Category Archives: Comedy

Laurum Hills Part 2: The Fire Hydrant, the Floutist, and the Wheelchair

(Previous chapter can be found here:

It was a Saturday afternoon, and little Lucy Lue was lolloping along the street, as she did every Saturday most every once in a while. The sun was hot, and beat on little Lucy’s face like a deranged child playing with a soup can. But little Lucy bowlinskogged along just the same, making her way to God knows where all the same, completely ignorant of the most unfortunate coincidence that was about to befall her.

Lucy played the flute. She would often play whilst prancing around the forest, interacting with all the wonderful and cuddly creatures to be found amongst the trees and shrubbery. Often times a small parade of rabbits would begin to trot along behind her,  but she would always shoo them off, as she was the teensiest bit suspicious of the plausibly diabolical nature of the rabbits. She much preferred chipmunks and raccoons anyways, and even squirrels or small mountain lions.

But today Lucy was not playing the flute, or prancing, or in the forest, or collecting mushrooms. Lucy was shaboinging through the city today, and happened to be rounding the corner where the certain doom of her leg was about to be realized.

As she wangabocked forward, she noticed a bear trap sitting in the middle of the sidewalk, conveniently aligned with a fire hydrant.

“Hmm, this is most peculiar.” Lucy said to herself in italics, and proceeded to disarm the bear trap, place it in the nearest government regulated bear trap recycling unit, and continued to dundwing forward, past the completely harmless fire hydrant and the extremely sinister Lollypop Livery.

However, the lies of the previous third person narrator (who has just been replaced by a far more intelligent, hardworking sort) became immediately apparent when the previously mentioned fire hydrant rocketed out of the ground in an extremely harmful manner, its red tippity pippity aimed directly at Little Lucy Lue’s sternum.

In the flash of an eye, in the blink of a wrist, in the knee of a bear, Lucy completed a perfectly executed double reverse aerial somersault (complete with a bow-tie and a side of waffle fries) over the death rocket fire hydrant, and proceeded to vaporize it with a well aimed burst of her laser vision.

A moment should probably be taken to explain what made this seemingly ridiculous, obscure, random, and unexpected manuveur possible. Little Lucy Lue, the flute-playing-soon-to-be-dismembered-protagonist-of-this-story, is the youngest of a culturally nondescript family of particularly notable mutants. She is gifted with superb reflexes, laser vision, inhuman flexibility, telepathy, flouting prowess, and infinitely regular bowel movements. Her stunning wit and perfect physical form make it possible for her to accomplish less than possible feats, such as conjuring waffle fries and bow ties whenst carrying out highly complicated, plausibly fictional acrobatic maneuvers.

Lucy fell back to the sidewalk with a majestic twirl, sticking the landing and bringing tears to the eyes of the untold masses who witnessed her spectacularly, which happened to be 13 people. She turned to face her gaping audience, taking several bows and accepting their praise and monetary benefits as she reveled in her own glory, completely unaware of the seismic anomaly occurring directly beneath her left leg.

With a single satisfied gulp, the earth beneath her swallowed up both of her legs, and with a single whimsical chomp, crushed her bones into oblivion, and other sorts of tiny particles.

Even though this situation already appears to be most horrible, her horror had only just begun (even though it would shortly end.) A fountain of rabbits began to pour from the gap in the earth, where her now totally destroyed left and right legs both rested. (Note:The previous, now deceased narrator failed to mention that Little Lucy Lue in actuality would lose both legs while loping ‘longside the Lollipop Livery.)

The furry mass slithered all across her as tens, hundreds, thousands, sevens of rabbits poured from the salsa gap in the earth. She was pelted by the pelts of an unending torrent of carrot devouring creatures who, assumedly, had just risen up from the depths of hell.

Lucy contemplated letting out a dramatic scream, as to express her displeasure in losing two of her limbs, but decided not to as her neck snapped in two due to an unrelated happening. A man in a wheelchair finished his trek across her now totally jacked up corpse, one wheel lumping over her disconnected head.

“One step closer to It, my children,”He said in a raspy, dissonant monotone, “One step closer.”

(Go on, read the next chapter:

Chapter One: Meet Frank

For many years, I kept a private notion that those in life that face a great misfortune, particularly a physical one, are so far influenced by that misfortune that it leads to “enlightenment.” Through their injury, those afflicted folk become something greater. They become the most caring, kind, and hardworking sorts. Even with crippling wounds, they carry on with unfaltering resilience, never giving into negativity or sorrow, and despite all odds, they would always succeed. (Mind you, this was all in my head.) As I watched these silent sufferers passing by in life, I was inspired. I was inspired by their archetypal quest, by their epic under-dog-ery, by they way they faced such a cruel fate with such bravery. In my eyes, they were gods among men. And I respected them, any and all of those hurting folk, to the highest degree. The respect I had for them was one that never faltered, diminished, or failed. Until I met Frank.

Frank was a dick.

Frank was a paraplegic dick.

Allow me a moment to summarize Frank as the sub-human being he was, and is.

Imagine Tiny Tim. Not any of that “God bless us” crap, but Tiny Tim’s physical figure. This is the basic exoskeleton of Frank. Seems pleasant enough, right? Now cut off Tiny Tim’s legs. Ooh, creepy, but he is still just a rather small and frail child. Now, add 45 years onto Tiny Tim, inject his belly with a good 40 pounds of alcohol-derived blubber, and hang a picture of a permanently scowling, ruffled older-than-his-age man over his face. Now, in place of the good will for mankind and hearty kindness residing in Tiny Tim, place in him instead a burning, psychopathic, aimless rage, a rage only quelled by belittling whatever misfortunate person, or thing, Frank decided should be put below his crippled self. Add an inferiority complex comparable to a self deprecating Tyrannosaurus, the common sense level of a dodo bird, and a bad attitude comparable to Lucifer himself, on a bad day.

To say the least, Frank was an unpleasant person.

I first met Frank when I was working a graveyard shift at the local garbage heap of a fast food restaurant, The Shack. If there was food to be found at The Shack, it was sub-par. It was a ratty, ugly, flea-ridden hole of a miserable estate. I often use it to justify the highly unfortunate state of the planet Earth. You get the idea.

At about midnight, someone pulled into the drive thru. If only I had known the horrors in store for me. The headset beeped into my ear, awakening me from my fast-food trance (those of you who have been employed at a fast food restaurant understand) and my mind snapped into half gear. The lightbulb over my head buzzed.

“Welcome to the shack. Just… Go ahead and order.” I hated working there.

“Excuuuuuuse me… sir.” a voice slurred, “I came through earlier….” A long break. I sighed. “And I have a… complaint.”

If only I hadn’t responded.


The soon to be catalogued voice whipped into instant fury.

“Watch your tone mister, or I’ll make you regret that you’re still a virgin, you half…….. Moron!”

I winced. The headset shrieked with metallic malevolence.

“Listen man, we close in like.. ten minutes, why don’t you just cool your…” A click. He was gone. I shrugged.

A crow bar asserted its way through the glass of thr drive-thru window.

“MOTHER MARTHA!!” I exclaimed with fearful vigor. (I am still unsure of the identity of Mother Martha.) I recoiled in horror as I stared into the wide, blood-shot eyes of the the hockey-masked face of Frank. He looked displeased. And drunk.

I raised a hand halfway to my gaping mouth, where it remained suspended awkwardly, leaving me in a pose one would only observe in a award winning foreign interprative dance. The masked man in the wheel chair threw his arm out, and pushed the smashed window inwards.

“Come over here boy, and ill give those sorry nipples of yours a good twisting!”

I felt like I was in a long lost Monty Python skit.

I fumbled for the work phone at approximately the same moment the crow bar hit me in the face.

When my eyes peeled open, it was 12:23. I slowly sat up.

Glass from the broken window was spread across the floor. The register was ripped open, and tattered Washington’s and Lincoln’s fluttered in the cool evening breeze. The lightbulb over my head buzzed. It appeared as if Frank had relieved himself through the window, into the restaraunt, and some of the puddle had reached my legs. I rubbed my thouroughly swollen left eye, wondering how a man with no legs managed to pee through an open window, near the level of his head, and hit me at such a great range.

I fumbled for the phone yet again, and dialed 911.

“911, state the nature of your emergency.”

My drive-thru was just ransacked by a drunken cripple!”

The you-just-got-hung-up-on fairy began its monotone solo. I’ll admit, in that secretary’s shoes, I would have hung up too. Working this late sucked. And that particular sentence was not one of literary genius.

The next call I made did not go so well either. To summarize: after a short conversation, the owner of The Shack made a late night visit. After I explained the story to him, he gracefully bestowed a stunningly accurate synopsis of my character upon me, using a very poetic, rhythmic repitition of several choice words, and sent me home. Several days later, I received a phone call from a charming man, whose name I have forgotten, but title I have not.

The Lawyer.

One lawsuit later, I was out of work and out of dough. The appartment followed the rest of my minimal fortune through the window. I spent some time in a homeless shelter, thinking up my own character synopsis for Frank, heaven forbid I meet him again.

Sure enough, I did.

Who would have thought next time it would go worse.

Final Testament of Richard Hendrickson

It is 2 a.m. These printed words are the final testaments of my life. I walk down the street, and my feet have made up their mind. One block away is the catalyst of my masterpiece. The sidewalk will be my canvas.

For the past two years I have searched for the answer. The cure. The piece I never had. My parents, Mark and Anne, never inquired. They never saw past the grade card, past the sleeves of my jacket. There is no answer. Some of us are just meant to die, and history will not remember us.

But perhaps my masterpiece will be remembered, at least by some. Continue reading

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