Abigail, Horseman of the Apocalypse

 

Once upon a time, there was an otter named Abigail. Abigail was a very special otter because she was the unwitting Seventh Horseman of the Apocalypse. Fortunately, she remained unaware of this until a fateful night in February. Prior to that, she’d been an ordinary otter, playing in rivers, tossing clamshells at herons, and sleeping more than necessary.

 

She was lounging in the river one evening, when she heard a deep voice call her name. Curious, Abigail swam towards the dark figure near the river bank. She gasped as he came into view; she had never seen anything like this hideous creature before. His face was missing the important parts, like eyes,ears, and skin. He was dressed in filthy, yet fashionably tattered black robes and carried a knobbly black stick with an ugly skull carving on top. She wondered if he was one of those “goths” she had heard about on Oprah. He stood beside two enormous horses and watched her intently with glowing red sockets.

 

“BEHOLD!” he bellowed. “I greet you in sorrow, fellow Horseman.”

 

“Um … hi,” said Abigail. Yes, this was definitely one of those gothic characters, probably coming to bum a cigarette or invite her to a poetry reading. She didn’t fancy a night of poems about deep despair and dead black roses, and she mentally prepared a litany of polite excuses.

 

“I have come to deliver your steed to you,” the creature said, and pointed to the brown horse on the left.

 

“Oh,” said Abigail in relief. It was merely a delivery mix-up. “I didn’t order one of those. The Schwann’s order came on Thursday.”

 

The Horseman opened his mouth in equal bafflement, and then cleared his throat. “You will ride it during the Apocalypse.”

 

“Did you try the Thompsons down the river?” she asked, hoping to resolve this misunderstanding quickly without unnecessary tragic conversation. “They sometimes have things delivered. Maybe they ordered an Apocalypse - “

 

“SILENCE!” roared the man. “You will take your steed and prepare for the Day of Doom!”

 

Abigail drew her lips back in distaste, but wasn’t about to contradict a dangerously unstable, death-obsessed man ten times her size. “Fine, fine. How am I supposed to feed it?”

 

“It is no earthly beast. The dark night and the fear of mortals will nourish it, as well as the tears of the dying and the bereaved.”

 

“Night … mortals …tears of the dying …” muttered Abigail under her breath. She wished she had a pencil and notebook, as she knew she’d forget this all by morning. “Look, I’m late for, um, whisker-cleaning night. Can you just hitch the horse to that tree? I’ll see if I can rustle up some tears of the bereaved for his breakfast.”

 

“No. You must hear your instructions for the day of terror.” Abigail was relieved to hear that his voice was calmer and less imperious. She looked pointedly down river towards her den. She was itching to get back to it; she’d recently nicked it from a beaver and the place was in sore need of re-decorating and washing, and it was also past-time for dinner. However, the ghastly man ignored her and continued. “Ok, you have the brown horse. I’ve got the black horse, the Unnamed Beast has the red horse, Larry has the pale horse, Our Lord has the white horse, and Megan has whatever the hell that mule-thing is. Here, I printed this table from Wikipedia; it’s a nice summary to help you get acquainted.”

 

She studied the table as best she could in the moonlight. “This doesn’t say anything about a mule or a brown horse.”

 

“Wikipedia doesn’t always have the most current information. We added the mule for diversity’s sake, and yours was an afterthought.” He caught sight of Abigail’s raised eyebrow and hastily added, “But that doesn’t mean it’s not important, of course.”

 

Abigail was getting tired of treading water for this maniac, but she was keenly aware of the big knobbly thing perched above her head. “Why do I get the brown horse? You might have noticed that I am also brown. I’ll blend right in, if I can even stay on it to begin with.”

 

“The brown horse is Annoyance.” The creature primly spread his robe and sat down on the river bank, leaning towards her in a conspiring fashion. “Oh, I know it doesn’t sound as glamorous as Death or Famine, but think about it. Annoyance is a creeping killer. It raises stress levels, taxes the heart, causes emotional disturbances,divorces, fights, and vengeful waitresses. Everything else is so in-your-face, so bleeding obvious. Annoyance is suave, insidious. And to bond with the horse, you have to experience some of its essence.”

 

Abigail gazed skeptically at him. “You sound like my mom when she gave all the clams to my brothers because she loves them more than me.”

 

The Horseman coughed, looked the other way, and spoke unnecessarily quickly. “I assure you that Our Lord loves you just as much as he loves us. It’s just … we think your level of experience is better suited for Annoyance. The rest of us are seasoned terrorists. We know what to do. We don’t want to scar your tender heart before it’s ready for the heavy stuff.”

 

Her belly rumbled. “So why choose me at all? I’m an otter.”

 

“It’s been decreed.”

 

“By whom?”

 

“That’s on a need-to-know basis.”

 

“I can’t stay on that thing, you know.” She felt cross even thinking about the prospect.

 

“Sure you can,” said the Horseman, with what he probably thought was a kindly voice, although it was more nasal than anything, despite his lack of a proper nose. “You just need a little help and practice. That’s why I brought Clarence a little early. Here, let me help you up.” Before she could protest or squirm out of his hands, the Horseman had seized her and tossed her on top of the horse, who was unimpressed with this gesture and reared up. Abigail had no choice but to bite into his back to steady herself, but this caused Clarence to run.

 

“Shit!” she heard the Horseman shout. Through the bouncing blur of trees and stars, she thought she heard him chasing after them, but the sound quickly faded. Is this the Tribulation? she wondered. She knew little of Biblical prophecy but recalled the term “Tribulation” as referring to hard times. She was fairly certain that hanging onto a horse’s backside with her teeth as he tore across the countryside counted as “hard times.” Perhaps this qualified as “bonding” with the horse. But as her brain jarred in her skull, she wondered why on earth she was expected to participate in this bizarre human drama.

 

She was about to take her chances and open her jaws, when a voice thundered from the heavens. “CLARENCE, STOP.”

 

Clarence stumbled to a stop, and Abigail flopped from his back in a most undignified manner, dropping the Wikipedia table.

 

“IT IS I, SATAN.”

 

This seemed suspicious to Abigail. “Why is your voice coming from the heavens?”

 

There was a resounding silence, and then Satan said in a quieter voice, “I am a ventriloquist, actually. Anyway, I will answer your question.”

 

“What question?” Talking to a disembodied voice made her head ache.

 

“The one you thought of during your perilous journey just now. You must participate in the human apocalypse because you are part human.”

 

“Oh fabulous, of course,” she said, annoyed. Dinner was waiting at home, yet here she was, entertaining evil idiots. “Silly me, to look at my fur, whiskers, webbed feet and tail and not have realized.”

 

Satan must have detected the sarcasm in her voice, because he snapped, “You were abducted by aliens and your DNA was tampered with, foolish otter. You have inactive human DNA sequences waiting silently to be activated by the upcoming apocalypse.”

 

“I was not abducted by aliens!”

 

“You were, too. Don’t you remember last summer when you lost your den to another otter because you were away for 2 months?”

 

“I … I was traveling. In Spain.”

 

“Abigail, you are a river otter. They won’t let you on a plane.”

 

“I swam across the ocean!”

 

“You are not a sea otter. Your habitat is restricted to fresh water.”

 

“I’m an endangered species in Wisconsin!” Her voice shook with desperation. “I have special flight privileges!”

 

Satan packed an amazing amount of skepticism into his single, polite cough.

 

She hung her head and sighed, banishing the memories of pale gray creatures with large eyes and poky instruments. “Ok. Whatever, Satan. Will it be easier to ride this thing with alien DNA?” Clarence neighed indignantly at being referred to as “this thing,” and Abigail shrugged at him apologetically.

 

“Not really.”

 

“Why should I believe you, Satan? Isn’t the sole purpose of your existence to obfuscate the thought process of humans?”

 

The clouds gathered in the direction of his voice. “Yes, but you’re an otter so you don’t have to worry.”

 

However, Abigail had grown cranky with the delay of her supper, and she interpreted the darkening sky as proof of Satan’s insincerity. The wild journey, the unexpected personal revelations, and the presence of a diabolical being were too much for her recently-altered mind and body, and her growling stomach was the last straw that caused her alien DNA to suddenly became activated. She shot a laser beam from her mouth and incinerated Satan, who, despite his demonic power, was an earthly being and susceptible to alien technology (aliens don’t believe in Satan, despite all those devil-worshiping reptilian underlord theories you may have read on the Internet). It was all a bit confusing, as she could not see Satan’s incorporeal form, but her special alien DNA confirmed that his supernatural life signals had abruptly terminated.

 

“I just killed Satan,” she marveled. “I wonder what else this DNA can do?” She set off to find out, and Clarence followed. She had grand adventures doing so, but they are for another tale. Suffice it to say that having thus upset the plans for the Apocalypse, for there can be no Apocalypse without the Prince of Darkness to orchestrate it, she was disowned by the other Horseman, who mourned their lost purpose in life. God was not especially perturbed at her actions, being benevolent and all-accepting of mortal free will, and He ignored the pleas of the other Horsemen to annihilate her soul in a fiery pit of sewage. Abigail and Clarence eventually settled in a small Italian villa, because endangered species in Wisconsin really do have special privileges that include unrestricted flight travel. She resumed her life of clam-cracking, heron-scaring, and oversleeping, but this time she had a charming horse friend to share in her joy. Clarence was relieved to be rid of his Apocalyptic duties, as he was not a war enthusiast and preferred to spend his time pondering the mysteries of the cosmos.

 

At times, Abigail thought of the aliens and wondered if they had foreseen these events, or if she was merely a discarded lab-rat who had fallen into this earth-shaking destiny. Regardless, she really liked Italian clams, so she couldn’t complain. Clarence eschewed the tears of the dying and bereaved and subsisted mainly on The Night, although he occasionally indulged in mortal fear without mentioning it to Abigail. There they lived out their days, happily.

THE END

Tags: otters, religious by splarks
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Once upon a time, there was a bear named Zombearo. He was a bit melodramatic, what with the serape and sombrero, but he was good-hearted for a zombie bear. He didn’t eat too many kids, and when he did, he tried not to slurp the brains.

His life had started out tranquilly enough. He was like any other young forest cub, frolicking joyfully among daisies and fruit trees, tormenting hikers and raiding garbage cans. Then one day a Mexican jackrabbit with a gray, rubbery coat shuffled into the hollow. Zombearo (who was just Geoffry back then) poked his head out of the den curiously. This jackrabbit didn’t look nutritious, but he’d consider a nibble if it got close enough. As if the bunny heard the bear’s thoughts, it turned and fixed Geoffry with a piercing, yet dull gaze.

“Braaaaaainssss …” it hissed.

Geoffry considered this. Rabbits had a reputation for stupidity, but this was the first he’d heard of one looking for mental augmentation. He had to admire the bunny’s fortitude; it wasn’t often that you saw them trying to better themselves. Usually they obsessed over procreation and alfalfa, heedless of who could observe their indulgent behavior. “I can’t really help you there,” he said, “but you can check with the old beaver at the fork in the creek. I hear he started a rodent school awhile back. He might let you in if you ask politely.”

The jackrabbit continued to stare, and a line of drool formed under his chin. Geoffry shifted uncomfortably. Clearly, the old beaver would have his work cut out for him. “Well, adios,” he said with what he hoped was a cheery toss of his head. “You .. uh … you have a good time now. I’m off to clean my claws.” He turned and headed back into the den, but as he stuck his head in, he heard the rabbit growl, “NYYAAARGH!” and there was a sharp pain in his backside. The bunny was hanging by his jaws from Geoffry’s butt! The bear used all his might and smacked the rabbit, breaking its neck. But even as he picked the rabbit’s teeth from his hide, long after the sun had set, he felt a chill seep into his bones despite the balmy evening.

For the next seven days, Geoffry shivered and the color drained from his fur. The old jack rabbit’s voice echoed in his head. Curiously, brains did sound kind of tasty. He’d always been indifferent to organ meat, but suddenly brains sounded delectable. Yes, brains! Nutritious brains in a sauce of berries and spearmint! He knew where to gather chokecherries and mint along the creek. He hurried off, salivating profusely. Small animals frequently congregated at the water. Berry-mint brains would soon be his. He paused to drape an ill-gotten serape over his now-gray bulk, and balanced the matching sombrero on his head; when the sun came up, he didn’t want to be tainted with its filthy light. He silently gave thanks to the foolish peasant who had left them behind.

The chortles of Zombearo echoed in the moonlit forest, lending a sinister cast to the night.

***

All seemed normal in the forest for the next few weeks. Bears occasionally indulge in animal flesh, after all, and his excesses went unnoticed. But gradually, a gray army began to appear. Deer with glowing red eyes stalked the woods. Chipmunks perched in trees, fat cheeks stuffed full of brains and drool. Raccoons scampered through the brush, bits of gray matter stuck to their little hands. Even the fish had succumbed to the awesome power of Zombearo - a few salmon had escaped his jaws and went on to be fine cannibals. A few of the raccoons had adopted his serape fashion by stealing bandanas and underwear from country clotheslines. He thought they’d missed the point, really. Why did nocturnal animals need to be protected from the sun? They looked charmingly quaint despite their faulty logic, so he politely said nothing.

But despite his newfound reign over the forest, Zombearo began to feel remorse. How many lives had he wantonly snuffed in his mad lust for honey-walnut cerebral cortices? Wasn’t he taking more than his share? How many brains did he really need each day? Seventeen seemed excessive, particularly when you considered how he munched on squirrel brains throughout the day as though they were grasshoppers. What if he was depleting the forest brain supply? Was he really so selfish?

He resolved to cut back on the amount of brains he ingested. Fortunately for the world, zombie-hood is a delicate balance, and precisely seventeen brains are needed each day to maintain one’s gray pallor and saliva production. When Zombearo began his brain diet, he unwittingly upset the chemical balance in his putrefying body. He experienced what is often called, “Occipital Deprivation Coma.” For three weeks, he slumbered in the oak grove. The forest animals generously heaped brains before him, and the crows tried to force him to chew, but their efforts were in vain. One day, the great hulk known as Zombearo simply exploded.

The funeral was a solemn affair. The cougar buried the remaining bits of the bear’s corpse in the oak grove. The coyotoes gave the eulogy, and a weasel broke down crying, “He was so noble! He never once bit a schoolgirl’s ankle! It was always me, taking more than my share an’ spreading terror! I’m so ashamed! I’ll eat less now!” Within three days, the weasel was in a coma. Thus, the forest was saved from zombies as guilt-stricken animals began dropping dead from brain deprivation. Occasionally, you may still find an old crow feasting on carrion, but if asked about his fiendish behavior, he will flap his wings and caw something obscene, defiantly preserving the memory of Zombearo and his tattered serape.

Tags: bears, horror by splarks
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Once upon a time there was an absolutely gorgeous frog named Enrique. The idea of an attractive frog might seem ludicrous, but you aren’t a frog, are you? Thousands of swooning lady frogs can’t be wrong; Enrique was hot. His bulbous eyes were perfectly round and always shone with a dreamy, sensitive cast. His luscious green skin had the ideal amount of slime to its texture. His webbed feet were large yet delicately formed, and left aesthetically pleasing prints in the swamp mud. Yet Enrique’s most remarkable feature was the brownish spots on his left shoulder. While his admirers frequently commented on the artistic placement of the spots, Enrique thought that when viewed from the proper angle, they looked rather like the Virgin Mary. He mentioned it a few times to his friends, but they only laughed and said, “Oh Enrique, that sense of humor is simply dangerous!” Humiliated, he told himself that they were just spots, not some grand proclamation of divinity, and followed his friends into their exciting and fast-paced nocturnal activities.

 

One night Enrique was lounging on his favorite crusty log, hoping to score. He’d prepared himself for yet another wild night on the swamp, carefully stretching out the balloon under his chin so it would swell to full capacity and impress the females. He’d recently started a little modeling work (nothing special, he liked to tell people, just a couple of spreads for Toad Today magazine), and modeling was much more tedious than he’d expected. He was exhausted but his agent had promised him a bottle of Jack Daniels, which was about three times his body weight, and he wasn’t about to let that opportunity go. The bottle now lay securely behind the log, and he was just about to pry off the lid when a shriek interrupted him. An old wrinkly frog cowered before him. “The chosen one!” the old frog wheezed. “Look, it’s the sign of the blessed Virgin! She speaks through this one!” The old-timer pointed a trembling finger* at Enrique’s left shoulder. A couple of nearby frogs glanced over. “Hey,” one said, craning his neck, “that does kinda look like the Virgin Mary.”

 

“Where?” asked his companion.

 

“Well, if you—here, come sit where I am. Ok, now turn your head a little—no, the other way—yeah, ok see that spot there? Ok, that’s her nose, and that one there is her ear –“

 

“Oh yeah, yeah,” said the other frog excitedly, “Yeah I see it now. Holy crap, I’ve never seen anyone with a picture of the Virgin Mary on their shoulder! Do you suppose–?”

 

The two frogs stared at him in awe. The old frog leaned against the log and continued to wheeze, with occasional mutters of “chosen … holy amphibian … tadpoles of doom …” Enrique stared back at them, unsure of how to respond. More curious frogs had gathered around his log, jostling each other for a glimpse of him. They seemed to be waiting for him to speak something profound.

 

“Uhh …” he said. The circle of frogs drew a collective, anticipatory gasp. “Uhh…” he repeated, scratching his belly nervously. “I, um, well I’m going over to that puddle over there.”

 

“The puddle!” someone shouted. “It’s the Holy Puddle of the Lord! He goes to contemplate! Tell us our future, oh Sacred One!”

 

Enrique snapped his head around angrily. “What the hell?” he said. “Don’t be ridiculous! Two minutes ago, that old geezer noticed my spots, and now you’re all following me and asking me to predict the future? I’ve known about these spots for years, but you all gave me patronizing little laughs! Yeah, I know what you all said about me! ‘Oh, that Enrique, such a pretty face but he’s got pond-scum for brains.’ Do you think I didn’t hear you? Well? Do you?”

 

In the silence that followed, he clearly heard the crickets and the cicadas. Someone flicked a tongue and the chirping stopped. The subsequent crunching irritated Enrique even more. “So yeah, you easily-led sycophants,” he growled, noting smugly that the majority of the crowd seemed perplexed by the word choice, “I am going to contemplate. I’m going to do what I should have done long ago—believe in myself and ask the Virgin what she wants of me, her humble servant. But I don’t have to share it with you. Get out of here!”

 

The crowd didn’t move and instead everyone waited patiently for Enrique to move towards the “Holy Puddle of the Lord.” Enrique sighed. “There’s a full bottle of whiskey behind my log,” he muttered.

 

The crowd scattered immediately towards the bottle, and Enrique lowered himself onto the grass beside the puddle. He tried to ignore the disgust and fury in his heart, closed his eyes, and called out to the Virgin. He used no elaborate incantations or frivolous props, only his sincere desire to serve the Holy One. Soon he heard an angelic voice.

 

“Enrique.” A lovely calm fell over him like soft blades of grass. “My beautiful little frog … you have finally come to me.”

 

“Yes, O Mary,” he whispered.

 

“Well,” the voice said, now sounding slightly perturbed, “that’s wonderful, but I’m afraid you’re too late.”

 

“Uh … what?” his eyes opened and he saw the Virgin’s outline. Though hazy, he couldn’t mistake the look of consternation upon Her Divine Face.

 

“How long have you know about the spots on your shoulder?” she demanded.

 

“Well,” he mumbled, scuffing his toes in the mud, “Um … abut 10 months, I guess.”

 

“Right,” the Virgin said sharply. “And ten months ago I was ready to tell you that your swamp was going to be annihilated to make room for a landfill.”

 

What’s a landfill? Enrique wondered, but the Virgin continued speaking. “If you’d called to me then, you could have warned your people and evacuated them to a new, safe home. But what did you do, Enrique?”

 

“I … um …” he blushed. “I started modeling.”

 

“And drinking whiskey,” Mary accused.

 

“Yeah.” He looked miserably around him at the swamp.

 

“You ignored the Divine signals, even though you knew they were genuine, Enrique. And you must know that I am truly sorry, but as you chose a life of debauchery instead of using your holy gift … well, now you lie in the grave you dug.”

 

The calm presence withdrew, the figure faded, and the frog’s shrieks were heard for miles as the bulldozers descended into the swamp. Enrique’s drinking buddies were consumed in a tangle of steel jaws and mud, while the handsome frog himself drowned in his own reflection as the giant wheels flattened him into the puddle.

 

Millennia passed, and an advanced reptilian race from a distant solar system began studying Earth. A team of archaeologists was dispatched into the swamp-cum-landfill, which was now a snowy wasteland. The reptilians used a heat-producing device to melt all the snow and produce a comfortable working environment. For several months they excavated the site. During the fifth month, a research assistant unearthed something odd. It appeared to be a hideously underdeveloped member of their species, yet it was not fossilized like the rest of the primitive creatures they found. It appeared to have perished only yesterday. The archaeologists stood around this curiosity, poking it periodically, but nothing happened.

 

“We will take it back to the mother planet,” declared the head archaeologist. “Perhaps it can be revived using our recent technological developments. Say … look at the markings on its shoulder. Looks kinda like … what was that god the primitives worshiped? The Sturgeon Larry?”

 

“Virgin Mary, sir,” said one of the assistants.

 

“Right, Virgin Gary. Interesting. It may be some sort of a holy relic. Well, send it home and let’s keep digging.”

 

Perhaps … just perhaps … Enrique the Handsome Frog would get a second chance to fulfill the destiny he so foolishly squandered. Unfortunately, the reptilians’ technology wasn’t so great and they failed to revive him. Because no one had a better idea, he was turned into a paperweight labeled, “Deformed Man; Virgin Gary” and presented to the head archaeologist’s father-in-law as a birthday present.

 

THE END

 

 

*Do frogs have fingers?

Tags: amphibians, religious by splarks
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From the archives:

Once upon a time there was a wombat named Emilio. Emilio was a very special wombat because his nose contained a Pez dispenser. He was exceptionally popular with the other young wombats and a few koalas as well, for they all wanted his tasty sugary treats, stored abundantly in his body.

 

Emilio was aware that normal wombats did not have candy factories in their noses. The deformity was a result of a cruel experiment by Carnivorous Confections, Inc. When he was a young marsupial, he’d been captured by mercenaries and subjected to bizarre and seemingly pointless interrogations and sugar experimentation. Early in his imprisonment, Emilio recognized the deep-set yet subtle insanity of his primary captor, Dr. Winifred. Winifred, a small and peculiar-smelling man (at length Emilio decided the scent was similar to chevre), would stalk about the room where the cages were kept, rattling the cage bars and shrieking, “Admit to the divinity of aspartame! I know you are in contact with It, you foul, furry lump of flesh! Convey my messages at once! Why are my requests not granted? What is preventing their transmission to the Divine Web of Sweetness?” His frantic, menacing eyes would appear at Emilio’s cage as if estimating his animal capacity for deceit. “Yes, yes,” he would mutter. “Yes, I’m sure it’s you …”

 

At first, during the long, ever-light days of his captivity, Emilio feared Dr. Winifred and his unexpected rampages, yet they soon became a source of amusement for him. The other animals (3 rabbits, seven rats, a hamster, a carpet python, and a pair of surly kangaroos) were greatly relieved to see someone else taking the heat, and Emilio’s good-natured perseverance endeared him to the group. He’d made a list of Winifred’s accusations on his wall in secret wombat script, using a mixture of saliva and the ink he rubbed off of the newspapers he slept on.

 

“Filthy marsupial of pestilence!”

 

“Infidel, you deny me nirvana!”

 

“Despicable, treacherous wombat! Your insolence will not go unpunished!”

 

“You withhold the sacred pleasures of sugar substitutes, and you shall be made to reveal them!”

 

“I shall place a Pez dispenser in your nose, fiendish pile of fuzz!”

 

This last one was a great joke among the lab animals until Dr. Winifred made good on his promise. One day Marlene, Dr. Winifred’s assistant, entered the lab with a gurney and a tranquilizer gun. She began shuffling about the room, spraying disinfectant gleefully and chortling to herself. She stopped in front of Emilio’s cage and sputtered, “You know what that old lunatic is planning, don’t you, Wombat? He sent me down to Wal-Mart to pick up a pack of these—“she displayed the brightly colored Pez dispensers with Tweety Bird heads, “—and measure the dimension of your nose.” She bent her skinny, sloping shoulders down to his cage and hissed, “I hope you like the scent of Pez, Wombat,” and unlocked the cage, clutching the back of his neck and immobilizing him as she deftly measured his nose with one hand.

 

“Bite her!” squeaked the hamster, and Emilio heard the kangaroos grunt in agreement, but he could not reach Marlene’s hand. He felt the sting of the needle, and barely had time to give thanks for the use of tranquilizers before he sunk into a drugged haze.

 

He dreamed of narwhales swimming gracefully in a torrential sea.

 

When he woke, his nose had been replaced by the Tweety. He reached up and felt the hard plastic embedded in his nasal cavity, and heard the gasps of the other animals as he raised his head. The youngest rabbit snarled in a laughable manner.

 

Still, he shouldered the burden of deformity and instead resolved to focus on whatever new abilities he had. Whatever Winifred and Marlene had done, they’d inserted some sort of genetic code for candy-secreting enzymes into his genetic structure. He realized that if he twitched his tail to the left a few times, a Pez would appear in Tweety’s mouth. It took him a few times to get the hang of it, but soon he was spitting candy at every animal in the room. They murmured their appreciation, all except for the python, who suffered from cavities.

 

Winifred had been watching from behind the one-way glass and burst in triumphantly. “At last!” he screeched. “I have conquered the marsupial taint! Candy falls from its nose like heavenly fire scorching the mountains! SWEETNESS IS MINE!” He rushed out of the room, shouting, “Marlene, the press releases—get the AMA on the phone!”

 

Emilio found that he did enjoy the scent of Pez, although he had to conclude that the candy wasn’t the brand name but some cheap knock-off that Winifred had synthesized. Later that evening as they munched on the generic Pez, the lab animals discussed the day’s events.

 

“Don’t you think it’s a bit odd,” said one of the rats, “that his life’s work is creating a wombat that can produce candy at will? I mean really …”

 

Emilio sighed in agreement. “Yes, I agree. What satisfaction can he possibly get from having a plastic Loony Toon hanging out my nose? How does this benefit the world? What useful contribution to society is he making?”

 

“He’s crazy,” the hamster said flatly. “There is no great philanthropic motivation behind these nefarious deeds, Emilio. He’s a genius, sure, but he’s playing without a full deck. In fact I think he’s got a deck that consists solely of the jack of clubs.”

 

Suddenly the python reared its head and hissed. The male kangaroo rolled his eyes. “Oh Christ,” he grumbled. “Jeff’s ‘channeling’ again.”

 

Emilio watched the snake warily. “Eh?”

 

“Oh,” said one of the rabbits, “He’s convinced that his ancestral memories give him a direct conduit into Satan’s mind. He has these fits—” the bunny gestured to the convulsing snake “—and spouts a bunch of threatening BS about apocalypses and annihilating our souls, then comes to and says it was Satan.”

 

“FOOLISH WOMBAT!” shrieked the snake. “Are you so blind that you cannot see my diabolical plot?”

 

“Uh …” said Emilio uncertainly.

 

The snake turned its blazing eyes on the wombat. “It is I, SATAN, who possessed the mortal shell of Winifred, and I, SATAN, who masterminded this evil plan! I wish to bring chaos to the animal kingdom. SUGAR. I desire rotting teeth and injuries caused by sugar highs! Insulin spikes! Malnutrition! I desire addiction, raids of human stores and house, chaos and destruction. You are my pawn. You will distribute the tasty yet non-nutritive confection to each animal you meet upon your release.”

 

Emilio appraised the snake. The overwhelming scent of brimstone, the chorus of demonic voices speaking as one, the mysterious appearance of the cloud of flies—Jeff’s channeling seemed genuine. “If I agree, you’ll go away and leave me alone?”

 

“Yes, of course, until it’s time for me to collect your doomed soul.” Satan seemed sincere. “And as an added bonus for your continued cooperation, I’ll remove the Pez dispenser when I’ve created an army of wallabies with Pixie Stix pouches.”

 

“Ok.”

 

“Emilio!” cried the hamster. “You aren’t seriously going to do what the Prince of Lies wants?”

 

“Look,” said Emilio, “I want a normal nose again. If Satan just wants me to play Easter Bunny and traipse about the countryside distributing candy—“ here the rabbits scowled “—then I’m game. It’s a stupid plan anyway and will never work, so what’s the harm?”

 

“Yes,” smiled the python. “What’s the harm indeed? Good, clever wombat. I shall now summon my minions to free you.”

 

And that is how Emilio the Wombat became the slave of Satan. He was right, it was certainly a stupid plan and it didn’t work at all because most animals got sick of candy pretty quickly, and the carnivores generally refused to bother with eating it. However, Satan was willing to admit defeat so long as he got to dine on delicious soul of marsupial and drink up the screams of the damned.

 

THE END

 

Tags: mad scientists, marsupials by splarks
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(From the archives)

Once upon a time there was a marmot named Beatrice. Beatrice was a very special marmot because she had three eyes. You might think this was a handy trait to have, but it actually triplicated her vision and made everything so blurry she couldn’t hunt. She depended on her boyfriend Reginald for food, and Reginald was a lazy, good-for-nothing loser who usually just brought home roadkill and pretended he’d killed it himself. She was always a little suspicious about the stale and flattened quality of the meals, but she was usually too hungry to care. They lived in a hollowed out tree in the forest. They slept till late in the afternoon, since Reginald was in a marmot rock band and stayed out till all hours of the night. Beatrice didn’t really care for their sound–just a lot of hissing and screeching, accompanied by Bernard, the French import marmot (he thought he was so cool because of his radio collar), banging on a rabbit skull. However, she tried to be supportive in Reginald’s creative endeavors.

One day she was sitting in the tree feeling sorry for herself. She felt ugly and freakish because Reginald’s band members had been making fun of her third eye, and she was really hungry because last night’s dinner had been nothing but muddy, rotten frogs. She started to cry, when suddenly there was a poof of green light and a fairy appeared.

Beatrice had always distrusted fairies. She didn’t like the way they pranced around and sang those stupid songs about love and flowers, and their clothes were always ragged and rather suggestive, she thought. They *acted* like they were sweet and kind, but she’d heard vicious rumors (from other marmots she trusted) about them eating human babies and such. Not that she much cared for humans, but it was kind of revolting. But regardless, this fairy stood and hovered gleefully above her, sprinkling rose petals and glitter around in a very annoying manner. One petal actually got into Beatrice’s mouth and she choked, spending several minutes trying to cough it back up while the fairy waited patiently, as if she were used to this sort of thing.

“Oh Beatrice,” sighed the fairy in a wispy, sweet voice. “Don’t cry about your third eye, for in it lies more power than you could ever dream of.”

Beatrice said nothing and watched the fairy skeptically. The fairy looked as though she were waiting for Beatrice to do something more lively, and seemed disappointed in her cautious reaction. She flapped her silvery wings and flew over to Beatrice, touching her third eye.

In a flash, Beatrice could SEE. And it wasn’t just ordinary seeing, she could project some sort of silvery-green light through the third eye. She trained her light beam on the fairy and was about to utter words of gratitude, when suddenly she saw exactly how froofy the fairy was. Glitter and rose petals? Were those FLOWERS poking out of the tips of her antennae? Those little purple slippers with the curled-up toes were obnoxious, there was no way around that.

“Damn,” though Beatrice as she examined the fairy. “Get some real shoes already.” Suddenly the fairy plummeted to the ground, and Beatrice saw that the ghastly slippers had disappeared and now she was wearing steel-toed combat boots, whose weight her wings could not support. The fairy lay in a bloody heap on the ground.

Beatrice felt a moment of remorse, but it was soon overcome by an overwhelming sense of power. All she had to do was train her beam of light on something, and whatever she desired would happen!

A marmot had never felt so much power.

Beatrice smoothed her fur and left the dead tree for the last time. She marched down to Reginald’s band practice space. There they were, all five of them, making a racket and galloping about like they were God’s gift to marmots. To hell with that, she decided. She fixed her beam on Reginald’s face (quite ugly, now that she could really see it) and said, “This is for all the stinking, maggoty possums you brought me!” and suddenly Reginald was covered in insects squirming all over his body.

She turned to Bernard. “This is for making fun of people with deformities!” and suddenly Bernard had six arms, none of which worked.

Systematically, she exacted her revenge on each marmot, heedless of their shrieks of terror. When she was finished, she walked out of the forest, contemplating how she would take over the world with her new powers. She saw a car approaching on the nearby road. Boldly, she stepped into the road and stood on her hind legs with her mouth open, thinking, “Stop and give me your food!” To her delight, the humans rolled down their windows and squealed, “Oh how CUTE!” and dropped peanuts into her waiting mouth. She did this to several more cars until her belly was heavy with rich food.

This was unfortunate, because it deadened her senses and a drunk driver ran over her. Reginald later came along and dragged her body to the band members, where they ate her, consuming her flesh and eradicating the terrible spells she’d put on them. They used her bones for musical instruments, and lived out their pathetic, gory marmot lives in infamy.

Tags: rodents, super powers by splarks
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This blog is full of award-winning journalism covering such diverse topics as:

• Wombats and other marsupials
• Mad scientists
• Animal attacks
• The existential crises of jack rabbits
• Names no one should have
• 10 minute delirium

Why? Because it’s easy, because it amuses me, and because you like it. It especially amuses me to know that you like it, despite your high-falutin’ ways.

For your pleasure: a test picture.

 

Tags: misc by splarks
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