Methinks Some Skullduggery is Afoot ! by William Russell Faber
Listen well, methinks some skullduggery is afoot! (A man I didn’t recognize murdered and ate my neighbor!) Verily, this did arouse my suspicions! (I will carry the weight of what I saw forever.) Wellaway! (Holy shit!) Erelong the beasts in the abandoned aumbry did make of him a second reflection. (I watched two rats eat his eyes out.) Soothfast, the sight did bebother me. (I vomited for twenty minutes despite not eating that day.) My longfather would have vowed justice for the man, so I essayed the same. (My grandpa once killed a man for pissing on his lawn, and I have an intense societal pressure to live up to his greatness.) Verily, I did begin an independent inspection to find the rapscallion since the bobbies were indisposed. (the police were too drunk to help, so I had to do it myself #ACAB) I yode to good Flimothy’s abode for hobnobbery and nuncheon. Over dessert we swunk up a plan to capture the vagabond. (I went to Flimothy’s place and binge-ate four pies to drown my trauma. He only offered to help me so he wouldn’t have to deal with me purging two pounds of figs in his sitting room.) Eftsoons, we had some measures that, taken well, would uncover the criminal that
dared to disturb our kind suburb. (We came up with something I hoped would catch the man that, I would like to remind everyone, killed and ate someone in the alley beside my house.) The days passed swith, and I soon found myself leaning against my home in that fateful backstreet. (Before I knew it, I was posing as bait in Murder Alley.) Gadzooks! (Fuck!) Flimothy always expects me to thole some wanion in pursuit of some ethereal guerdon. (Flimothy always does this shit.) I waited longtime. (I waited a long time.) “No skullduggery does haunt us this night,” I said to myself, cheering. Just then, a shadow did move apace across the square in front of me. I braced for the coming tussle. (I promptly shat my pantaloons.) The stranger, with long loping strides, did not tarry in his approach of me, and assailed me with vigor. (Pretty soon, he was upon me and stabbing me a LOT.) I had no time to combat his onslaught (many stabs), I did my best to battle the foe. (I flailed my arms weakly, not unlike a small baby.) One strike did knock off his mask, which had appeared as a flesh-like human visage. Beneath it, shining like a
cruel beacon, was the face of Flimothy. By all the misfortune under God’s yellow sun! This was a twist I didn’t anticipate! (Oh fuck, it was Flimothy the whole time! I never could have seen this coming) Exposed, the recreant craven dashed off. I stood for some time, aghast. (I found the one thing worse than watching cannibalism live and in person!) What jolted me to my senses was the scent of the blood streaming down my front. It reminded me of something familiar, yet distant. Yoicks! (Whoa!) “The pies!” I exclaimed. (The pies were people.) Lying in the alley, steeping in a pool of mine own humor I wondered: how could I, Chessellweckthington, be the victim in someone else’s story? This man, it seems, was born only to die..With my investigation in ruins and my organs punctured, I awaited the golden hand of God. (I peaced out of existence.) The End* *Okay, there’s like another 30 pages of this stuff, but I’m not editing it. The plot just becomes a sadder version of Sandlot. It’s best if you just accept that he dies here and move on.
It’s Not a Phase: It’s Industrialization by Nathan Elliot
Dearest Mother, While I do appreciate your concern for my well-being, I must insist once more that I will not be returning to the family farm. Despite your claims that I’m “egregiously inept at all tasks involving higher thought,” I have opened quite the impressive paperclip factory in the heart of London. No “pea-brained simpleton” could do that, I can assure you. My partner in business, Lord Kingly Knightman, has ensured me that our venture shall remain most profitable and sustainable. Mother, the future looks bright. Your Son, Matthew Smokk Mother, No, Lord Knightman is not a con artist or a scoundrel or a rogue. He has a degree from the University of Moosetrench, the sister school to the prestigious Oxford. I’m told it’s in a land called Queens, which sounds like a lovely place for high society to gather. And no, I’m not a bad judge of character. I would never give just anyone money. The other day a worker asked if he could be paid early and I rebuffed him so harshly that he cried about how he couldn’t feed his family. Does he sound like someone who should be lent money? I think not. Also, I am eating a healthy
amount of potatoes, thanks for asking. Yours, Matt Smokk Mother, I don’t know how to make myself any clearer. There is nothing for me at the farm; my hands belong guiding the mass of workers along their way, not tilling the fields. Your concerns about this so called “unionizing” seem absolutely ridiculous. The workers can’t join forces, they’re both spineless and mindless. How do you think we get them to work for twelve hours a day? I’m also fairly certain gatherings of that kind are illegal. Besides, Lord Knightman and I treat them fairly, and usually remember to pay them on time. Yours, M. Smokk Dear Mother, Good God Almighty, You were right! These suspenders are phenomenal! I no longer feel a constriction around my midsection when I wander the factory! Truly, technology is the answer to all of our ills. Speaking of which, Lord Knightman and I were walking about the grounds the other day when a worker accosted us. He called me “bourgeois” and
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then hastily left the grounds. He may have been a strange fellow tgfgo left work without permission, but he was the first worker to ever compliment me! Things are taking a turn for the best! Your Bourgeois Son, Matthew B. Smokk Esq. Dearest Mother, The world has gone sideways. God has abandoned us. They are knocking at my door and making demands for “their” money. Lord Knightsman forgot to pay them again and has also forgotten to come back to work. I can hear them jamming paperclips into the lock. This tool use suggests primate level intelligence, who would have thought they were that capable! Why didn’t you warn me of their conniving ways before Mother? You pride yourself on being such a know-itall with your encyclopedias, but couldn’t predict this! Nonetheless, I must not falter, for the working class would never do anything drastic to someone of my standing. Forever yours, Matthew Beston Smokk Esq. P.S. Sorry about your son. Long live the Revolution!