by Darrin Mason
The monster took aim at the other Dwarfs. It fired its gun and the bullet hit Doc who forgot to duck. Not only did Doc forget to duck, but now the Doc that forgot to duck is dead. The monster turned and fired its gun again, this time hitting ... ummm ... oh shit, forget it. I’m gonna quit this chapter while I’m ahead (I’ll tell you later what happened to the rest of my body).
CHAPTER THREE
The battle ended and the Wicked Witch looked around at the cabbage. She grabbed a few leaves to take home to make cabbage soup because this was the twenties and money was in short supply which meant food was too.
I ran over to Wendy with a copy of the script in hand. “Goddam it, Wendy. After all this time working for me, I still can’t believe you can’t get it right first time.”
Wendy turned to me. “What now, for crying out loud?”
I pointed out the dead little bodies that were riddled with bullet holes and splattered with blood. “Does this look like I might have written cabbage?” I pointed out the line in the script. “See?”
Wendy went red with embarrassment. “Ahhh, shit.” She shook her head. “My bad.”
I left the set and sat back down in my chair. “Action.”
The Wicked Witch looked around at the carnage. Dead little bodies that were riddled with bullet holes and splattered with blood littered the ground. Wendy turned to the monster that was pumping iron. On the other side of the road, Bat And Two Balls Between My Legs Man was giving it to Sooperdooperpooperman from behind. I guess you could say that while the monster was pumping iron, Bat And Two Balls Between My Legs Man was pumping steel. BWAHAHA!!
Wendy looked over at Jesus who was watching the monster’s weights. I guess he didn’t get what I meant when I suggested he visit Weight Watchers.
Wendy turned to Al and smiled. “Happy St Valentine’s Day Massacre, Mr Capone.”
Al kissed the back of her hand then headed down the street. But this story is written by me and anyone that knows what I do knows that nothing is happily ever after. To that end, Mr Fred Schneider flew overhead, pulled down his pants, and let go a rock-hard poo that hit Al on the head and knocked him clear into next week. The headline on the front page of the next day’s paper read, “AL CAPONE HIT BY A BOMB FROM A LOW-FLYING B-52”.
By the way, want to know what happened to the rest of my body? It was blown away in World War 2. All’s good, though. I released a parody of Roger Graham’s I Ain’t Got Nobody called I Ain’t Got No Body (featuring the now famous line, “No sweet mama’s gonna take a chance on me, coz I ain’t got no body”) and made a small fortune. I now live on a private island somewhere in the Pacific waited on by several servants. I’m yet to work out how to go to the toilet.
Thank you, and goodnight.
THE END
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THE WITCH’S BREW
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