“I won’t let you kill my dragon!” cried Cliven.
“He’ll become a zombie!” insisted the Veterinary Cleric. “Hundreds could die!”
“I don’t care!”
Nogard shuddered in Cliven’s arms. His eyes rolled backwards, and all his muscles went slack.
“No!” Cliven screamed. “Is he dead!?”
“Well,” said the Cleric, “kind of.”
“I need a bandaid.”
“Why?”
“Because I have a cut on my finger.”
“Why?”
“Because my knife slipped.”
“Why?”
“Because I had slippery fingers.”
“Why?”
“Because I spilled salad dressing on my hands.”
“Why?”
“Because… Never mind; I’ll get the bandaid myself.”
He made a mental note: fix the ButlerBot.
I.
Boo!
Doctor Pheellups resigned.
New world record: fetuses marry.
“The sky is falling!” No one believed me. Their funerals.
One two three four five six seven eight nine ten eleven twelve thirteen fourteen fifteen sixteen seventeen eighteen nineteen twenty twenty-one twenty-two twenty-three twenty-four twenty-five twenty-six twenty-seven twenty-eight twenty-nine thirty thirty-one thirty-two thirty-three thirty-four thirty-five thirty-six thirty-seven thirty-eight thirty-nine forty forty-one forty-two forty-three forty-four forty-five forty-six forty-seven forty-eight forty-nine fifty.
She crept from alcove to alcove, timing her movements against the motion of the cameras. Down the hallway, around the corner…
“Stop!” someone yelled. “Cut! Do it again! Honey, baby, we’re makin’ a movie here. The cameras have to see ya! Yeesh, whose idea was it to hire an ex-spy?”
“Here’s a neat trick,” he said.
He opened his mouth, real wide. He inserted his hand, then his arm, down his throat. His shoulder dislocated to go farther down. He stopped. Then his arm came back up, and he pulled himself inside out.
“What do you think?”
“You’re still ugly.”