Douglas stumbled into the hallway and noticed an unfamiliar noise. It sounded light and fluttery, a bit like two leather gloves slapping together; it was one of those noises that invited you to look about anxiously, wondering if you really wanted to find its source. Up in the corner of the hallway ceiling, approximately seven feet from Douglas's pillow-sculpted hair, was a god-damned bat. It was only the size of a Russian nesting doll, but Douglas shrieked like a prepubescent girl and ran back into his room, slamming the door behind him.
By Zachery S. Beauvais
I work in a sloppy land for a sloppy man. His name is McPherson.
Fifteen years ago, I left home to go and find the world. I thought I was a musician. I left for a fantasy land, a bohemian paradise, but all I found was goo.
Twelve hours a day, six days a week, I mix the slop--a steaming concoction not dissimilar to gravel and afterbirth. I was starving and needed work. The Factory was my only choice.
The slop pours out of four tubes into the vat. Splish-splashing out onto the steel grate. There is where I stand--a man with his paddle. Alone. Mr. McPherson says it's crucial the goop is mixed evenly and constantly. Once a shift, a truck pulls up to the vat. A man in a plastic jumpsuit and winged-frame glasses nods up to me and attaches his hose to the vat. He leaves. I am relieved by a burly man with a cigar, and then return to my chambers. The same day--nine years.
Please enjoy this taut and thrilling exploration of the darker side of children's television by a staffer who wishes to remain anonymous, for reasons that might soon become apparent.
The mission was clear and simple. Get in, get out, no dicking around. Brian hoped this was all worth it. The operation hadn't been easy, and the doctors had almost thought he wasn't going to make it. Some idiot somewhere (probably a darkie, he didn't trust them and their shifty ways) had written that the fusion should occur at his ass. Luckily, the mistake was caught before irreparable damage occurred and Brian could never go to the bathroom again. After a month of recovery, Brian finally removed the bandages from his chest and gazed down at it.
God damn undercover work, he thought. God damn it to hell.
"Time for Teletubbies! Time for Teletubbies!" the obese baby in the sky screamed out.
"No," thought Brian. "Time to die."
