Tuck: *knocks on the door*
Inga: Yes?
Tuck: Madam, your cats have been leaving their, uh, droppings in my flower bed again.
Inga: I assure you it isn't my cats.
Tuck: But haven't you noticed that the whole contingent will come downstairs rather than use the litter in your apartment?
Inga: There is no litter in my apartment.
Tuck: You mean to say you let your cats just leave their ... their droppings all over the outside world?!
Inga: Yes, it perfectly reflects my opinion of the outside world. *slams door*

Currently listening : X-Mas at the Point Depot By U2

Labels: anecdote, cats, fiction, old, stories

Writing a story set in that world would be, I think, lots of fun. Imagine it:
There would be people that have been struck by lightning so many times that their graves get hit like Old Faithful. The primary mode of transportation would be on foot - and any other vehicles would be much more safety conscious than where I'm writing from.

Gambling would be the national pastime. Irony wouldn't be a sense of humor - it would be totally normal. Think about it - the odds of finding exactly what you need or what you really don't need are usually bad here but in this world, you raise your hand for a taxi and it's (ironically) even odds that a taxi will be pulling up just as you raise your finger - or that the entire city's taxi population is on the other side of town, you poor schmuck.

Currently listening : Hot Fuss By The Killers

Labels: anecdote, fiction, stories

These are small bits of a few stories I've had in my head for a little while.

~~

The old priest wiped off his face and turned to his friend. "Jacob, I feel like I'm going to Heaven through Hell."

~~

"Don't give me that crap, you goon!" It probably wasn't the best thing to say at the time, but Peter had had enough. The Agent adjusted his tie. "You don't scare me with your conspiratorial crap - we both know I'd been on that lead for years and know what's going on. I wasn't born yesterday." The Agent looked bored and looked over Peter's shoulder.

Peter woke up with a headache, still wearing his jumpsuit and sat up in his own bed. He looked around and saw nothing unusual in his room except that his wallet and keys were on his dresser instead of in the usual spot. He got up groggily to examine them and found that the only thing left in the wallet was the picture that had started the whole mess - with the Agent's face scratched out roughly.

"Damn." He got a few twenties from his stash in the closet and got into the car. He could just picture what would happen if he got pulled over - "I'm sorry, Sir, I don't have my ID because I was involved in a government coverup and they took my ID and seventeen bucks." He got his watch - it said 26 SEP, which meant he'd been gone three days.

He headed straight for the DMV.

"I need a new driver's license, ma'am." The bored-looking clerk accepted his credit card, Passport, and Social Security card. "There's a problem here, sir."
"What?"
"It says your birthday is on the 25th of September." Peter blinked. "I was born August 15th, ma'am."
"And that's what all your documents say, too but -- wait." She blinked at her computer. "It says you were born the 25th ... of this year."

There was a beat. And he muttered, "Fucking agents."

Currently listening : Siamese Dream By Smashing Pumpkins Release date: By 27 July, 1993

Labels: anecdote, fiction, government, stories