dreadcrumbs

Five Reasons Why You Are Still Sick

1. You have water-bears living in the cavities of your head
2. Secondary consequences of treating "love stings" from your pet jellyfish
3. The charnel pit in your basement is unsanitary
4. The person responsible for your care and feeding wants you to stay weak
5. That psychiatrist didn't know what he was talking about. "Schizophreniform," my left goat! Like that's even a word.

"A Work In Progress"

We walk through the storage facility halls quickly, noisy footsteps announcing our approach to whoever might be in here with us.
We clip past the rental units lining the hallway, each ceiling-high corrugated metal door pulled closed and sealed by padlock.
"Are these all full?" I ask, pointing as we pass at what appears to be unit "B-12," based on the letters spray-painted on the metal door.
"Nah," Jerry says. "They keep 'em locked even when they're empty, you know, so winos don't come set up house or something."
We take a few more turns in the labyrinth and stop suddenly. Jerry turns to me, looking serious. "Okay," he says.
"What?" I ask, looking around. "This it?"
"Not yet," he says. "But this is a multisensory piece, you know? Pan-experiential?"
"Pan-experiential," I say, pretty sure he made that term up just now.
He catches my expression and gives me a look. "Fine," he says, "you're not an artist. Whatever. I just want to share, okay?"
"Okay," I say. He nods, and then puts his finger to his lips, indicating I should be quiet.
We walk in silence several more feet to a door that looks like all the rest. He pulls a key out of his pocket and as he starts to unlock the padlock, I hear an odd gasping whine coming from inside the unit. Jerry removes the lock and cocks his head to look at me. I hear the noise again, louder. It sounds a little like a large wounded animal, but wrong somehow, like a recording of someone pretending to be a sick horse.
Jerry flings open the door, and as interested as I am at seeing what is inside, I involuntarily close my eyes at the rank odor that spills out of the space. Opening my eyes, I see Jerry by the unit's light switch, gesturing toward something deeper within the space, still in shadow. I squint at the dark shape shifting position and suddenly worry that maybe Jerry is keeping another monkey in here.
There is a click and an overhead light flares on directly over the shape, exposing an exceptionally skinny middle-aged man on all fours staring at me. He's covered in what looks like human hair, but is wearing nothing but a loincloth and a wire brush dangling from the base of his spine.
I hear Jerry cough, and the guy on the floor jerks his head to the side, exposing an ear that is stapled over with a triangular piece of dirty orange felt.
I look over at Jerry, who is nodding at me with eyebrows raised, and then back at the floor-man, whose knees, I notice now, are covered with open scabs.
"This is kind of disturbing," I say, and look back at Jerry.
"Good!" Jerry says, smiling. He looks back at the man approvingly. "I call it The Withered Dog."
The dog man is looking at me with an expression I can't read. Something like a sneer.
My eyes dart to the man's ankle, which looks to be chained to the wall.
"This is voluntary?" I ask.
"It's actually a lot of work," he says, gesturing at the man. "I wouldn't do it if I didn't want to."
"No," I say. "For him. Voluntary for him."
"Oh!" he says. "Yes. Yes, of course. It's a paid position."
"Hm," I noise and take a step back, trying to illustrate to Jerry that I'm ready to leave this place.
Jerry steps with me, still watching the guy. "I'm thinking of, you know, like, submitting it to a gallery."
I make a show of checking my watch. "That'd be...woah...it's 9 already," I say. "I better get going."
"What?" he asks. "Oh! Right. Let me just close up."
Jerry slides the iron door shut, and just before it closes, I see something in the crawling man's expression change.
The hallways fill with the sound of the door shutting and Jerry noisily replacing his lock, but it is clear the man inside has started screaming.
We start to walk away. "Is he..." I start to ask.
"All part of the piece," Jerry says. "Not to worry."
We wind our way out, the Withered Dog's howls diminishing with distance.
"Where did you find that guy?" I ask.
"Book group," he says.

Five solid rhymes

...that those lazy bourgeois writers of love songs can use instead of "dove" and "above"

1. Molotov
2. Pavlov
3. Kalashnikov
4. Raskolnikov
5. Trotsky

"Mergers And Acquisitions"

I duck into the meeting room as quietly as possible, shutting the door behind me. Mr. Gregson is sitting at the far end of the table and looks exhausted.
"...a lot lower than expected," I hear him say as I take the only chair left vacant. "But I know that isn't really an explanation."
I look around the room to gauge reactions. Everybody seems to be sporting dumfounded expressions, so either we're all being fired, or...
"I think we've managed to organize things so everyone keeps their job," Gregson continues, tapping the papers on his desk.
Well that's good, I think, but no one in the room except that bug-eyed guy from IT appears to be reassured.
"Don't get me wrong," Gregson says, shrugging. "We will have to make some sacrifices, no question."
One of the business analysts sitting across from me stands up quietly, mouthing the word "restroom" to no one in particular and leaves the room.
Gregson watches her go. When the door shuts behind her, he sighs.
"It's the price of staying solvent," he says. "I know some of you are going to want to start looking for other jobs, and that's okay, but..."
He stops and bobs his head back and forth slightly like he's trying to find the right words.
"But I'll need to know now," he says. "Part of the deal we made requires that continuing employees immediately sign a Non-Disclosure Agreement."
Gregson looks at everyone on the table, silent. No one says anything.
"Good, then," he says, and hands a stack of papers to the person on his left. "Just sign these, and we can get back to business as usual."
There is an extended sound of shuffling and skritching as everyone except the marketing director signs their NDA and hands it back. He's still reading the fine print when Gregson speaks up. "Is there a problem, Brad?" he asks.
The marketing director looks up, his finger still pointing to a piece of text on the agreement. "No seafood?" he asks. "Really?"
Gregson sighs, and I suddenly wish I had the agreement to look at again.
"Come on, Brad," Gregson finally says. "He's a fish god. What do you think?"
My eyes twitch back to Gregson. I'm not sure I've heard him right.
"Fine, fine," the marketing director says, signing the document. "I only liked the fried stuff, anyway. No good for me."
Gregson puts the last sheet onto the pile. "Okay then," he says, visibly relieved. Reaching down to his laptop bag at his feet, he pulls out a copper circlet and places it on his head.
I look around the room, and no one seems particularly surprised at this. The guy next to me is idly biting his nails.
Mr. Gregson raises his hands, palms outward, to either side of his head.
"Great lord Dagon welcomes you, the supplicants, into his embrace," he says. "Hail Dagon."
"Hail Dagon," everyone repeats. I manage a confused "...gon," but no one notices.
"All right," Gregson says, getting up from his chair. "Let's get back to work."
Everyone at the table starts to gather their things and stand.
"I did want to remind everyone," the voice of the HR director calls out over the growing din. "We're still having the blood drive this Friday, and participation is now mandatory."

Five Personal Titles I'm Trying Out

...to see which elicits the most special treatment at Kentucky Fried Taco Huts

1. Right Honorable Earl of Burritos
2. Meat Regent and Vice-Chancellor of Beverages
3. Feast Marshall Plenipotentiary
4. Lord President of The Poultry Council
5. Archdruid and Pizza Warden

"Late at the Office"

It's 8:00, and I've already stayed much longer at work than I had intended, and on my way out, my boss pulls me into his office. Shutting the door behind him, he tells me to sit down, and I do.
He takes the seat opposite me, on the other side of his desk.
"Anybody else out there?" he asks.
"I don't think so," I say. "I'm the last one. Besides you, I mean."
"Listen," he says. "I want your opinion on something, off the record."
"Um, okay," I say.
He starts to unbutton the cuff on his left sleeve. "Do the employees hate me, David?" he asks.
"Er..." I start, taken off guard. "I can't really..."
"Just kidding," he says, now rolling his sleeve up to expose a large blood-spotted bandage on the inner side of his forearm.
"This is really what I wanted your thoughts on," he says.
Pulling off the bandage, he lays his arm, palm up, on the desk, and shoves it toward me. His forearm is covered with what looks like an angry sunburn that might have been previously mauled by a vengeful raccoon.
"So?" he asks. "What do you think?"
"It looks painful," I say. "Is it some kind of rash?"
"Yes," he says, pushing his arm closer. "But what does it look like? Who does it look like?"
"Who?" I say, and despite my better judgement, look at the thing a little closer, trying to think of two bleeding bits near the top as eyes.
"I don't know," I say, tilting my head to one side, and then the other. "Maybe John Rhys-Davies?"
"Who?" he asks.
"An actor," I say, and shrug.
He pulls his arm back and mumbles something.
"What?" I ask.
"I thought it was my father at first," he says, staring at the wound. "That's why I cut the eyes out."
I let out a brief involuntary sputter that I try to turn into a cough.
He looks up at me with a thoughtful expression. "That's a little weird, isn't it?" he says.
I try to look as non-judgmental as possible.
"It isn't my father, though," he says.
"Look," he says, moving his arm in front of me again. "Look closer." He points at a portion of his skin that might have been a mole before it became afflicted. "Under the nose...." he says, obviously trying to lead me somewhere.
"I...um...," I say, trying to make a show of analysis, but I mostly just want to leave.
"..." he whispers.
"I'm sorry?" I ask, not having heard clearly.
"Hitler!" he shouts. "It's the thrice-damned face of Adolph Hitler!"
I stare, and he stalks away, yanking his sleeve down.
Not sure what to say, I try to manufacture some kind of polite conversational noise and come out with something that sounds like an old woman's cough.
He turns back to me. "Didn't you get a degree in history?" he asks. "Shouldn't you know what Hitler looks like?"
"Um," I say, suddenly myself again. "No. No, I was a business major."
"You were?" he asks, arms falling limp to his sides.
"Maybe you're thinking of the Dave in Market Analysis," I say. "He did his Masters prospectus on Civil War economy or something."
"Odd," he says, sitting. "I could've sworn it was you."
I stand up. "Sorry," I say.
"Don't worry about it," he says.
I'm almost out the door when he calls me back.
"Yes?" I ask, standing in the doorway. He's holding his arm up to the florescent lights, looking at the Hitler Rash from the corner of his eye.
"Do you think people might pay to see this?" he asks.

Five good reasons not to fly into an irrational rage at the workplace

1. Any subsequent legitimate raging will be taken less seriously
2. You will slowly forget what "Truth" is as your coworkers begin feeding you a constant stream of ameliorating lies
3. You risk having a heart attack in a place where people will look quizzically at your inert form and cautiously prod you with dry erase markers for several minutes before calling the paramedics
4. You'll lose all that precious wrath you've been bottling up for the next time someone cuts you off on the freeway
5. You might be mistaken for the boss and given additional responsibility

"The Further Adventures of Emily's Husband"

For the third time this week, I wake up screaming. I gasp, trying to catch my breath and calm down. Rifling desperately through the shreds of my fading unconscious, I try to remember what it was that woke me and get nothing.
I look over at my wife, deep asleep. I don't know how she manages it through my episodes. The blanket has fallen off her, and while I reach to pull it back up, I see that she's shivering. As I watch, her whole body begins to shake, twitching spasmodically, and her face wrenches up into some kind of agonized rictus.
"Emily!" I shout, grabbing her shoulders. There is a staccato retching noise coming up through her nose, with brief bursts of air and saliva pushing through her tensed lips.
"Emily!" I shout again, shaking her, and her eyes pop open.
"Bwaahahahahaha!" she blurts, taking a deep gasp of air and then lets loose with the biggest belly laugh I've ever heard her make.
I'm still looking at her, confused and a little concerned, when she calms enough to look up at me with tear-bleary eyes and sputters "...you...your face...heh...when you wake up...sc...sreaming..."
As she peals out another storm of laughter, trying at intervals to calm down, I notice she's holding one of the large salmon-colored knitting needles her aunt gave her as a wedding present.
"What," I start, overloud, trying to get heard over her gasps. "Why do you have that?" I ask, indicating the needle.
She stops suddenly, confused, quiet as she looks at the needle in her hand, and then starts laughing again.
I groan and flop back onto the bed, covering my face with my hands.
"It's," she says finally, "it's what I used, you know..."
She takes a deep breath and I uncover my eyes and look over at her.
"For what?" I ask.
"To, you know," she says, taking another breath. "To wake you up."
I sit up. "How, exactly?" I ask. "How did you use it?"
She hesitates, and then reaches the needle toward my head, suddenly freezing, staring at my face.
I feel a warm itch beneath my nose and on my upper lip and unconsciously probe the area with my tongue, tasting blood. She's still staring.
"What..." I start, and rub my hand across my face, under my nose. It comes back smeared red.
"What did you do?" I ask. I bring my hand up to pinch my nose and hear a tiny ripping noise somewhere inside my head. Blood starts to flow, pushing through my nostrils, spilling down my chest and onto the bed. I scratch at the bed sheet frantically, trying to pull it up to use to staunch the flow, but it won't budge, fitted tightly to the mattress.
"Get me a towel!" I try to sputter through the warm fluid running across my lips, but it comes out sounding like "Gahmyatahl!"
Emily stares.
At some point I pull off my pillow case and wad it up under my nose. Breathing through my mouth, I look back at my wife. She looks back at me in the frozen look of shock she's held for the last minute, and then starts laughing again.
I stand up. She points at me and falls back on the bed, still laughing.
"Fibe," I say. "I'b goaba sweep ob de coush, den."