Crustacean Chat
“Nice day,” bubbles the Crawdad.
“Good sunlight, I say,” hisses the Prawn.
“What are we all doing here?” queries the Rock Lobster, its legs flailing a little as it rights itself in the shallow water.
The room is made of cold granite: the floor, the circular wall, and the ceiling. Soft light radiated from a bare, low-watt light bulb. Of course, crustaceans don’t know what light bulbs are.
“Hey there, Prawn, do you happen to know what that thing above our heads is?” asked the Rock Lobster. Clearly, it was less of an intellectual than the Crawdad or the Prawn.
“I surely do not know, Rock Lobster, though I would hypothesize that it is a little piece of the sun.”
“I reckon it’s a monster come to eat us,” says the Crawdad. It wears a straw hat that covers both its head and its thorax.
“I’ve never seen anything quite like that eat, period, Crawdad. Perhaps you are mistaken,” skeptically replies the Prawn.
“You’d never know, course, anything about the real world at all, Prawn—too much time spent with your book learnin’, and whatnot,” retorts the Crawdad.
“Guys! Guys! Let’s not fight!” shouted the Rock Lobster.
And that was the last anyone heard from that particular trio of crustaceans.
Roderick Stockingforth, Special Agent
Agent Stockingforth straightens his tie, looks over his suit for specks of lint or dirt, ensuring for the third time in as many minutes that his shoes are shined as shined can be, and puts on his holster. He goes through the ritual of stripping, cleaning, and reassembling his service weapon, a .38 Ruger, something he does far more often than required, and then holsters it. He puts on his jacket, steps out his front door, and rasps “Time to bring in some tax evaders.”
Taxjammer
The aura of the village had drawn him there; like a moth to a candle’s flame he had been drawn closer and closer to it from the time it had first caught his attention. One of its youngest, a white haired little girl that looked to be perhaps eight, maybe nine years old pointed him out to her mother. Will tried to duck back into the tall grass, but the glint of the sun off of his binoculars gave him away. Soon the young men of the village, under the command of their testosterone more than anything else, began to descend the hill. All were armed-- scythes, knives, a few even had shovels in their hands. They surrounded Will, having moved quicker than their strides should’ve allowed, and held him hostage at the tips and edges of a thoroughly intimidating array of sharp things.
Recent Posts
Categories
Missed Me?
- April 2012
- October 2011
- September 2011
- July 2011
- June 2011
- April 2010
- March 2010
- February 2010
- January 2010
Filthy Adspace
Tags
Twitterjunk
- For vocationalish programs, sure. Requiring a 4-(or even 2) year degree to answer phones and schedule appointments is still crap. @azannaphx 3 weeks ago
- There needs to be some sort of crackdown on requiring 4-year degrees for jobs that in no way need them. #uppers 3 weeks ago
- A healthy student loan burden makes for an especially docile worker. #CapitalismAtWork #uppers 3 weeks ago
- More updates...
Posting tweet...
