The Electric Eccentric

“The Coffee Crusader”, a short story by Timothy Whyte

“Are you sure this is such a good idea?” I asked, anxiously. “I mean, on paper, it doesn’t make sense, and every way you’ve tried to explain it doesn’t make sense as well, so I’m a bit hesitant at this point. Hope you can see why.” He leaned over the operating table I was currently lying on and smiled a warm, almost-reassuring smile.

“Trust me, it just makes sense. Think about it: People drink coffee to re-energize themselves, right? It’s a pick-me-up, which is exactly what you need right now, Mr. Harveston. Problem is, the traditional method of drinking coffee will take too long to remedy you of your current critical condition, so I’ve had the ingenious idea to inject a few pints of coffee straight into your bloodstream.” Even as he explained it for the umpteenth time, I still felt uneasy about the notion of coffee flowing through my bloodstream. At the very least, I suppose it would help me reach the sweet release of death sooner, as I had grown tired of being barely alive. Hopefully, everyone stays away from my funeral. I could only pray that nothing about this fateful coffee-related incident would end up on my gravestone. Could you imagine? “Lance Harveston, died by having coffee injected straight to his veins. Didn’t anyone tell him that was an idiotic idea?”

But no, sadly, the only word I had to back myself up was my own, and my good friend, Dr. Stringsley, was all too confident in his plan.

“If you have anything more to say, speak now before I fire up the machine,” he said. I opened my mouth to speak, but was cut off by Dr. Stringsley speaking again. “All right, let’s do this!” With a swift flick of his dexterous forefinger, Dr. Stringsley flipped a small red switch, and the process began.

No one could ever properly explain to you how much it absolutely hurt to have coffee injected into your body. It’s bad enough when the coffee is too hot, and you burn your tongue, but this feeling… It felt as if my whole body was a tongue, and I’d burned every inch of it. The pain was so prominent that I passed out in about a minute.

When I awoke, I found that everything about my body had healed. The abrasions and cuts on my chest and shoulders had healed up quite nicely, and my skin even felt harder, like some sort of armor. I lifted myself from the table and looked around for Dr. Stringsley, who was nowhere to be found. Looking into a mirror, my  whole physical appearance had changed: I was more muscular, my veins bulging from my body, and even looked heavier. There was a strong smell of fine coffee in the room, which was to be expected, but after further investigation, I realized that the smell was coming from my skin.

The experiment was a success.

“That Time I Was a Pirate”, a short story by Timothy Whyte

To: Tatsu

Re: 69 FARTIN’ AND OTHER FINE SEA TALES

Aye, that post o’ yers… it be remindin’ me of a tale, lassie. If’n yer willin’ teh hear it, prop up a chair and open yer ears to… the tale… of HOW TIM GOT FARTED ON.

(Note: Tale may be completely fictional.)

Long ago, in a distant land, a celebration be goin’ on, known as a “crazy shitfest party” where there be no rules, and no sailor or lass were bound to any crazy law or restriction. I be there with me first mates, Sammy Six-Eyes (who actually just wore two pairs of glasses. He had two eyes like a normal seadog.), Lenny Leonardson, who was an anchor with a tattoo of a man on his bicep, and Susan, who was just an intern. She had freckles. Besides the point. Me and me loyal crew strolled up to this shindig and walked through the front doors to loud gibberjabber of music and whatnot. Susan didn’t have ‘er sealegs yet, because she took a bit of a gander at the sight and head fer the hills. Me other mates and I start chattin’ people up, takin’ a swig o’ booze, and showin’ off our swag an’ our booty and whatnot. And I meet this girl. Fine lass, mighty chest on that one, aye, ohohohoho! She’s sittin’ somewhere far, but I spy her out o’ me spyglass as I shout “LAND HO!”

It be a bit of a nautical pun, y’see. Anywho, I approach this fine lass an’ hit ‘er with me best line.

“Sweetie, if I had one goal fer tonight, it’d be to hook up with you,” I says. And she don’t seem impressed by me humor until I pull me hook hand from behind me back. Now, I had no knowledge o’ this, but she was lookin’ to score with a hook-handed scallywag that night, and I guess I’d just been a bit lucky, aye. We head up to a bedroom and she starts to take off me eyepatch. I didn’t think seein’ me bad eye would put her in a mood, if’n ya know what I be sayin’, lassies and lads, but it did the trick: She ripped me gab off, and I hers, and I catapult ‘er onto the bed in a minute. She says she wants teh try a little of this sixty-nine business. I hadn’t heard o’ it before: Been out at sea too long. Been a while since I seen a chest and some booty that wasn’t shimmerin’ and shinin’ and whatnot. I lay meself down on the mattress, and just as she positions her port starboard, she lets out a nasty North Wind all over me blackbeard.

Needless to say, that’s where the action ended that night. She, too embarrassed and left in a heartbeat, and me, too stunned to even fan the stench out me own beard.

I just went to McDonald’s to get my whiny nephew some foods. He wanted a 4-piece Chicken McNuggets meal, so I got him that. I get my bag, and drive off, then realize that the bag didn’t have any fries in it, which is totally included in the meal. So, we park, and I go inside, wait in line behind a ton of doo-doo-mamas-in-training, and then finally get to the front of the line.

“Hi, welcome to McDonald’s. My name is [NAME REMOVED TO CONCEAL IDENTITY]. How may I help you?”

I told him what had happened, and by the time I was finished, he looked down at his feet, and a single tear fell onto his shoes. Then, he wiped his face, and told me, “Sir, I… I just cannot stand this injustice! Wait one second.”

He told one of his other co-workers to man the register, then reached behind a McFlurry machine and grabbed a shotgun. Cocking it back very loudly, he shouted, “WHICH ONE OF YOU MOTHERFUCKERS SKIPPED OUT ON THIS NICE MAN’S FRIES!?”

The whole McDonald’s got quiet. He shot a shell into the air.

“I SAID… Which… one of you… forgot… the FUCKING… FRIES!?”

At that moment, all of the workers in the kitchen started throwing fries at him. He caught one of them, put it in a bag, then handed the bag to me.

“Sorry, sir, I went ahead and upgraded your small fries to a medium, for your troubles. Thank you.”

I hesitantly grabbed the bag, handed it to him, and then said, “You know… I didn’t get my drink either.”

The death count rose to four, from what I heard.

I love being in my room with the door closed at night. That way, I can hear the night train pull into my small town, every single night, at the same times, all of the time. And I imagine everyone on the train, whether there’s someone there or not, and I try to imagine why they’re on the train so late, or who’s waiting for them. I imagine what they’re doing to pass the time, or if they’re talking with someone, or laughing. I imagine what kind of day they’ve been having. I imagine what kind of day they’re going to imagine tomorrow.

I imagine all of this from my bedroom window, in the dead of night.

“What would you like on your sandwich, sir?” She said again, for the fourth time. Or, rather, the fifth. I wasn’t sure. Didn’t keep count. My mind was elsewhere. “Sir, if you’re not going to order, please step out of line.” This I didn’t pay attention to as well. I was much too busy noticing the sexy way her lazy eye accentuated the asymmetry of her bottom lip. Then, I awoke from my daze with a snap.

“Sir! Please, step out of line if you’re not going to order anything!” She was becoming irate. Recovering from my hypnosis, I glance behind me to see a line at least seven miles long, with angry, starving and dying customers. Quickly taking my phone out of my pocket, I see that I’ve been standing in line for a little over a week at this Subway, and for some reason, no one has gone anywhere else to eat, and the same woman is working behind the cash register.

But, I guess that’s how things were in that small town. Only one Subway, with one staff member, and their sandwiches were that good.

Yeah.

That good.

thisisthechoiceofsteinsgate:

Oh it’s just the Weeaboo Horror story thread again. This is why we can’t have nice things.

My favorite kind of thread: When they just go deeper and deeper into sublevels.

(Source: thetimeleapingrabbit, via 4chanscreencaps)

“Psycho Social Networking” (A short story by Timothy Whyte)

sirbombalot:

I’d finally gotten to sleep, with my blanket snuggled perfectly under my cold feet. The moon was full and shone through my curtains, constantly waking me up, along with the roar of the thunder outside. It was a stormy night, and sleeping almost seemed like it would not be an option. Then, another crack of thunder woke me up. I rubbed my eyes, then glanced at my alarm clock: 4:30 AM. Reluctantly, I decided that it wasn’t worth going back to sleep, and that I would be able to get a jump on the new day. The rain always helped me to think, and I had a project I had to finish before work in the morning that could cost me my job.

My computer booted up, and I opened the article file. It was almost finished: A story on the recent social network murders. I just needed to wrap it up with a cliffhanger, which had almost become my trademark in the news business. There had been a string of murders connecting to employees of Facebook, Twitter, and even Reddit, that has puzzled local authorities until recently. A clue, discovered by a user, almost shed light on the case, until his body was found a few days ago, throwing the fish back into the water, and my article back into the editing process. But, after a complete renovation, I’d have the article on my boss’s desk by 9:00 AM.

Suddenly, another crack of lightning, and what sounded like a telephone pole falling. I quickly shut my laptop, threw on a rain jacket and crept downstairs. The rain was falling down even harder now. Worried, I grabbed my old wooden baseball bat from the closet, and gripped it, prepared for whatever was out there. Trying to convince myself that it was only lightning, I opened the front door. The streets were empty. A telephone pole had fallen in the road, but no one appeared to be hurt. With a sigh of relief, I returned to my front door, which had been left open.

“Strange. I could have sworn I closed this door,” I said to myself. Entering my home, I noticed that all of the lights were off, save a dim light shining from the kitchen. I pulled the bat up in a striking position as I edged closer to the kitchen. “Is anyone in there?” I called out.

No answer.

I edged closer.

“Hello?”

Still no answer. Hiding behind the wall separating the kitchen from the living room, I took a deep breath and began counting… One… Two… Three.

I sprang from behind the wall to find no one in the kitchen. The dim light had been coming from the light in the oven. Relieved, I lowered my bat and walked over to the oven and turned off the light. The stove light must have been left on after…

The stove hadn’t been used in days. As I realized this, a small creek came from the floorboards in the living room. I peered out from behind the kitchen wall, and then walked back to the oven, where I slowly opened the oven door. Inside, to my dismay, was what appeared to be a large, charred head. I gasped in terror, my mouth agape, but made no noise, as to avoid alerting whoever could possibly be in the living room. Closing the oven door, I looked back in the direction of the living room to find my assailant, looking at a smartphone, then back at me. Shaking his head, he said, “I thought I had one less friend. Why did you delete me? We were supposed to be friends forever. Forever means a long time to me, you know.”

Tom, the creator of MySpace, stepped closer to me, with a large butcher knife in his hand, caked in dry blood of his other unfriended victims. I didn’t know what to do. I backed away from him, slowly, as he continued to creep slowly towards me, twirling the blade in his fingers.

“You know I can’t let you live now, right? Now that you’ve destroyed my trust?” He showed an eerie smile and lunged at me, thrusting the knife forward. With a swift dodge, I countered with a chop to his neck, which only angered him. “You shouldn’t have done that, friend,” he screamed as he slashed at me, cutting my chest. I clutched the wound, then kicked Tom in the chest, sending him towards the stove. Before he could get up, I ran to him, held his face down on one of the burners and turned the stove on. He screamed as his face met the flames, fighting to get me off of him. His knife was just out of range of my leg as he repeatedly tried to stab me. He stopped moving eventually, and fell to the floor.

With a sigh, I walked to the sink and took my shirt off to inspect my wound. It wasn’t a deep cut, but stung terribly. As I cleaned the wound, I heard a small tap of a foot. Tom had risen from the floor. 

“Oh, friend. That wasn’t very nice. And I just wanted to chat. Can’t we just… chat?” He said, maniacally, knife still in hand. His face was burned completely, with some of his raw flesh and bone showing: A gruesome sight. At this point, I’d actually started to believe that Tom was some sort of immortal. There was nothing close by for me to grab to defend myself, and I soon found myself in a corner. “Please, please don’t hurt me,” I pleaded.

“Hurt you? I told you, friend…” He started, “… I just… want… to chat with you…”

At that moment, a gunshot was heard. Tom turned around and saw my next-door neighbor, Bill, with his prized shotgun in hand, and several bullet holes in his chest. Tom dropped to the ground and formed a pool of blood on the kitchen floor.

“Sorry, Tom. User is not online to chat.” He said, and put the shotgun at his side.

Today, this girl dropped a few of her pens on the ground during class, and I started to help her pick them up, and then my hand accidentally touched her hand, and she looked up at me, and I looked into her eyes, and they started to shine, and she said “thank you” and I said “no problem” and she kept looking into my eyes and I kept looking at hers and time passed us by and suddenly the room melted away and the whole world disintegrated except for her desk and mine and we drifted into space forever looking into each others’ eyes and then we suddenly went into hyper speed and raced past Mars and some other planets all while continuing to look into each others’ eyes and then a meteor came and hit her and the last thing she said to me was “your shoe is untied” and there was nothing left and I wandered the universe alone until I found free Wi-Fi to post this story.

I sort of tricked my dad into buying me this hat today. We were at Target, and he asked me if I needed anything. I told him socks and a belt, so I walked to the men’s clothing section and saw this little number, so I put it on.

Then, we’re at the register, and the hat’s still on my head. So I start to take it back, and…

Long story short, I killed the sales clerk.

Captain’s Log: Stardate 6.022.16

At this point, I’ve survived merely on Nerds candy and my own urine, which does not taste as horrible as everyone claims. Maybe it’s just because I’ve been drinking it for the past few months and have forgotten what root beer tastes like. All the same, it is still very frightening being here. My partner has gone in search of food, but has not been back in days. I fear that whatever is out there that continues to hunt us relentlessly has finally gotten him, and that my mind blocked out the sounds of his screams and shrieks. To be honest, I’ve always felt that he dragged me down. Now, I may return to Earth to tell everyone of the heroic tale about how I risked my life for that man, but failed valiantly in the end anyway. His memory will live on in my riches.

As for riches, we (or, rather, me, for I cannot speak for him) have not found much. There seem to be some shiny metals here, but their worth is unknown, as is their chemical properties. My scanner has never before picked up the likes of it. Perhaps that alone makes it treasure? At the very least, it will surely help to advance the human race in the name of science, and…

Wait.

Sorry, I thought I heard something. Perhaps my partner. Perhaps that… beast… If I do not make it out of here alive, I’m sure my fiancée will find no trouble in finding another man. She always seemed to be more interested in everything else anyway. I mean, I’m a space explorer. We should ALWAYS have dinner conversation. But she was quite distant. I don’t find myself missing her much at all.

I just miss my cat. I hope someone is feeding her.

Police Officer 1: Sir, you cannot just jump into the bay.

Man: Why not?

Police Officer 2: The bay is for boats only, sir. That’s very dangerous.

Man: And what if I am a boat?

Police Officer 2: You are clearly not a boat.

Man: I’ve always wanted to be a boat. You can’t try to crush my dreams.

Police Officer 1: We’re not trying to crush your dreams, sir. We’re just looking out for the general public and enforcing laws.

Man: Are you? Because it seems like you’re just trying to ruin my fun.

Police Officer 1: Sir, please, we need you to cooperate.

Man: Let me ask you something.

Police Officer 2: What is it?

Man: When you were a child, did you always want to be a police officer?

Police Officer 1: I don’t think that’s relevant, sir, and…

Man: (to Police Officer 1, snapping) Hush. Let her answer. (to Police Officer 2) Did you always want to be a police officer?

(Police Officer 2 hesitates for a moment)

Man: Answer the question. It’s not a difficult question. I wanted to be a boat. I still want to be a boat. What did you want to be?

(Police Officer 2 is silent, then chokes back tears)

Police Officer 2: N-no. I… didn’t.

Police Officer 1: … Miranda? Are you all ri-…

Police Officer 2: No, I didn’t! I didn’t want to be a police officer, and every time I put on this uniform, I can’t even look at myself! I’ve been living a lie, and I’m disgusted with myself!

Man: That’s right! And what did you want to be?

Police Officer 2: Dammit, I wanted to be a boat too! And nothing’s gonna stop me from living my dream! Not this uniform, and not anything!

(Police Officer 2 strips off her uniform and throws it to the ground. Police Officer 1 bears a shocked look on her face as both Police Officer 2 and Man grab each others’ hands. Police Officer 2 and Man jump into the bay.)

Black Man: The hell did I just watch?

SCENE

One year, for my birthday, my family put candles on a urinal cake and told me it was a special kind of cake, so I blew out the candles and took a bite and my mouth turned blue and it tasted awful and I didn’t speak to my family for a whole year until my next birthday because they bought me a dirtbike.

Just feed the rat people food. Best solution.

I’ve already given her people food. She goes absolutely crazy for Captain Crunch and tortilla chips. In fact, the first time I gave her Captain Crunch, she took a nibble, and then looked back at me as her pupils dilated. She started twitching and scratching her neck, then proceeded to bite through her metal cage and scratch the flesh off of my face, then rocket out of the room towards the kitchen. My mom was in there, putting the cereal back in the cabinet. Daisy, my rat, pulled out a gun, cocked it back and said to my dear mother, “Listen, bitch, if you know what’s good for you, you’re gonna set that box down and get the fuck out of my kitchen, you understand?” My mom threw the box on the ground and ran outside, and Daisy tore the box apart and began to devour the entire bag of cereal.

So I don’t feed her people food anymore.

“Psycho Social Networking” (A short story by Timothy Whyte)

I’d finally gotten to sleep, with my blanket snuggled perfectly under my cold feet. The moon was full and shone through my curtains, constantly waking me up, along with the roar of the thunder outside. It was a stormy night, and sleeping almost seemed like it would not be an option. Then, another crack of thunder woke me up. I rubbed my eyes, then glanced at my alarm clock: 4:30 AM. Reluctantly, I decided that it wasn’t worth going back to sleep, and that I would be able to get a jump on the new day. The rain always helped me to think, and I had a project I had to finish before work in the morning that could cost me my job.

My computer booted up, and I opened the article file. It was almost finished: A story on the recent social network murders. I just needed to wrap it up with a cliffhanger, which had almost become my trademark in the news business. There had been a string of murders connecting to employees of Facebook, Twitter, and even Reddit, that has puzzled local authorities until recently. A clue, discovered by a user, almost shed light on the case, until his body was found a few days ago, throwing the fish back into the water, and my article back into the editing process. But, after a complete renovation, I’d have the article on my boss’s desk by 9:00 AM.

Suddenly, another crack of lightning, and what sounded like a telephone pole falling. I quickly shut my laptop, threw on a rain jacket and crept downstairs. The rain was falling down even harder now. Worried, I grabbed my old wooden baseball bat from the closet, and gripped it, prepared for whatever was out there. Trying to convince myself that it was only lightning, I opened the front door. The streets were empty. A telephone pole had fallen in the road, but no one appeared to be hurt. With a sigh of relief, I returned to my front door, which had been left open.

“Strange. I could have sworn I closed this door,” I said to myself. Entering my home, I noticed that all of the lights were off, save a dim light shining from the kitchen. I pulled the bat up in a striking position as I edged closer to the kitchen. “Is anyone in there?” I called out.

No answer.

I edged closer.

“Hello?”

Still no answer. Hiding behind the wall separating the kitchen from the living room, I took a deep breath and began counting… One… Two… Three.

I sprang from behind the wall to find no one in the kitchen. The dim light had been coming from the light in the oven. Relieved, I lowered my bat and walked over to the oven and turned off the light. The stove light must have been left on after…

The stove hadn’t been used in days. As I realized this, a small creek came from the floorboards in the living room. I peered out from behind the kitchen wall, and then walked back to the oven, where I slowly opened the oven door. Inside, to my dismay, was what appeared to be a large, charred head. I gasped in terror, my mouth agape, but made no noise, as to avoid alerting whoever could possibly be in the living room. Closing the oven door, I looked back in the direction of the living room to find my assailant, looking at a smartphone, then back at me. Shaking his head, he said, “I thought I had one less friend. Why did you delete me? We were supposed to be friends forever. Forever means a long time to me, you know.”

Tom, the creator of MySpace, stepped closer to me, with a large butcher knife in his hand, caked in dry blood of his other unfriended victims. I didn’t know what to do. I backed away from him, slowly, as he continued to creep slowly towards me, twirling the blade in his fingers.

“You know I can’t let you live now, right? Now that you’ve destroyed my trust?” He showed an eerie smile and lunged at me, thrusting the knife forward. With a swift dodge, I countered with a chop to his neck, which only angered him. “You shouldn’t have done that, friend,” he screamed as he slashed at me, cutting my chest. I clutched the wound, then kicked Tom in the chest, sending him towards the stove. Before he could get up, I ran to him, held his face down on one of the burners and turned the stove on. He screamed as his face met the flames, fighting to get me off of him. His knife was just out of range of my leg as he repeatedly tried to stab me. He stopped moving eventually, and fell to the floor.

With a sigh, I walked to the sink and took my shirt off to inspect my wound. It wasn’t a deep cut, but stung terribly. As I cleaned the wound, I heard a small tap of a foot. Tom had risen from the floor. 

“Oh, friend. That wasn’t very nice. And I just wanted to chat. Can’t we just… chat?” He said, maniacally, knife still in hand. His face was burned completely, with some of his raw flesh and bone showing: A gruesome sight. At this point, I’d actually started to believe that Tom was some sort of immortal. There was nothing close by for me to grab to defend myself, and I soon found myself in a corner. “Please, please don’t hurt me,” I pleaded.

“Hurt you? I told you, friend…” He started, “… I just… want… to chat with you…”

At that moment, a gunshot was heard. Tom turned around and saw my next-door neighbor, Bill, with his prized shotgun in hand, and several bullet holes in his chest. Tom dropped to the ground and formed a pool of blood on the kitchen floor.

“Sorry, Tom. User is not online to chat.” He said, and put the shotgun at his side.