May 5, 2017

From “The Most Sublime Double Order of McDougal’s” by Blythe Hilson

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Once the cameras had snapped and the first shovelful of ground had been broken for the new McDougal’s fast-food joint, the owner waited until the crowd had dissipated before making a quiet call into his cell.

Fifteen minutes later, an unmarked car drove up. It was from the local McDougal’s lodge, no. 421, and out stepped the local representatives of that most noble order. First an Apprentice, wearing only the striped shirt and hat. Then a Journeyman with a striped cape, fluttering in the afternoon breeze. And finally the Master himself, with a striped robe and a staff topped with the symbol of the Most Sublime Double Order of McDougal’s, the All-Consuming Maw.

“Is the way prepared?” said the Master.

“Yes,” the owner said. He led them to a small concrete receptacle that had been prepared at the exact mathematical center of the new building’s footprint. A small stone casket lay there, prepared with mortar to seal it for all eternity.

“Very good.” The Master reached into his voluminous robes and produced a freshly-made McDougal’s milkshake, still glistening with condensation. Reverently, he placed it in the receptacle whilst singing the sacred words: “Pull up, pull up, pull up to the second window.”

“The second window will take your money and give you healing,” said the Apprentice and Journeyman.

Grasping the proffered spade, the Master covered the milkshake with earth while repeating the singsong liturgy. Once that was done, he sealed the container with the mortar. “This McDougal’s is consecrated now,” he said. “Mind that you treat McDougal’s #3891 with the due reverence it demands.”

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May 4, 2017

From “Maybelle Oddcoffin” by Modi Offley LeBlanc

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Maybelle had always been a girl with an odd coffin.

It dated back to a tie when she was very much alive. Her father, Augustus, had been a joiner and amateur silversmith. He had made a hobby of preparing lavish coffins for every member of the family, to spare the bereaved the expense. His own coffin was guilded in stainless silver leaf taken from an old serving tray, with griffin claws at each angle holding orbs engraved with dog Latin, for instance.

For Maybelle, even after she went to live with her fiancée, Augustus had seized upon her love of Dickens to produce an engraved tableaux of mourning characters from Oliver Twist and Bleak House. Rather than griffin-clawed orbs, the corners were protected from postmortem breakage by the shapes of London buildings, at least as they were known to a book-loving South Dakotan of modest means and no money for a railroad ticket.

Ironically, when the time came to lay Maybelle amid her Dickensian silver, a load of bricks topped with mementoes was put under instead, for the boiler explosion had left nothing to bury. Maybelle herself thought this rather a waste, and began her career as a specter orbiting the casket much as she might have if it had been filled with her mortal form rather than her diary and the contents of her hope chest.

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May 2, 2017

From “The Platonic Anthill” by Chilton Paillant

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“So wait,” said Zane. “Every ant in this hill is a Platonic ideal?”

“That’s right,” Queenie said. “Over there? That worker is the platonic ideal of a slice of pepperoni pizza. The one crawling up your leg? She is classical music.”

“What happens when one of them is…you know…squished?” Zane said, looking very carefully at the pepperoni ant.

“I beg your pardon,” Queenie said. “Are you thinking of squishing pepperoni pizza out of the universal experience?”

“N-no! Well, maybe. I am a vegan after all.”

“My anthill is eternal,” said Queenie. “When one of my daughters dies, the concept dies with them. It is as if it never existed.”

“That’s impossible,” Zane said. He took a moment for the absurdity of saying that to a talking ant queen and expecting an answer to sink in before he continued: “I’d remember the pizza I ate before I went vegan.”

“Oh really? Do you remember zorgbl? My daughter representing zorgbl was taken by an anteater two weeks ago.”

“You’re just making that up.”

“See? You don’t remember. Pity, too. Zorgbl was the favorite food of many a human. And I’m sure you don’t remember cypipre either, or yttuggmix.”

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April 28, 2017

From “On the Nose” by Breanna Joyner

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“She’s in the Nose” was the most popular sitcom on NBS in 2002, telling the story of teenage prodigy plastic surgeon Jessica Chalmers. Spoiled and sequestered, she nevertheless managed to embark upon a series of wacky adventures doing nose jobs and tummy tucks for a cavalcade of celebrity guest stars. The show, and Chalmers’ oft-repeated catch phrase “the nose knows, ‘kay?” were massive hits for the first season but rapidly tanked in the second thanks to the addition of a wise-cracking 8-year-old-nurse, who audiences hated.

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April 27, 2017

From “Dweavan’s Memorial, City of Underdeep” by Bateau Muertre

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“Fascinating,” said Leanorel. A few more brush strokes revealed the final portions of the mural. “This hallways was used by the dwarves to record their entire history as it happened, from the founding of the settlement to its ultimate failure.”

Aviss, her fellow archaeologist from the Elven Exploration and Excavation Society leaned forward. “We’ve seen the years of plenty, but everyone knows about those from the other settlements. Let’s see the good stuff.”

“This panel…the dwarves seem to be triumphant over the goblins, but the runes tell a different story. They say that the overseer demanded a triumphant mural but it is only a monument to death.”

“Interesting, and not unlike a dwarf to say,” drawled Aviss. “What about that last bit there?”

Leanorel recoiled. “That’s not engraved in the same way, it was chiseled in roughly over another half-finished triumph.”

“What’s it say?”

“DWEAVAN YOU ASSHOLE YOU’VE KILLED US ALL.”

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April 25, 2017

From “The Trunkeling” by Anonymous

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“These men have clearly been trampled,” said the investigator.

“No,” said Detective Foster. “Look at the splinters, the root marks. They’ve been trunkled. Our perp is a middle aged maple tree, maybe 12’2″.”

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April 21, 2017

From “Setchley the Wonder Horse” by Blythe Hilson

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Str 20, Dex 18, Con 21, Int 2, Wis 17, Cha 11
HP: 19 (2d8+10)
AC: 15
Saves: Fort +8, Ref +7, Will +3
Base Atk +1; CMB +7; CMD 21 (25 vs. trip)
Feats: Endurance
Skills: Perception +8; Init +4; Senses low-light vision
Speed: 50 ft.
Melee: 2 hooves +5 (1d4+5)

A pure white courser charges up to you. It taps out a Morse code greeting with one hoof: …. . .-.. .-.. —

Setchley the Wonder Horse is the former steed of the great hero Conny, who single-handedly built a one-horse farming town into a mighty farming empire. Setchly is that horse. He can still be found by those in need long after the great hero Conny rode off to another world of adventure on the wings of her demon chicken Peckabella.

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April 17, 2017

From “Breeding Bunnies V. 66” by Anonymous

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You can tell when the mother rabbit is ready to give birth because she will swell up very noticeably. Make sure to move her outside at this point, because within a day or two she will violently explode and scatter baby bunnies all over a half-mile radius. This ensures that the babies which survive will be well-scattered and hardy enough to survive.

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April 12, 2017

From “The Pundigrion” by Heidi Purington

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The Pundigrion is a book of immense power. Many have gone mad scrying deeply into its pages, expecting as they often do a mere book of very good puns. But those are a dime a dozen, from The Funomicon to The Wit’s Endgemot, and have no power over the insane (merely the inane).

But The Pundigrion works on a different principle. It open’s the reader’s mind to the inner working of language, the web of phonemes and graphemes that make up language at its most base. It tears away the veil of individual language to expose the underlying code that makes puns possible. And, in this way, it drives readers to gibbering madness.

We can trace the oldest known copy of The Pundigrion to Moshe Abraham, the Mad Israeli, who composed a scroll in Aramaic in the year 135. Taken by the victorious Romans, it was later copied in Athens into Greek and Latin by Leonidas the Loony Lacedaemonian. The Latin copy ended up in the Vatican archives, where numerous vulgate copies were made by Innocentius the Insane Italian. The Greek copy was captured by the Ottomans and sent to Constantinople, where Turkish and Arabic versions can be traced to Taranuz the Touched Turk.

In total, nine copies of The Pundigrion are known to have existed, in Aramaic, Latin, Greek, Turkish, Arabic, Italian, French, German, and English. Each has had its exact whereabouts lost over time, largely because it reduces those who study it to gibbering lunatics capable of speaking only in elaborate puns. These people tend not to dispose of their estates very rationally; the 18th-century scholar Berthold the Batty Berliner tossed his copy of The Pundigrion from the dome of St Hedwig’s, for instance. It was rather quickly followed by the rest of his library, his clothes, and Berthold himself.

Chroniclers record his last words as “Singt ein Vogel auswendig? Nein, am meisten singt er vom Blatt!” A rough translation would be “Does a bird sing from memory?
No, it mostly reads from the sheet music.”

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April 11, 2017

From “The Tuvo Principle” by Tulip Provence

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“You can’t leave!” the first hooded figure, the one in a purple robe, cried. “It is a violation of the Tuvo Principle, the Society’s most cherished precept!”

“Wait a moment,” said the second hoodie, this one in crimson. “I thought free will was the centerpiece of the Tuvo Principle!”

“Free will aside from total subservience to the Society and the Tuvo Principle,” added a third member wearing forest green.

Crimson shook their head, as evidenced by the bobbing of their robe. “How can your will be free if you’re subservient?”

“Yeah,” said Yellow. “That’s dumb.”

“Well, if the Tuvo Principle isn’t what I say it is, then what is it?” Purple shouted.

“It’s absolute free will!” said Crimson.

“It’s absolute subservience!” shouted Green.

“I’ll show you who’s subservient!” Yellow followed these fighting words with an actual physical blow aimed at Purple.

The argument quickly degenerated into a melee after this. Forgotten amidst the Society’s shouting, Chris worked the bindings free and cut Avery loose with the sacrificial dagger.

“What the heck is the Tuvo Principle, anyway?” Said Avery as they fled.

“I don’t even think they know.”

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