Author: Jeff Kennedy

Quimby stared blankly at the old earth man.

It’s amazing what runs through your mind when you’re handcuffed, wrapped in chains, and hanging upside down from a gymnasium ceiling over a bed of flaming swords.

Here’s some random info about your flight that’s probably inaccurate.

All carry-ones will now be stapled to the wings for your convenience and safety.

Our customer service dominatrix will be by shortly to bludgeon you with the drink cart and insult your ethnic heritage. As of next month, this service will only be free to subservient lackey-class passengers.

Also effective immediately, all mental health companion animals will be subject to humiliating and intrusive searches or barbecue depending on in-flight food service requirements.

Sit back, relax, and enjoy your flight.

No matter where you sit, there’s a light breeze. I don’t think the windows are sealed very well.

The house always smells musty. There’s a kind of damp chill with just a whiff of mold and mildew and decay. I don’t want to complain, but it’s not a great environment for someone my age.

I feel like I’ve been a prisoner in my house for two years, but I’m still not sure I want to leave. I’m still not sure I’ll ever be comfortable outside. In a crowd. Even in a mask.

Fortunately, the store delivers. I miss people though.

It came to him in a flash.

“I’m looking for my phone.”

Sean smiled and shook his head at own his absent-mindedness. He continued walking around the kitchen, looking around, behind, and under things, trying to find his cell phone. It never seemed to be handy when he needed it.

Sean noticed his coffee cup on the big island in the kitchen and paused to refill it. He pulled out a stool and sat down in front of a plate of cinnamon buns. He was reaching for one when it came to him again.

“What was I looking for?”

So the bartender sits a half-filled pint on the bar in front of me.

“Tell me what beer this is.”

I don’t know his name, but I recognize him from a few neighborhood bars. Both arms are covered in anime tattoos maybe 100 people would recognize. I can name thee of them.

“Kitchen guys changed the keg, but didn’t mark the line.”

So I take a sip of water and then a deep quaff of the unknown beer.

“Kind of a light wheat beer with little bitter aftertaste. It’s a light pale ale.”

A little while later, he puts a full pint in front of me.

“They found the kitchen notes. You were spot on.”

Based on the ads, I guess the local brewer. He laughs and shakes his head.

“Spot on again. On the house.”

Weirdly, a true story.

I finally climbed through that little wood trap door in the upstairs hallway yesterday. Found a couple random swords in the attic. Not little froufrou epees. Broad swords.

One was just lying there and the other was stuck deep in the stone chimney. Took a hell of an effort to pull it out. 

Forgetting, for the moment, the obvious question of how did two fucking broad swords get into the attic and the related question of, why were two fucking broad swords in the attic, another much more important question springs to mind.

Am I King of the Britons now?

I don’t get this whole “grow food at home” fad. Farming, I think they’re calling it?

What’s wrong with hunting and gathering? Exercise. Fresh air. That’s the good life. Why risk pissing off the earth gods? Seems to me that you’re just asking for a smiting.

Og and I argue about this stuff all the time. Og’s the guy that tries new things. He’s the trailblazer. Og was the first one to burn food. Now everybody’s cooking.

I guess I’m just a traditional guy. Og seems pretty excited about this new wheel thing. though. It might be worth checking out.

Jake had hiked farther into the dense forest than he’d intended this crisp autumn day…

So, when the guy in front of me drives into the rain, he slams on his brakes so hard that he nearly loses control of his F150, skidding insanely across all four lanes of 71 Southbound. And, just for a moment, the world turns into a Speed Racer cartoon.

To be clear, he didn’t drive into a volcanic eruption or a tornado or even a thunderstorm. He drove into some light rain.

As he suddenly veers across the lanes, all the rest of us somehow manage to swerve and dodge and miss the collection of large steel tools now flying out of a blue toolbox in the bed of his truck. The toolbox soon follows, narrowly missing my tiny Chevy Sonic.

As soon as my heart starts beating again, I notice that there are many hand signals of displeasure, but I refuse to join them, instead deeply pondering the taste of a cold beer.

What is it about rain that makes Ohio drivers turn the crazy up to eleven?