“Foolish air-dwellers!” roared Octrolon Rex, King of the wretched octomen.

His followers clicked their beaks in approval, surrounding Octrolon Rex’s hideous underwater pavilion, lit by a thousand captive bioluminescent fish.

“No longer shall we be at the mercy of those who would control the Earth!”

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Arthur arranged the candles on the white table cloth. Their flickering light caressed the patchwork of scars and callouses that ran like pink lace over the skin of his hands. They didn’t stop at the cuffs of his waiter’s jacket, either. They went up his arms and covered his torso, like the root system of a tree buried beneath the surface.

“Arthur, the guests have arrived and will be seated shortly.”

Arthur nodded. He walked over to the cash register behind a silk screen. He pulled out a pistol with a long silencer, checked it, and tucked it back into its holster beneath his jacket.

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“Six groomers were found dead, apparently mauled,” the radio announcer said.

“Damn,” Yoshi said.

“Animal control authorities are asking residents to keep their eyes open for any large dogs. If it is spotted, do not approach. Get to safety. Call the police emergency line.”

Yoshi pulled his car into the alley behind his animal grooming salon and went inside. There were three voicemail messages blinking on the phone. All three of his groomers had known someone in the massacre and were taking bereavement leave. Yoshi understood and cleared the appointments of the groomers. He didn’t have anybody lined up, so he settled down to some serious paperwork.

The little tinkling bell on the door tinkled. Yoshi looked up. A young man stood in front of the counter.

“Can I help you?”

The young man pulled out a stubby black gun and pointed it at Yoshi’s heart.

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“You motherfucker, you just knocked my leg clean off!”

Mindy leapt backwards and dropped her chisel and hammer.

“You better have some mortar to re-attach that shit, you asshole!”

Mindy felt her forehead to see if she had a fever. Statutes weren’t supposed to talk.

“Don’t just stand there, get me some thing to stabilize the wound so that I don’t start to crumble!”

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It was a dirty town. The cops were crooked and the streets were coated with broken glass like an over-salted corn chip, from a good distance, beautiful but not something you want to cozy up to. Times was tough; it was three cats to a corn chip. I can watch them fighting it out in the alley from my front-row seat courtesy of the sole window in the broom closet I call an office. I don’t get any pleasure from the pugilistic efforts of half-starved alley cats, but the only way to fit a desk and two chairs in here is to have my chair right in front of the window.

A new sound takes my mind off the cats. It’s Bartholomew pounding the furnace like a sailor on shore leave. The exposed pipes in my office started up their crazed dance to Bartholomew’s jazz drum solo and tiny plaster flakes fell from what was left of the ceiling. Bartholomew’s official title is building super, but his two main activities are denting the mummified furnace and staring into half-empty bottles of gin. I can’t complain, because whatever answers he finds in those bottles don’t seem to mention the fact that my rent is 4 and a half months overdue. I could’ve finished a shorthand typing course by now, but I just sit and wait. Wait for her.

She had all the charm and sophistication of a stale unsalted corn chip, but she needed me, and that counted for something. Or at least that’s what I told myself. I still remember the tears flooding those big Bakelite eyes as she tried to tell me it was over.

“Please, Johnny-” she whispered. I grabbed her by her shoulders as she turned to leave.
“Now listen up toots, and you listen good because this is the last time.” By now I was shaking her, hairpins scattering to the floor like the last few crumbs of a starving man’s last bag of corn chips. I knew this was it for us, but I couldn’t help myself. I shook her harder.

“Toots, my name isn’t Johnny.”

Moral: a diet high in sodium can lead to an increased risk of excess fluid retention and high blood pressure.

This eye-watering blast of cliche was provided by the lovely and talented Zelda Graves, who most definitely doesn’t sit on the board of Crunchy Corn Chips Inc.

The board room was silent but for the whir of the projector and dark but for the downward jagging line it cast. It had been a bad decade for capers, and a Brain Trust of the finest marketing minds had been gathered by the National Caper Committee. They sat with calm faces and white knuckles, ties loosened and sleeves rolled up, signifying hard work. The Chairman stood and slammed his fist into the table, scattering a menagerie of paper-clip animals that had been lovingly crafted by the easily distracted Art Director.

“Another year, another bumper crop of capers! More capers then we know what to do with, yet only five percent of them sell each year, the rest fill warehouses!”

The Brain Trust nodded solemnly, imagining the millions of tons of capers brooding in briny darkness.

“Our social network, CaperSpace, a flop! The apocalyptic alternate reality game, Caper Revolution, laughed into oblivion! Our cooking show, Caper Cookery, appeals only to the 36-55 schizophrenic demographic!”

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