Hello peeps. Welcome back to Flash Fiction Friday, the day I take your outlandish suggestions and write a coherent (or at least a semi-cogent) story out of them. Today… well, I took some liberties. You’ll something from every suggestion, but I had to take literary license with one or two details. I hope you don’t mind. Without further ado…
Snowy Whiting and the Seven Little People
by Edward Lorn
Seven little people approached the hole in the snow with caution.
“What the fucking fuck is that shit?” said Cussy.
“Dear God,” said Preachy.
“What is hole?” asked Dumby.
“Makes my dick hard, just lookin’ at it,” said Cock.
“How am I so damn hot? It’s winter!” said Sweaty.
“Make a human ladder and we’ll check it out. Here, I’ll stay up here and hold everyone up,” said Mighty.
“Oo, ah, ah,” said Monkey.
“Leave the fucking simian the fuck behind. He don’t even speak English, the cocksucker!”
“AH, AH, AH!” screeched… well, you know who.
The seven little people formed a human ladder minus Monkey. Mighty dangled them over the edge.
A great voice boomed, “WHO INVADES OUR HOLE?”
“Cock’s coming in your hole, playah! Open wide.”
“Well, that’s just rude,” the big voice murmured. “I shall banish you to the world of men 2016, where you will be more welcome!”
“The fuck you fucking mean? We’re going to the fucking future, fuckhead?”
“What’s future is?”
“I can’t hold on any longer! My hands are too wet.”
“I’ve got you!” Mighty roared.
“Ah, AH, AH!!!”
But Mighty didn’t have them. Twas not Mighty’s fault they vanished, for his grip did not falter; the five little people in the hole simply disappeared.
Snowy Whiting was so very nervous. Imagine, a woman talking about baculum, the bones that aid some animals during copulation. How silly. Still, she would not let systemic sexism silence her voice. She stood behind a podium, staring out over a sea of male faces: some confused, others angry, but overall the crowd seemed disinterested.
“What does the term “boner” mean?” she asked the all-male crowd.
Murmuring, but no overt answers.
“The term is used by immature males to describe the stiffness of their penises during an erection. As you know, the baculum a bone located above the urethra that aides stability during intercourse in species such as bears and canines. With extensive research, I have devised a theorem that could change erectile dysfunction forever. And that theorem is—”
“The fuck is this shit?”
“My Lord, where are we?”
“Why’s it so hot? My nuts are swimming in my pants over hyah.”
Snowy saw the seven little men standing on the stage and wondered how they’d gotten there. They were not there a moment before, but now, here they were.
And, just like that, they were changing.
When she first laid eyes on them seconds before, they had been pale behind their shaggy beards. Now they were reddening, as if each one was suffering a sunburn in real time.
“My fucking skin fucking burns!” The fattest one squealed as he spun in circles cursing and steaming.
“Oh my Jesus!” said the one in the collar. “Surely this is hell!”
“Are I’m is cold?”
“MY DICK’S BURNING!”
“I can’t scratch because my fingers just skate over my slippery skin!”
“I can help!” came a voice from the crowd. “Here, follow me!”
Snowy looked out into the crowd to find a tall handsome man rushing up the aisle and out of the auditorium. She thought she knew him. Chris Huntsman, the Johnson & Johnson rep. Surely the massive pharmaceutical company wasn’t interested in her baculum research? Over-the-counter erectile dysfunction? Madness!
The seven ever-reddening little people hopped off the stage and scurried for the door out of which Huntsman had rushed.
Where could they be going? Snowy wondered.
“We’ll have to continue at a later date,” Snowy said into the microphone before jumping off the stage and dashing to catch up with the seven little people and Chris Huntsmen.
On the way to the Benadryl factory, Snowy realized she’d left her collection of baubellum back on the podium. Oh, well. Not like anyone would steal them.
She rolled through the gates of the factory to find the guard posts destroyed and smoking. The guard’s bodies had been lain out in the middle of the road. Among the chewed remains of the guards was Chris Huntsmen, barely clinging to life.
Snowy got out and rushed to the handsome man. She dropped at his side and nestled his hair to her breasts.
Coughing blood, he said, “I should’ve known. How stupid am I?”
“Shush,” she cooed. “It’ll all be over soon.”
He choked. “How can I shush? I’m the exposition in this story.”
“Oh, right, sorry. Carry on.”
“The snow gods possessed the seven little people when they fell into the hole. Now they are…” his voice became grave—Jeffrey Jones in Howard the Duck. “—something else!”
“What do you mean?”
“The seven have become three!” And with that final howling statement, Chris Huntsmen died.
Above the dead man and the baculum specialist, the sky swirled with foreboding storm clouds. Snowy knew, as only someone versed in animals penises could know, that mankind was fucked.
She followed a trail of carnage and gore all the way to the Benadryl tanks, the only obvious place the seven little people could have been headed. As she pushed through the doors and into the tank room, three massive creature like chubby and crimson Geico geckos burst from the pools of antihistamine.
“Fucking Christ!” roared the biggest of the geckos.
“Snow God has angry penis!” growled the middle god.
The third winter lizard deity said, “I’m just really uncomfortable. I kinda thought becoming a snow god and swimming in Benadryl would make me perspire less…”
“You can’t do this!” Snowy cried.
“What for not our penis do?” asked the middle god.
“Well…” Snowy realized that she had no idea what these monsters wanted. “What is it you want?”
“Me ding dong make forever hard!” crowed the middle god.
And Snowy knew what she must do.
Upon returning to the auditorium, Snowy realized that her baubellum collection had been stolen in her absence.
“No,” she sobbed. “We’re all doomed.”
NRLYMRTL says: The Baculum Collection & Research Conference is scheduled for next week and she has been invited to speak on baubellum in an effort to bring this rather male-oriented niche science into the 21st century. However, her small collection of baubellum had mysteriously gone missing.
H. says: Holes keep opening up in the snow and people apparently disappear only to resurface later as pawns of the snow gods.
Bill says: A trio of wandering midgets (sorry, small people) all have rare and extreme psoriasis conditions which cause their skin to become super red and scaly making them look like fat, sunburned Geico geckos, devise a plan to break into the local Benadryl factory to swim in the vats of healing medicine.
You folks are weird. I like it!
See you tomorrow,
Pic of the Day
Various baubellum… look at those pitchfork dicks, tho…