DamonWakes

“Help!” shouted the old lady in the burning building. “Help!” “Oh no!” said a random bystander, clapping his hands to his face Macaulay Caulkin-style. “Is there nobody who can help?” “This looks like a job for Captain Birthday!” announced a spandex-clad hero, appearing out of nowhere to strike a dramatic pose beneath the window. “Stand back, citizens!” Then he whipped out a gun and shot himself in the face. “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!” yelled the guy who had drawn attention to the situation, who couldn’t help but feel at least partially responsible for what had just happened. “Why???” yelled a hot dog vendor across the street. “Why would he do that???” “I don’t know!!!” “Whoah, whoah, whoah,” said Captain Birthday, running over to his own grisly corpse. “It’s okay! It’s fine! This is just my process. I probably should have explained earlier, but time is of the essence and I really have to… You know…” He picked the gun up from the floor and shot himself in the face again.

Once uptown a thyme there livered a little grill named Goldilocks, who was known motocross the lamp forher flowering olden hare. Often she wood wend the bay wondering threw the armrest toe and Frome the louse of her Grond motherlode, and it was on joust suck an occlusion that she net the big bag woof. “Nice to meat you,” said the big bag woof, in a friendless manor. “My,” said Goldilocks, “Watt large hears you haven’t.” “Awl the batter to ear you without,” said the big bag woof, who had leant the English language at Universal Collegiate Uxbridge, where he had bean a model stew dent. Butt Goldilocks was a cleaver little grill and had encoded something line thus in another storey and was begetting to circumspect that she wood end up been Eton by the woof. “I’m abrade you’ve got to exude me,” she said, “as I most delimit this ambiguous persimmon to my Grond motherlode.” And so with no farther wards she got wright owt of there. Butt then there was a guy ant so thatch wasn’t mulch of an

“We were only supposed to go back five minutes for another shot at getting Taylor Swift tickets. How did we end up in 44 BC?” “It’s either down to gravitational waves from supermassive black holes colliding on the other side of the universe,” said Bethany, “or you got sambuca in the controls again.” “Hey!” snapped Carla, slopping wine on her top. “I’ve been super careful!” “Friends, Romans, countrymen!” Caesar squinted for a moment. “Strange women I’m not sure I invited! Before we get down to banqueting, I just want to make sure that we’ve got enough knives.” He took a moment to check with the toga-clad men sitting either side of him. “Cassius? Good? And you, Brutus? You know what?” He turned to wave at a slave near the door to the kitchens. “Can we get a few more knives, just to be safe? Mid-March is a terrible time of year to run out of knives.” Carla turned to Bethany. “We need to get out of here, like, yesterday. Haven’t you got that thing working yet?” “Fixing this problem

“Remind me again why they didn’t just drop this thing out of orbit?” “It’s a lot easier to scrub a computer virus out of an existing refinery platform than it is to launch the million tons of metal it would take to build a new one.” Hash cast a glance around the bodies strewn around the docking bay. “I’m worried that’s not all we’ll be scrubbing.” “Be glad this place depressurised.” Shim tapped his helmet. “No decomposition in a vacuum.” Hash took a closer look at the nearest corpse, sprawled by the airlock. There was a scar at the base of the skull, and the telltale outline of a battery harness beneath the neoprene jumpsuit. “That just trades one problem for another. There’s a lot of silicon in these stiffs…” “A brain-computer interface won’t do much once the brain’s dead. And for the ones with more extensive cybernetics…” Shim grabbed a box from the shuttle and shoved it into Hash’s hands. “The body bags are foil-lined. We won’t have a repeat of the 624 Hektor incident.” Hash

“Why is he looking at me like that?” “He's probably pissed we had to walk all the way across the woods for the sacrifice.” “How was I supposed to know there was a booking system for the woods?” Asked Barney. “Did you expect Friday to be a busy night for human sacrifices?” Lisa rolled her eyes. “It makes sense if you think about it.” “Lisa!” “All right, all right.” “I don't like the way he looks at me.” “We're about to gut him and leave him bleed to death on a dirty rock. I'd be mildly annoyed too.” “But he's not.” Lisa glanced back at their prisoner, who was following them as if he'd been a lost tourist who'd just joined a random queue. Behind him, Janet's face had turned a sick tinge of blue. “Janet, remember to breathe,” Lisa reminded her. “Right,” said Janet, inhaling noisily and coughing. Barney raised an eyebrow. “What's wrong with her?” “We went to a party yesterday. She licked a frog.” “And?” “And now her basic metabolic functions are conscious activities. You

“Gimme your wallet!” shouted the mugger. “Uhhhhhhh…” His victim pointed down the alley behind him. The mugger suddenly became aware of the sound of feet—lots and lots of feet—approaching at speed. He turned. “What the…” There was a meaty “thwack” as he was delivered a mighty uppercut. “That’s right!” cried the newcomer, cracking his knuckles. “The city has a new hero—with the proportional strength of a centipede!” “Uhhhhhhh…” said the muggee, again. Suddenly a police car shot down the street at the end of the alleyway, siren blaring. “Egad!” cried the hero. “My powers are needed elsewhere! Good day, citizen!” Racing away at tremendous speed, he easily passed the police car, whose driver drifted off the road and into a mailbox in surprise. The hero followed the sounds of commotion to a bank, its front doors smashed and the alarm ringing loudly. “What-ho!” he said, rising up on his hindmost thirty or so legs. “A bank robbery? How terribly rude! My mighty forcipules shall put

The god-king drops from the palace wall. Battle-drums hammer as the gates come down. Bum-ba-da-da-da-dum. Bum-ba-da-da-da-dum. Lands hard. Stone tiles sting feet. Already grunts and hoofbeats—the invaders close behind. Faced with such foes, even a god must run, but the nobles in the garden still seem shocked. Faces watch blankly. They do not bow. Too much to expect them to stand before soldiers. One wearing a crown: he had ensured there would be none in line to claim one. No screams as he leaves the nobles behind. The invaders do not want them. Not the palace or its wealth. They follow his footsteps by scent, drumming as they go. Bum-ba-da-da-da-dum. Bum-ba-da-da-da-dum. Temple grounds now. Feet slapping on marble. The smell of sage and thyme. The herb garden is already overgrown. One anointed with oil: he had ensured there would be no priests to perform this rite. Hands crushing leaves. Fingers straining. His own powers should be enough to keep the land at bay. And yet… The drums

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!” yelled Stewie the intern as he shot out of the building. He was really doing rather well, all things considered. “Hi,” said Abe, sparing just a moment to look up from his whittling. “Oh my gosh, you’re not done yet?” Stewie stared in horror at the rough scrap of wood. “He was right behind me!” “Bleargh—ow!” There was a dull thud from somewhere deep within the building. “Nonsense,” said Abe, leisurely shaving off another strip of material. “We’ve got time.” A few minutes passed in silence: Abe continuing to whittle, Stewie continuing to dance around nervously like he really needed the toilet. “Is this really how it’s supposed to go?” he asked at last. “I mean, obviously I’m here to learn but it feels like this is something you could have had ready in advance.” “Got to fill the time somehow,” Abe observed. He stopped whittling for a moment, tested the wooden point with the tip of his finger, then went back to whittling. “I vant to suck your bl—” There

It is a dark time for the rebellion. Although the Death Star has been destroyed, Imperial troops have driven the Rebel forces from their hidden base and pursued them across the galaxy. “Son of a nerf-herder!” yelled Franz Yolo, pulling the Vanadium Aircon sharply to the left. “What was that?” “HRRRRRRRRRRRRGH!!!” trilled his hairy companion, Spewchowda. To aid in this mission, the dreaded Imperial Starfleet has employed a new weapon: a near-impenetrable wall of expository text scrolling across the galaxy. For too long had the war been fought with epic space battles and laser swords. Now foremost in the Imperial arsenal were detailed descriptions of taxation of trade routes to outlying star systems. “Oh no, Spewie—they’ve got us completely surrounded!” Because have you seen what’s going on with those trade routes? It’s causing turmoil in the Galactic Republic. Just...so much turmoil. Turmoil for days. And don’t get me started on what the Supreme Chancellor’s up to with the

A prince—changed into a frog—hops across the land. The wicked fairy who so transformed him has said that only the kiss of a true princess can undo the spell, so following close to river and stream he sets out to find one, though he is small and the way is long. At last—after many months of toil—he comes to a palace, but the lamps are unlit and the hearths are cold. Each room into which he ventures is empty, and thick dust clings to his webbed feet with every step, but still he searches. He has travelled too long to turn back, and is determined to lay eyes even on the highest tower: for this is where princesses are most often said to dwell. But the chamber in the highest tower seems as empty as any other. There he finds the same unlit lamps, the same cold hearth, and the same dust so thick on the floor that he almost has to wade through it. There is nothing here but fraying tapestries on the walls and a golden mannequin placed by the window. The prince gives a croak of dismay.