Short Stories

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WARNING: This story contains some blood and violence. It is no more graphic than the book of Judges, but nonetheless, be advised.






From the Author [sic] to the Reader [sic]:

To the significance of names, particularly those belonging to Msrs. Bunyan and Dickens that taught us to regularly beat readers over the head with allegory in order to make our point. Name me a symbol and clearly see their ancient generosity.




“I’ve got forty,” the man said. “Fingers, that is.”

His companion looked on, perplexed at the man’s obscene number of fingers.

“Well why don’t we do something about that?” He pulled out a knife and chopped off three fingers in one swift blow. Blood trickled out of the wounds as the now thirty-seven fingered man refused to move.

“Why don’t you go to the bathroom and bandage that up. I’ll clear some more fingers later on” the knife-wielding man said. The digitally over-endowed man hesitated.

“Are you sure it’s alright, I mean, are you sure it’s ok with you?”

“Yeah, sure, I’ve got to stab that guy in the corner anyhow.”

“Ok, come get me when you’re done.”

The knife-wielding man, we’ll call him Mr. Morningstar because ‘The Knife-Wielding Man’ is just too cumbersome (and by the way, let’s call the now thirty-seven fingered man Mr. Judas), strolled over to the corner of the bar where there sat a man lying unconscious over a mushroom burger with extra goat cheese. As if bored, Mr. Morningstar raised his knife and stabbed the man, leaving the knife stuck upright in his back. Upon impact, the man awoke and seized Mr. Morningstar’s attention in his bloodshot eyes.

“I must say,” said the man, “Thank you very much…would you like the rest of my meal? Take it as a sign of gratitude.” Unable to lean all the way back against his seat because of Mr. Morningstar’s knife, the man lifted his plate, which Mr. Morningstar promptly accepted and walked back to his table. There, he set down the plate and went to get Mr. Judas from the bathroom.

“Mr. Judas, how is it coming in there?” Mr. Morningstar grunted as he peeked inside. Mr. Judas had just about finished wrapping his wounds.

“Oh, I’m doing quite alright. Thank you for asking.”

“Ok, guess what,” said Mr. Morningstar.

“What?” replied Mr. Judas.

“I just got you some food. You said you were hungry, right?”

“Well, yes, I am, thank you kindly.” Mr. Judas was very happy to have some food again. He had been supplying Mr. Morningstar for so long that he had forgotten to eat anything for at least a week. The two men exited the bathroom and headed for the table. Mr. Morningstar didn’t stop at the table and walked straight to the door.

“We’ve got to go, perhaps you had better eat it on the ship.”

“Ok,” said Mr. Judas, grabbing the blood-stained half-burger and a smattering of fries, neglecting to care that his nubbed fingers were still bleeding, making it more of a vampire-burger than anything else.

The two men left the diner, walked down to the docks and boarded their ship, the Pandemonium. Mr. Judas made the navigation calculations and settled in while Mr. Morningstar found a crate and opened it up. Out he pulled a few bottles of scotch-whiskey.

“Where are we going this time? The pay is good I hope,” said Mr. Judas while buckling in. Mr. Morningstar popped open the bottle, took a large gulp and sat down at the navigation station.

“Oh, I forget the name, one of those alien places you can never pronounce.” Mr. Morningstar took another swig and threw the bottle, hitting Mr. Judas in the face. The glass shattered, cutting his companion’s cheek and knocking him out. Mr. Morningstar was unamused. Securing another bottle of whiskey, he turned back to the controls and lifted off.

Every five minutes or so, he would take another drink, until the cabin got so hot that the glass bottle began to burn his hand. A few hours later, the ship melted into the sun.

So ends the Blakean Hero

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