations convened an emergency session. A robot was taken to the General Assembly Meeting Hall. Representatives from Earth’s seven hundred and fifty six nations listened to what the robot said. All confirmed that it was repeating the same words: “Repeat or die.”

After two days of the most intense international discussions ever held, the Secretary General asked for advice from the world’s religious leaders. Afterward, he requested airtime over all TV and radio stations.

“Citizens of Earth. This is the Secretary General of the Amalgamated Nations. It is my duty to inform you that members of the AN representing every nation, plus leaders of the world’s religions have conferred and agreed on the following four points:

One: Talking robots been dispatched to our planet from Mars. They have been found on every land mass and body of water on our planet.

Two: These robots are repeating a message in every language and dialect known to mankind. The message consists of three words: repeat or die.

Three: We have decided that the three words are a warning informing us that we must repeat everything we do. If we fail to comply, we must assume that Martians will kill everyone on Earth.

Four: To avoid genocide, from now on we must repeat every behavior twice. For example, eat breakfast twice in a row. Brush your teeth twice. Read the newspaper, then read it again immediately. Put a sock on, take it off, and put it on again. And so forth. We believe this is the only way we can save humanity from total annihilation.”

Everyone on Earth was notified to repeat their behavior through radio announcements, phone calls, TV newscasts, email, telegrams, loudspeakers, smoke signals, jungle drums, handbills, Morse code, letters, road signs, semaphore, graffiti, theatre marquees, banners, telepathy, sky writing, twitter, iPad, and sign language.

The repetition of all behaviors was maddening. Nations were in chaos. People bought SUVs, then bought them again, just seconds later. Babies that stopped crying had to be pinched to make sure they cried again. Commuters caught busses, got off at their destinations, took other busses back to their places of origin, then repeated the trips.

Nevertheless, seven days later, thousands of Martian spacecraft surrounded Earth and fired death rays. Within hours, everything on Earth was reduced to smoldering ashes.

“Why didn’t those stubborn idiots obey?” yelled Mars’ fanatically religious Emperor. “They could’ve saved themselves. I wasted billions manufacturing and shipping robots to their miserable planet to warn them. Why were they so willing to be obliterated?"

He ordered his aides to form a Blue Ribbon Panel and conduct a thorough investigation. Only the best minds on Mars were appointed to the panel.

Three months later, the panel announced their findings.

“Because of budgetary restrictions caused by our ongoing wars with Mercury, Saturn, Neptune, and Uranus, we decided to save money by outsourcing the talking robot project. Goofus, one of Neptune’s moons, was low bidder. By outsourcing we saved one billion-trillion jeboolas. However, we didn’t know that Goofus does not educate its citizens. Goofonians are hopelessly illiterate. Not familiar with any alphabet, they made a one-character error when installing the robot voice program. This caused the robots to say REPEAT instead of REPENT.”

"Gross Misinterpretation"

----------------------------------

After dropping off my last passenger for the night in Manhattan, I headed for the taxi barn. Feeling restless I decided to drop off the cab and head across the Hudson River to Jersey. Overlooking the river was a great all night place. Owned by the Mob, it catered to Latins. I’d have a few rum and cokes and ogle the incredible Puerto Rican broads. I loved the hot music. I loved how those babes moved their tight rumps to the intricate rhythms. But most of all, I loved the odor of pungent sweat dripping from their sizzling Latin bodies.

Cruising down 9th Avenue, I didn’t see any cars on either side of the road. Typical for 1:00 AM in Manhattan. Best time of the entire day. Peace and quiet. No people. No sounds. Nothing.

As I approached 27th Street, a black Caddie zoomed through a red light. Just missed slamming my passenger side by a couple feet.

I slammed my horn and hollered every cuss word I ever learned while fighting in Iraq.

The bastard slammed his brakes. You coulda heard the tires screeching for a mile.

He backed up in a way that only a Hollywood stunt driver coulda done. Put that damn Caddie right next to my taxi.

“What did you call me?” a woman’s voice said from the driver’s window.

I couldn’t see her face in the dark. But the fact that it was a woman made me even madder.

I repeated my cuss words.

“Is that something good or bad?” the voice asked.

“Get outta the car, and I’ll show you,” I screamed, grabbing the tire iron I kept for self-defense. I opened my door to confront her. Her car was so close, I coughed up a wad of phlegm and spit toward the voice.

“Ummm. You got me right in the mouth. How delicious. Are all your body fluids so scrumptious?”

“What the hell are you talking about? Cut the bull crap and step outside. I got a nice surprise for you.” I raised the tire iron to flatten her skull the moment she stepped out. But she didn’t move. I tried to make out her face, but it was too dark.

“I think you’re cute,” the voice said. “Otherwise, you’d be dead by now. I’m going to give you something to hold your wonderful body fluid. Fill it and I’ll let you go.” An arm extended a small cup.

Her idiotic words completely disarmed me.

“You want me to spit into a cup? For you to drink? Phew, you are one sick bastard.” Then it struck me: who said I had to fill it with spit?

“OK,” I said. “I’ll fill your stupid cup.” I turned away, opened my fly, and let loose into the cup. As I unloaded my bladder, I made sounds in my throat as if I were coughing up half a lung and spitting it into the cup.

The best part about this was that I was being treated for venereal disease.

Extending the cup, I told her to drink it immediately, that it was best while steaming hot.

I jumped into my cab, and slammed the gas pedal. I laughed all the way to the barn.

A week later, I went to see a priest. “Father, help me. The Devil’s after me.”

“He’s after us all,” the padre said. “He wants everybody’s soul. Remember what the Scriptures say: ‘resist the Devil and he will flee from you.’ Are you resisting him?”

“With all my might. But he...well, it’s not a he, it’s a she. She shows up every night when my shift’s over. When I’m heading to the taxi barn, her car cuts me off and blocks my way. And every time, she just misses slamming into me. She hands me a cup. Asks me to fill it with one of my vital juices.”

“What do you mean by vital juices?”

“She wants me to spit into the cup.”

“And do you?”

“No. I pee into it. I’m ashamed to say this, but I caught a sexually transmitted disease. It happened one night when I was drunk. But the thing is, she drinks whatever I put into the cup. Every time I do it I feel like I’m getting revenge.”

“No need to explain further, my son. Take this bottle of holy water. Next time she stops you, pour it into the cup. One swig of that, and she’ll never block your taxi again.”

“Really?”

“Yes. She’s known as The Juicer. This is one of the worst listed in the Book of Exorcisms. Has she asked you to ejaculate into the cup?”

“No, Father.”

“Good. But unless you dispel her, she soon will. And she’ll use your seed to commit the most unspeakable blasphemies in demonic rituals.”

That night, when the Caddie cut me off, I poured the blessed water into the cup. I heard her gulping.

I bet her screams could be heard for miles.

Next day, I read in the paper that the cops rushed to the scene where a woman was heard screaming, as if she was being massacred. But they didn’t find anybody.

The next night, I made it all the way to the barn without interference. What a relief! To celebrate the removal of the unholy entity, I headed to Jersey to watch the Puerto Rican women dance their asses off.

One of them was so hot, I found myself breaking into a sweat. When I ordered another cold beer to cool down, a gorgeous coffee-and-cream broad slid into the bar stool next to me.

“Hi, Handsome,” she said. “Would you get me something to drink?”

“Sure. What’ll you have?”

“Some of your luscious fluids,” she said, handing me a cup.

"Fluids"

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Michael A. Kechula is a retired tech writer. His stories have been published by 128 magazines and 36 anthologies. He’s won first place in 10 contests and placed in 8 others. He’s authored three books of flash fiction, micro-fiction, and short stories: The Area 51 Option and 70 More Speculative Fiction Tales; A Full Deck of Zombies--61 Speculative Fiction Tales; I Never Kissed Judy Garland and Other Tales of Romance. eBook versions available at www.BooksForABuck.com and www.fictionwise.com Paperbacks available at www.amazon.com.

World War Seven broke out while I was inspecting the Doomsday Shelter twenty miles below Area 51. I was incommunicado the whole time, so I had no way of knowing.

I was in the Shelter only three days. But during that time, Martians staged a sneak attack, waged nuclear war, won, and departed Earth with the spoils.

When I came to the surface, I checked nearby Las Vegas. No survivors. I checked Los Angeles, San Francisco, and Phoenix. Same thing. Horrors! Beside me, the only other survivors were cockroaches.

Fortunately, the Doomsday Shelter had lots of supplies. Except for human companionship, life was as normal as possible.

I spent my mornings working out in the massive gym that was built for 500,000 people. Afternoons, I whiled away the time reading in the Shelter’s vast library of a billion volumes. The days passed quickly. But after six months, I found myself dying of loneliness.

Then I discovered a most unusual series of books that contained photographs of all female cockroaches in the United States. The covers said they had been published by the Royal Cockroach Press, commissioned by His Royal Highness, The King of North American Cockroaches. The address of the publishing house was in Las Vegas, just a few blocks from Caesar’s Palace Casino.

Waving a white flag, I approached the place. In seconds, I was surrounded by some very nasty looking, heavily armed cockroaches. I told them I came in peace, and I wanted to see their King.

Recognizing that I was human, they put away their weapons, and one after another shook my hand. Then they told me to lie on my back. When I did, untold numbers crawled under me, lifted me, and carried me to the royal chamber.

“Your Highness,” I said, as they put me down at the foot of the King’s throne. “I’m so glad to see you. And I’m pleased that you and so many of your people survived.”

“We all survived. Your scientists were right.”

“In what way, Your Highness?”

“They predicted that after nuclear war, the only survivors would be cockroaches. So, how did you manage to stay alive, seeing that you aren’t one of us?”

“I was inspecting the Doomsday Shelter. The one I designed and built for this nation at a cost of 75 trillion dollars. I was twenty miles below the surface inspecting the wiring. When I came to the surface, I saw bodies laying everywhere, and all the destroyed buildings. I saw some of your kind scurrying here and there, so I knew that there were other survivors beside myself.”

“So what brings you here?” he asked.

“I saw your books in the Shelter’s library.”

“Ah yes. I had those published to show how beautiful my female subjects truly were. I sent copies to all the casinos in town, hoping to convince them to hire my subjects as show girls.”

“I see. Considering how beautiful they are, I can’t imagine why I never saw any of them on stage at any of the casinos. Actually, that’s why I’m here. I have an idea.”

“Let’s hear it,” he said.

We spoke for hours. When I finished he heartily agreed. He immediately ordered a beauty contest to be scheduled in which only the most stunning of his subjects would participate.

The contest was held on the stage in what was left of Caesar’s Palace. It rivaled in grandeur any Miss America Contest I’d ever seen on TV. Not only were those cockroaches talented, but they were also incredibly beautiful. Seeing them posing in swim suits was something to behold.

With the king’s approval, I married the winner.

Since then, we’ve mated hourly to repopulate Earth. The cross-species pollination is working. When we have sufficient mutated offspring, I’ll build a humongous army, nuclear weapons, and rocket ships.

Beware, you genocidal Martian bastards! The cocka-humans are coming to get you!

"Genocidal Bastards"

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