During Wednesday night service, Roger Baker, rather than giving a run-of-the-mill testimony, spoke with the force of all the doubters in history. Roger’s soaring oratory and rhetorical flourishes stunned and captivated everyone. Joanne Smith passed out. Reverend Ivanisky removed his collar and lamented loudly.

Just as Roger had convinced those attending the First Christian Church of Majorsville, Illinois that The Lord was a Freudian figment of their collective unconscious, The Lord appeared among them. He looked around and spoke.

“Don’t look at me like that. I brought some refried bean dip for the buffet after.”

Once upon a time there was a mechanic named George. George was a good mechanic. He had a hidden ability. He remembered the make, model, year, and VIN of every car he worked on. It was like they were all just filed away in his brain on little rolodex cards. He couldn’t forget them. They were always there. Year after year. Car after car.

One day George’s wife asked him, “You can remember all those VIN numbers, but you can’t remember my birthday or our anniversary. Why is that?”

George replied, “Those things just ain’t important.”

The end.

Elmer remembered his mother’s voice. He heard her saying, “Elmer, concentrate on one thing at a time.” He also recalled his father commenting that Elmer was so uncoordinated that he couldn’t walk and chew gum at the same time.

They were right. Elmer regretted not listening. His clumsiness finally got the better of him. He tripped in his kitchen while drinking a glass of water. He tried to move the glass from his mouth before it shattered on the tile floor. Too late. A singularly large piece was driven upwards and severed his jugular vein.

Joby reached for the Kleenex too late. He felt the sneeze coming on and thought it could be contained. But it could not. While his right hand desperately searched for a tissue box, his left hand shot up to his face.

Too late.

The sneeze was violent. Mucus flew from nose and mouth. The yellow-brown slime covered his hand, but also shot through his fingers onto his computer monitor. He found the tissue and wiped his hand and face. Then he looked at the monitor. The mucus on the screen spelled out “Be warned!”

Boris “The Fist” Timisov still marveled at America. It was 2:00 am and he was waiting in a line at a convenience store. Two in the fucking morning and there was a line at the Qwik-Mart. Amazing country.

The clerk hardly looked at him. “What for you?”

“Fifty pounds of ice.”

“Big party?”

“Yeah.”

“$10.95.”

Boris paid for his ice and went out to get the bags. He carried them to the trunk of his car. He looked around and opened the trunk and threw in the ice. Alexey’s lifeless body had hardly even cooled yet.

Sheriff Rogers scratched his balding head.

This was an odd case.

“And there is n sign of the driver?”

“As I said, officer, all I found was the truck, in our pasture, with our cows in the back. Who knows where the driver went.”

Sheriff Rogers thanked the farmwife for her time. No one had reported a stolen truck. And where had the rustlers gone? He scratched his balding head. He was definitely missing something.

He put the squad car and gear and rolled down the driveway.

The pigs lolled happily in the morning sun.

Alexander looked over the lush greenery of Babylon. His body was wracked in pain. His thoughts were muddled. He had seen men, countless men, in the same condition. He knew his time was coming. Did he have a few more days? Hours? Could he muster up the strength to choose? He knew his son would never rule. But who would he choose? Ptolemy? Perdiccas? Arridaeus? Melanger?

No matter whom he chose he knew that after him there would follow days of kings, empires and revolutions. And he’d learned that blood looks just the same when you open a vein.