Hello peeps. This one was… well, it was fucking weird. See what you think.
“ISIS… Isis… whatever”
by Edward Lorn
“What’s happened to all the orange chicken!” the fat dude in the halter top and ninja mask roars. Spittle spatters her face. “We know you had something to do with the Panda Express shortage, so cough up the information!”
“I… I don’t know,” she stammers, weak with pain and drained by confusion. How she even ended up here is a blur. Where here is isn’t even clear: cinder block walls, Bruce Jenner before/Caitlyn Jenner after posters, sais and katanas and bo staffs anchored to the concrete.
Voice deeply male, yet light and feminine pop up all around her; some distant, some close.
“Get Laura out here.”
“Right.” Pause. “Laura!”
“Call Mickey and tell him to hurry back with the pizzas. She’s not talking.”
“Who… who are you people?” she manages.
“TMNT,” says the one she’s identified as Bonnie.
“The ninja turtles?”
“Hell, no.” Someone clears their throat. “Transgender Monotheistic Ninja Team.”
“Shut it. We know you work for ISIS.”
“Why… why would you think that?”
“It says right here…” Silence. Then. “Oh.”
“Oh, what?” she asks.
The fat man in the halter whispers to another fat man in a sundress and heels. The second man is also wearing a ninja mask, but this one is pink to match his dress.
“She works in prosthetics and not polythestics?”
“Yeah. I read it wrong. My bad.”
“I would say this is your bad.”
“What the fuck are you two talking about?” she demands.
“Um…” Halter Top smiles the worst fake smile she’s ever seen. “We kinda fucked up.”
“How so?” She tugs at her bindings, but the duct tape doesn’t move.
“See, we kinda thought that you were behind the orange chicken shortage at Panda Express. We saw an article—Mickey, get me the article.”
A tubby man in neon yellow spanx, a lime green tube top, and Ugg boots brings Halter Top a newspaper. Front cover is of a fire-gutted Panda Express. Spray painted on what’s left of the building is
ORANGE CHICKEN DROOLS
Before Halter Top can flip to the article, she realizes she knows this paper. She was in this issue. The Texan Rectum did a piece on her research and advancement in the field of prehensile prosthetic limbs. She was up for a Golden Anus Award from The Texan Rectum for Biggest Innovation in Plastic Peters.
“But how does ISIS play into you kidnapping me? ISIS are Muslim extremists. They’re monotheistic, just like you.”
Halter Top and Sundress look unbearably confused.
Halter Top finally say, “But Isis is an Egyptian god and Egyptians are polytheistic. They believe in Isis and Osiris and that jackal-headed fuckstick…”
“You fucking morons!” she screams and struggles with her bindings. “ISIS stands for Islamic State of Iraq and Syria!”
“I think I might have heard something about that, Bonnie.”
“Fuck,” says Halter. “So you ain’t got shit to do with the missing orange chicken?”
“All right, all right. Calm down. Shit. Cut her loose, Waif.”
Waif bent over her to undo the tape and she got a good long look down the top of Waif’s sundress.
“Nice tits,” she said, even if she said it a bit begrudgingly. “They yours?”
“Sure are. I bought ‘em.” Waif said with a laugh. “For real though, my doctor is good.” Waif squeezes her tits together and says, “You like ‘em?”
“Yeah I been thinking about getting mine done but—”
Bonnie rushes out of sight just as Waif finishes undoing her.
“That’s Mickey,” Waif says, “he must be back with the pizzas.”
There’s an explosion and Bonnie, out of sight, screams. His death throes echo throughout the room.
“What was that?” Waif looks terrified.
Another explosion and half of Waif’s face disappears into red mist. His body flops back and away from her, but not before painting her front with brains and blood.
Wet footsteps sound behind her. She twists out of the chair and backs away from the approaching footfalls.
“When these damn queers gonna learn that they ain’t welcome in Texas,” says a cowboy with a lazy eye as he steps into the light of the room. He’s holding a smoking shotgun and wearing coveralls with the knees worn through. His straw hat is shoved way down on his head, making his ears stick out comically. A broken toothpick is clamped in his teeth, as if someone has check-marked his face.
“Who the fuck are you?” She backs into the corner. No where left to go.
“Just some farmer who don’t like sissy boys living in his state. These boys thought they could fool ol’ Rock Steadman with a little surgery, but theys was wrong. I seent through past their fake titties and hair extensions.”
“I that was their real ha—”
“Shut the fuck up! You prolly a dude, too, ain’tcha.”
“No. I’m a woman. I swear!”
“Well I don’t—”
A loud GONG! and the farmer’s lazy eye corrected itself even as his good eye went lazy before both rolled back into his head and he crumpled to the floor.
A pretty young lady with and adam’s apple and tits to her chin wiped a tear away from her eyes with a Panda Express napkin.
The woman she assumed was Mickey didn’t answer, only dropped down and grabbed the psycho farmer’s shotgun. She came back up, racking the slide and chambering a round.
“You must Mickey.”
Mickey point the shotgun at her and sniffled.
“You’re gonna pay for the orange chicken shortage.”
“NO! It was all a mis—”
Nrlymrtl says: A scientist works hard at creating prosthetic limbs. Her studies are focused on prehensility in the animal kingdom (gecko tails, octopus arms, tapir penises, etc.) in order to make useful, if odd looking, limbs for humans. Some experiments, starting with dogs and cats that have suffered limb loss, have led to unexpected results.
Bill says: Severely overweight transgender ninjas on a mission to save the world from a horrible orange chicken shortage brought about by the ISIS attacks on Panda restaurants across the country. (Everybody knows ISIS hates orange chicken almost as much as they hate everything else and what better way to destroy America that fuck with its fast food chains.)
H. Casper says: A man is abducted and tortured for information that he actually knows nothing about but the thugs are taking none of that.
Reanna says: Ok so I saw a legit job listing on Craigslist the other day, some guy who lives on a farm around here (Oklahoma most likely somewhere remote) looking for a cute ranch hand to do every thing on the farm including some cooking and cleaning and his books too for a cool $350 a week. So let’s incorporate some sleazy, psycho farmer in this flash fiction.
See you tomorrow,
Pic of the Day
If I’m honest, I don’t much care for today’s story, but it’s my third try and I had to post something. I hope you guys at least get a chuckle out of how bad it was. Like I’ve said before, they can’t all be winners. *high fives*