Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

“Have you decided what you’re going to do with this disco roller rink?” said Sam, running a finger over the dusty railing separating the roller floor.

“Dunno,” Chris said. “On the one hand, the land is in a decent location. I could sell it and even after taxes. “On the other, there might be just enough demand for something this retro.”

“The chance for a disco turnover, and you’re thinking of throwing it all away for a few bucks?” Sam said, incredulous.

“It’s not my time, it’s not my dream, and it might suck every ounce of life from my body,” replied Chris.

“But on the other hand, it might not,” Sam countered. “Do you think your Uncle Harvey was all-in on disco at first either?”

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“Oh no, m’lord,” the peasent said. “You must not take that road. That path will take you through the Forest of Swingles, and you will surely not emerge unscathed therefrom.”
“Nonsense, simple farmer,” said the duke, “that route may mean death for you, unarmed and untrained, but my sword is keen and my armor strong. I fear neither death nor injury.”

“Nay, m’lord, the Forest of Swingles offers peril not to one’s body, but one’s soul. It tempts them with pleasures of the flesh, and few who travel through it are able to stay true to their marital vows.”

“Oh?” the duke said.

“Aye, m’lord. To come out of the Forest of Swingles without a dryad side chick or a centaur himbo is exceedingly rare.”

“I thank thee for the warning, simpleton,” said the duke, flipping a coin to the peasant. Then, to his horse: “Onward to the Forest of Swingles!”

“But m’lord! What about the duchess?”

“What about her?” the duke, already half a league away, called over his shoulder.

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“It’s over, Brineman!” howled Collier, president and CEO of Broccoli Barn. There was nowhere left to run, atop the giant lit broccoli beacon that advertised the latter’s business. The next step would lead to a terminal decline, and the beach a thousand feet below.

Mr. Brineman turned to his erstwhile nemesis, smiling even in the face of Mr. Collier’s unsheathed broccoli blade. “I know,” he said. “But we’ve had us a merry chase, haven’t we?”

“At least you’ve a modicum of dignity when you’re beaten, here at the end,” Collier said. “And now, I will do what that fool Harold Brassica never could, and lay the Pickle Beacon low forever! Would you rather plunge to your death, as Brassica did, or will is be a more classical end for you at the end of my sword?”

“I think a fall is in order, don’t you?” said Brineman.

“After you, then,” Collier said, gesturing with his broccoli blade.

“No, I insist,” Brineman said, bowing. “After you.”

“Wha…?” Collier said.

“NOW!” cried Brineman, into the hidden mic that his confederates Elle, Janice, and Quentin had been listening through.

A second later, on their signal, the Pickle Beacon hail mary streaked through the skies. The final project of Dr. Cukemann, the mad vision that had taken his life, rose up and streaked through the skies toward the giant broccoli crowning the Broccoli Barn.

The Pickle Dragon seized Collier in its briny claws, dashing part of the broccoli beacon to bits, before flinging the unfortunate CEO, howling, to his doom on the rocks below.

“Jarring,” said Brineman, adjusting his tie in the wind and snacking on an emergency pocket pickle. “Very jarring.”

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“Considering what is required for ghostly high tea,” inquired the shade, “what confluence of unfortunate circumstances might have to transpire for a ghostly soup?”

“Oh, that’s easy,” the old man said. “Would you like some? I have oodles.”

“But…but why is soup so easy, if tea is so hard?” the shade said.

“Simple,” the old man said, “soup will vengefully resent being served at anything other than the perfect temperature, and any old ghost bowl will contain it. The aether is full of unsettled ghost soups. We practically swim in it.”

“Then…perhaps ghost stew?” the shade inquired.

“Now I’m afraid that is quite impossible,” the old man said. “For reasons best not gone into. But if you must know, here’s a hint: gelatin.”

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The mirrormoth, Anklodytes swingerii, is so named because of its curious habit of being attracted to mirrors. In the presence of a mirror, a mirrormoth will continually bump against it, ignoring all other stimuli if possible and failing to eat or drink, until it dies from exhaustion.

The mechanism for this behavior is believed to be related to the also poorly understood attraction that most other moths have to lights in the dark. Mirrormoths ignore lights in favor of mirrors, though there must be at least some light–they will ignore a mirror in a totally dark room, as proved by Forrestal et al. in 1987. Mirrormoths also display a marked preference for silver mirrors made prior to 1900 for unknown reasons, gravitating to them 97% of the time when offered a choice.

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“The blood test confirms that it’s a genuine Aptenodytes forsteri, an emperor penguin. Adult female, probably less than ten years old, somewhat dehydrated and malnourished but otherwise in good health.”

“That is a spectacularly unhelpful answer.”

“What more do you want? They were kind enough to send along some dietary tips for addressing the dehydration and malnourishment.”

“I mean, yes, that is very helpful, but what does it do to answer the question of what this impossible penguin is doing 1000 miles from the coast, 2000 miles from the nearest zoo that breeds them, and 10,000 miles from its native habitat?”

“Not a lot, yeah.”

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“You’ll be of no use, Vespertillus, once my new minion is released!” cackled The Twiddler.

“You’re insane, Twiddler!” cried Vespertillus, readying a gas grenade from his megabelt.

“Am I?” The Twiddler said. “Reserve all judgment until you see the fruits of my early-bird investment in GigantoCorp: an absolutely massive bat!”

From its hidden perch up above, the absolutely massive bat stirred, raining guano down upon the combatants below.

“Oh. Ew.” Vespertillus said.

“That’s just the beginning, Vesperterriblus!” shouted The Twiddler. “To my absolutely massive bat, you’re just an insect snack! It will devour you whole!”

The absolutely massive bat stirred again.

“Kill him!” The Twiddler barked.

Nothing.

“Wha…?”

“Foolish Twiddler,” Vespertillius said, hurling his gas grenade. “It’s two-thirty PM. This chonkster won’t be ready to eat for hours.”

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After the settlement had cleared in 1977, Uncle Harvey had decided to dedicate his life to disco entirely. With a good part of the proceeds, he bought a roller rink on the outskirts of town and did his best to turn it into a shining beacon of light and music on a hill.

It worked for a while, as Chris had found through newspaper clippings, but eventually the disco craze had faded and after a flood in 1985, the roller rink was open less and less frequently. Uncle Harvey began closing it on weekdays, then on alternate weekends, and starting in 1989 the rink was only open by appointment for special events. Business contined to dwindle, and the last reference Chris could find was an announcement in the Seminole County Pioneer about a birthday party there in 1994. Chris recalled going at various times before losing interest, but couldn’t pin down any dates.

Things had gotten more dire from there. To his credit, Uncle Harvey had never let the roller rink’s interior fall into disrepair. Even as the outside became overgrown, even as he sold his house and moved into a cobbled-together suite of rooms in the back, the main floor was kept spotlessly clean. In fact, obsessively cleaning and maintaining the space seemed to have been the focus of Harvey’s remaining years, with the occasional contract work by an electrician or other specialist.

The interest on the remaining settlement was just enough to cover rent and taxes, and together with EBT stamps, Harvey had sustained himself until a bad fall in 2020 had led to him contracting coronavirus in the hospital and passing away.

Chris, as the last and only remaining child of Harvey’s line–the only child of the only child of Harvey’s sister Beatrice to survive to adulthood–inherited the rink. Even in its dusty state, years behind on basic maintenence, it was a small piece of disco remaining in an otherwise un-funky world.

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Wide shot of a holiday shopping melee, with a large number of shoppers fighting over the latest hot toy of the season.

LADY CUSTOMER: Oh no! Little Brayden wants a web-enabled Hyperman figure for Jesus Day, but stock is limited! My precious male heir deserves only the best in everything from fashion to accessories, but I lack the wherewithal to do anything about it!

SENSEI KAREN jumps in from off-camera with the bang of a gong, dressed in a PINK GI.

SENSEI KAREN: What ho! A privileged youth being deprived of anything? Not on my watch!

LADY CUSTOMER: Wow! Sensei Karen! But it’s impossible for me to fight my way to the head of this crowd!

SENSEI KAREN: Nonsense! These plebians will be no match for my patented Elbow-Fu!

LADY CUSTOMER: Elbow-Fu? Tell me more!

A MONTAGE begins playing of SENSEI KAREN violently elbowing poor people out of her way, while she speaks in VOICEOVER.

SENSEI KAREN (voiceover): Elbow-Fu is the patented self-defense technique for upper-class and privileged women! Using only your elbows, harsh language, the warm blanket of white supremacy, and ever-present threats to unleash a militarized police force, you can defeat foes ten time your size in order to get what you are owed.

The MONTAGE continues, now with SENSEI KAREN’s comments audible. Each crushing ELBOW ATTACK is punctuated by a matching COMMENT.

SENSEI KAREN: Do you know who I am? I want to speak to a manager! I know my rights! I will report this to the police!
“You’re ruining my Jesus Day!

The scene switches back to the LADY SHOPPER.

LADY SHOPPER: Wow, thanks, Sensei Karen! With your patented techniques, I’ll fight my way to the front of this line in no time!

SENSEI KAREN points at the camera as the LADY SHOPPER wades into the melee.

SENSEI KAREN: If you, too, would like to unlock the powers of Elbow-Fu, register for a free starter class at the Sensei Karen’s Dojo near you, or sign up for our online classes! Sensei Karen’s: Get What’s Coming to You™!

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Q: What did the submarine say to the battleship?

A: Sank you very much!

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