The Fury of the Empire

Blood still dripping from his wounds, the battered man once again took his throne. He looked to his guards, then at the broken bodies on his formerly polished floor. Shouts and cries from the hall just outside the heavy oaken doors echoed into his chamber, boiling his blood. He glared at the man standing to his left, breathing heavily beneath his black armor, and fantasized the man's very much timely demise. The daggerous pain in his shoulder planted his feet firmly back on the ground and he clenched his teeth as the stinging wound bit him. He reached his hand up to squelch it, but only got blood on his pale hand. Furious, the Emperor called for his highest remaining official. Surprisingly, a general strode through the door, blood smeared across his face, his sword still clenched in his hand.
"What is it, my liege?" he asked, falling to one knee, a bit unsteadily, and offering up his sword.
"I want to address my people tonight. Take what men you have left and spread the word. I want everyone who can stand present."
"It will be done, Emperor," The general rose to his feet turned. He snapped his fingers and two guards near the doors followed him out, his sword still dangling by his side. The bleeding emperor sat in his throne as the sun took its leave in the west. As the blood began to dry and become hard, the sovereign imagined what words would wind their ways through his lips and over his crowd. When the sun was all but gone, the entirety of the city had been assembled in the Imperial Garden, just below the Emperor's window. He looked out at them, and tried to stand, but a burning needle seemed to pierce his leg and he fell back down into his seat. He motioned for one of his guards to come near and whispered something into his ear. The man nodded and ran out the door, returning within the minute with the Emperor's most trusted adviser, who also held a sword in his hand, a sight very uncommon for a man of such poise. The man passed through the doors a bit hindered by an injury that ran red from his thigh to his ankle. He went before the Emperor and took a kneel.
"What is it, my lord?" the man asked to the floor. The emperor beckoned for the man to come closer and whispered something into his ear.
"Yes, of course, my lord. As you wish!" The man snapped his fingers and the two guards came to attention. "Carry him outside," the adviser ordered. The men looked puzzled, as they looked from the man to the throne, a solid granite chair that had not been moved since its construction, several millenniums ago. "Pick him up and lean him against the railing," the adviser demanded, impatiently. The guards moved quickly, but carefully took the emperor, one on each side, and helped him outside. Upon seeing him, the crowd burst out in a rather loud celebration, some praising his strength, while others sang at his injuries. The guards propped the Emperor up and left him leaning on the railing. The adviser followed closely, sheathing the sword, and making himself a bit more presentable. He wiped the blood from his face and straightened his dirty clothes a bit. The cheering died down and the Emperor beckoned to his servant. The adviser leaned over and put his ear near the injured ruler's mouth. The emperor whispered his decree into the man's ear.
"His Majesty would like to thank all of you for coming out on such short notice. He is well aware of the busy schedule you all seem to have." The man glared out over the crowd, which showed no reaction. The emperor tapped him on the hand and he leaned closer. Another whisper entered the man's ear and he turned to the crowd.
"The Emperor wishes to thank you for your honesty. It takes a great deal of courage and a huge sense of community to accomplish what you have accomplished. His majesty congratulates you on what you accomplished. He is proud to be the ruler of such a unified people. He applauds you in his heart and welcomes you to do so now." The audience burst out into an uproarious cheer. A few fireworks went off, illuminating the darkening plaza as the sun nestled low beneath the mountains. The adviser watched them with slightly disdainful eyes and looked to his master who wore a grim smirk on his face. When the people recomposed themselves, the Emperor leaned over and whispered into his adviser's ear again.
"His majesty would like you all to know that because of your cry for change, he will be making several changes in the way his subjects are treated. His ways have been wicked and he wants to make up for his actions in recent days and asks for forgiveness for his wrongdoings of the past." The adviser snapped his fingers and a great rolling of drums began and armored footsteps created a symphony as hundreds of soldiers emerged from doors. Among them were spearmen, who lined the ground level, cornering the citizens, archers, who took their posts on the balcony, and sprinkled throughout the courtyard, a few swordsmen drew their blades. The outcry came in short bursts until the entire plaza was filled with shocked and infuriated citizens, among them, the Emperor's guards, wielding the smooth curved blades entrusted to them. The adviser raised his hand to quiet the fretting crowd and addressed them once again, with the Emperor's words.
"His imperial highness apologizes for his rash actions, but were he able to address you today, his mood would be much better!"
"This only proves that we were right!" Cried an anonymous voice from below. The adviser pointed to the general direction, from whence the voice was heard and three swordsmen moved in. With a flash of their swords, they left a bloody mess of subjects behind as others recoiled in fear. As the men shook the blood from their swords, the Emperor's adviser spoke again.
"To ensure no misunderstandings in the future, His majesty is holding each and every one of you responsible for the crimes that took place here today." He raised his arm and the archers loaded their bows. The creaking of their wooden arcs came as a haunting song for the men and women and children standing below them. A few people who attempted to escape were either cut down by the swordsmen or skewered by a long spear. The fearful eyes of the people turned back to the balcony. The adviser stood, his hand poised to strike. The Emperor gave him one last message to relay.
"It's time all of you learned what it means to rise up against a God." He snapped his finger. The sound echoed off the walls. The archers' song came again, but their strings were accompanied by bloody vocals.

Brain Spewings Teaser

Once upon a time in Schmexico, Pepe the goat was happily walking down the rocky, dirt road. The night was warm and his furry body bobbed up and down as he strode carefreely down the dusty lane. The moon was singing a beautiful song above him and the stars joined in, like the always attractive back up singers at ever concert ever. Pepe hummed along as he neared his home. Behind him, the bushes twitched and shivered as an unknown presence lurked in the shadowy shadows.
Across the river, on the far side of a very tall fence, two men, one with blazing red hair, the other with darker hair and a more pointed face, rolled a barrel full of gunpowder down a grassy hill. It crashed into the fence with a jingle-jangle and came to a stop.
“Hey, Chiff, why we doin’ this again?” asked the dark haired boy.
“Because, Miss! If we blow a hole in the fence, there won’t be a border no more, and we can be the ones who united Schmexico with the United Greats of Spamerica.” He reached into his pocket, looking for his box of matches, but only found the bottom of his pocket and an old wheat penny.
“Miss, did you take my matches again?” he asked, flusteredly. Miss looked at him.
“Well, yeah!” he answered, also flusteredly.
“Why would you take my matches?!” Chiff demanded. Miss looked at him as if he were stupid.
“Well, you said to get rid of the matches before we went into that patch o cactuses.” Chiff rolled his eyes and put his hands on his head.
“I said ‘Don’t get any scratches!’” Miss turned his head to the side.
“Well that’s just stupid! You can’t go into a patch of razor plants and not expect a few scratches!”
Further to the North, in a Diner filled to the brim with fluorescent lights, but with only half of them working, a woman with fiery red hair and a knife on her belt, sat with a root beer float and a vengeance.
“Evenin’ Sheriff,” said a waitress as she poured coffee all over the table.
“Evenin’” replied Sheriff, gazing out the window.
“You expectin’ trouble tonight?” asked the waitress, sitting in the hot puddle on the seat.
“Wouldn’t be here if I didn’t,” answered Sheriff. She glared through the glare on the glass of the flickering window and watched the south, for any movement.
Pepe turned the key and opened the door to his house. He turned on the light and stood in shock as he saw his wife and three sons bound on the floor, surrounded by a slobbery gang of chupacabras. Their flat, squarish heads, filled with teeth, looked up from their dastardly deeds and they shot fire out of their eyes in a small poof of excitement. Pepe froze, his little goat beard becoming stiff and rigid. The horns on his head straightened and the hair on his back shot straight up. He screamed in terror and something hit him from the back.
Chiff rummaged around in his pockets hoping to find any scrap of fire making equipment, but only found disappointment and frustration in his otherwise empty pockets. He thrust his hand deep into his pocket, but again pulled out only air.
“How are we supposed to be saviors and unifiers if we can’t even blow this stupid thing up?!” He demanded. Miss stood, watching him.
“Well, ya know,” he said, slowly. “We could just use my lighter.” Chiff turned red. Steam started to spout from his ears like a geyser. His teeth clenched together and every muscle in his body tensed. From the deep anger growing in his stomach, he launched his furious interrogation on his brother with the intensity of a thousand camping trips.
“WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME YOU HAD A LIGHTER!?” he roared, shaking the needles out of the cacti.
“Cuz you wanted matches,” Miss responded, shrugging his shoulders. Chiff’s hair burst into flame, and lit the area around them. He paused and felt the top of his head, to ensure that it was indeed ablaze. Then, with a manic look in his eye, he grabbed the powder keg and smashed his head into the side of it.
The lights flickered and the dishes all clashed together for a moment in the shockwave of the explosion. Sheriff’s eyes got huge as she watched the column of fire explode across the sandy plane of cacti and scorpions. She grabbed her root beer float and slammed the whole thing down her throat, then wiping the foamy ice cream and soda mustache from her upper lip, she leapt out of her booth and ran to the door, which she wrenched open and sprang down the steps. Her large boots sent dust clouds out from under them as she crashed to the ground, shaking it almost as much as the explosion, but only for effect. She then leapt into the air and somersaulted into her jeep. She landed in the driver’s seat and started the engine, which came to life, not with a roar, but with an odd kind of belch. She grinned and flared up one eyebrow. She put the car in gear and slammed her foot on the gas pedal, disappearing among the tumbleweed.
Pepe sat tied up on the floor, beside his wife and three kids. The largest of the chupacabras stood, hunched over in the little home.
“So, Pepe,” he began, with his slippery tongue. “It seems to me, that you and your family have been talking about us behind our backs.” He slinked over to Pepe’s wife, Pilar, and stuck his forked tongue in her ear. She shuddered and jerked her head away from the beast. It laughed and looked over at Pepe.
“Listen,” he said, slitherly. “We just want you to talk to your doctor friend.” Its slippery tongue jutted in and out of its mouth as it spoke, getting little driblets of spit everywhere. Pepe cringed as one of them landed in his eye. “It’s time to make the good doctor Guevarra pay for a little insult he paid to my brothers and I.” The other two chupacabras gnashed their teeth.
“Wait, I don’t get it!” Cinderella interrupted. “I thought you said I was in this book!” She cried, putting her pillow down beside her.
“Oh, shut up, Cindy!” cried Belle, throwing her pillow at the blonde princess. “You think just because you’re a princess, everyone loves you!”
“Well, it’s not my fault I’m famous!” Cinderella shouted. She threw her pillow back in retaliation, only to be struck on the back by a blow from Snow White. Rajah started with a low growl, but when she was struck with a pillow, she exploded with a roar and jumped to her feet. Jasmine threw her arms around the fuzzy beast’s neck and tried to soothe her, but to little avail.
“Boy, the thtuff they put on TV thethe daythe. Yeesh!” Daffy changed the channel from his armchair and flipped through various commercials and advertisements. He paused on Gossip Girls, but then continued on through the nothingness of primetime television. “There’s nothing on!” he said, tossing the remote into the fishbowl behind him. He got up and headed for the bathroom, but when he put his hand on the knob, the white door exploded in a fiery explosion of fiery and explodiness. And fire. It blew way up! In the singed door frame, red hair blazing, glasses shimmering, clad in those poofy white pants we all love to death, Benjamin Carl Schwartz stood valiantly, a dramatic breeze blowing from behind him.
“What ithe thith, thome kind o’ reality show?” asked Daffy, from behind the flaming chair.
“Not even close!” Shouted Ben. “This is Brain Spewings!” The front door burst open and Chuck Norris filled the gaping hole where the now splintered door had rested. He opened his mouth to say something, but was beaten down by a large black shoe and Antonio Bandares stepped in, holding a guitar in his hand.
“Sorry, Chuck,” he said, moving his hair out of the way. “But it’s my turn, now” He turned to face the camera and held his guitar tightly in his hands. “Get ready for the storm” he said. And he played an E minor chord.

Brennan Lee Mulligan and the Printer Cartridge of the Gods

Once upon a time in Mexico, Brennan Lee Mulligan was sitting at his computer in a dark, little bungalow. The only light came from his screen, where he furiously, and blurry-eyedily typed. He wiped the sleep out of his left eye, and drove his fingers into the keyboard until he had finished. He gave his writing a quick scan, checking for mistakes and nonsense, getting rid of some of the nonsense, but leaving most, and saved the document. Then, with a deep sigh of triumph and a stretch of victory, he pressed Apple + P to print.
He closed his eyes and smiled to himself as his printer sprang to life, ready to vomit out a piece of ink splattered paper. Its wheels began to turn, but the little machine choked. Brennan’s heart stopped. He waited for a second, not blinking, waiting for the hiccup to pass. He turned to the printer to see that the little green light had turned red. The printer icon at the bottom of his screen bounced up and down and he became very concerned. He clicked it and discovered that to his dismay, his trusty little printer had run out of ink. Brennan’s fists turned into tight little rocks of destruction and he slammed them down on his desk. The ground quaked and his chair squeaked. He raised the angry fists in the air and shouted to the Gods.
“NOOOOOO!” he cried. There was a flash of lightning and a little boy, holding a guitar sprang up through the wooden floorboards. He played an Em chord and shot back into the ground, leaving behind a hole in the floor. A cloud surged through the front door and into Brennan’s study, through the double bolted door and a booming laughter began to circulate the room. Paper from his previous documents shot around, whizzing past his ears. The cloud took the shape of a large man, standing ten feet tall, hunched over a bit though, because the ceilings were not that high. A bushy gray beard formed, along with a pair of bushy gray eyebrows. A large, surprisingly muscular body took form next, followed by piercingly, icy, blue eyes, and a white toga. The man was clad in a pair of classically Greek sandals.
The God, Zeus, Master of Olympus, stood before Brennan, who sat in his chair, with an eyebrow raised, his hand reaching for a plastic bat, covered in aluminum foil.
“Wait!” Zeus cried, sounding alarmed. “I don’t want any trouble. I just came to help.” Brennan took up the bat and stood up. Zeus held up his hands, pleadingly, as a buffer. His eyes were much more fearful than in the illustrations of him in the old myths.
“You mean like the last time you tried to help me?” He asked, holding it up, ready for a swing. He glared into Zeus’ eyes.
“But I got Demeter to help you grow it back!” Zeus said, flinching a little. Brennan ripped off his shoe, revealing a wooden foot, complete with little branches for toes. The largest toe had a small leave sprouting from it, which wiggled a bit. He replaced the shoe and stomped his foot down. He stabbed the bat at Zeus and ordered that he leave.
“Wait!” Zeus said. “I can really help you, this time!” He raised one of his knees and covered his face, shielding himself from the bat. He squealed like a little girl until Brennan rolled his eyes and lowered the bat.
“You’ve got ten seconds before I send you shooting through the universal stratosphere.” He said, gripping the bat tightly. Zeus lowered his knee and uncovered his face. With a small sniffle, Zeus began his tale.
“Well, I noticed you ran out of ink for your printer-“
“It’s toner…” Brennan interrupted.
“Right, toner. So, I wanted to help you get some more.”
“It’s just a quick drive to Wall-Mart,” Brennan replied fiercely.
“Not if you take this,” said Zeus holding out a picture of what looked like an ordinary printer cartridge. Brennan peered at it, rolled his eyes, and raised the bat.
“Wait!” Zeus wailed, like a baby. “This is no ordinary ink cartridge! It’s my personal ink cartridge! It will never run out and it prints in more colors than you can ever imagine!” He got down on his knees. “Just put away the bat, and I’ll tell you how to get it.” Brennan didn’t move.
“If it’s your printer cartridge, just hand it over?.”
Zeus’ head dropped. “It’s been stolen from me,” he said, mournfully. Brennan rolled his eyes.
“Zeus, you really need to keep track of your stuff, man. This is ridiculous!” A tear welled up in the Olympian’s eye. “Oh, don’t start crying again!”
“I’m sorry!” Zeus sobbed. He waved his hand a cloud appeared in his hand and took the form of a handkerchief, into which he blew his nose like a foghorn.
“Well, stop your crying and let’s get that cartridge back!” Brennan started toward the door. “Come on!” Zeus ducked his head and followed him out into the empty driveway. Brennan turned, the foil wrapped bat still clenched in his hand. ‘Well…do your thing.” He said, impatiently. Zeus held out his hand and a lightning bolt formed in its palm. He wrapped his fingers around the bolt and hurled it into the ground, creating a wall of white light, which Brennan felt as if he’d run into at full speed.
They now stood in the mostly empty, midnight parking lot of a Wal Mart Supercenter. The fluorescent lights flickered tantalizingly in the dusty air. Sketchy characters and unfavorably dressed hooligans walked in the doors as more of the same walked out with some sort of appliance or gizmo. They walked through the doors, Zeus receiving the same look as everyone else. After a long trek through the absurdly large toy section, they came to a door in the corner of the store. The flickering lights and bad smell told Brennan that the Chupacabra had chosen this musty place as his lair. The large neon sign with an arrow pointing at the door also helped a bit. A satyr, with a pair of sharpened horns opened the door and crossed his arms. They didn’t stop.
“You’re here for the ink cartridge, I assume,” he said in a venomous voice. Brennan clenched his fist around the silver bat and quickened his pace until he broke into a full charge. The satyr lowered his head and charged, roaring. A little boy stood watching, his eyes aglow with excitement. Zeus saw the boy and acted accordingly.
“Look! It’s a giant piece of broccoli!” He shouted. The light in the boys eyes was snuffed out. He shrieked in horror and ran down the aisle, knocking over a display of Transformers. Brennan and the satyr came within two paces of one another. The bat cut through the air in a flash of white light and there was an explosion that knocked over the nearby shelves. The satyr shot through the ceiling, pursued by a trail of silver stars. As dust and sheetrock fell from the ceiling, an evil cackle emanated from dark room behind the sketchy doorway. Brennan charged through the door, his chrome club flailing. At least a dozen foul creatures shot of out of the room, each chased by a tail of shimmering light. There was a snarl and a roar. Then, in a cloud of smoke, silver stars trailing behind, the roaring beast was jettisoned through the ceiling and into another dimension. Brennan stumbled out of the room with the bat in one hand, still gleaming in the flickering light, and in the other, the glowing ink cartridge. Zeus jumped up and down, clapping, like a cheerleader, upon seeing the ink cartridge. When Brennan walked toward him, he hurled another thunderbolt at the ground and the pair was back in Brennan’s driveway. Brennan walked through the door, sat down at his desk and put the cartridge into his printer. Immediately, paper started spewing from the tray like a fountain. It was awesome.

Ben Schwartz and the Pantaloons of Destiny

Once upon a time in Mexico, Ben Schwartz was walking down the road when he came upon an old man. He was a wretched old man, with a scraggly beard and a lot of missing teeth, along with tattered clothing and a gnarled walking stick. He looked like something taken out of a fairy tale……Anyway! Ben stopped for a second and spoke with the elderly man who was singing to himself a song that had no lyrics.
“Hello there, oh old guy!” Ben said, with his hands on his hips as he often did.
“Why, hello there, young man” replied the man. “Fine day for a hum, isn’t it?”
“I guess, so,” Ben answered. “But why are you out here in the middle of nowhere?”
“The same reason as you,” the man responded. “Just out for a walk.”
‘But you’re not walking,’ said Ben, slowly losing his grasp on the man’s sanity. “Did something happen to you?”
“Why, yes!” said the man jollily. “I stopped!”
“I can see that!”
“See what?” asked the old man looking around, curiously.
“…that…you’ve stopped…” Ben replied, raising an eyebrow.
“Oh, yes, of course!” cried the old man. “Sorry, my eyes aren’t quite what they used to be.” Ben nodded, awkwardly trying to think of a way to continue the conversation, or better yet, a way to get out of it!
“I understand” he said. “So, where were you going?” Ben asked, looking back up the road. Like all the local roads, it was straight and vanished under a mountain chain in the west as the sun was slowly going down.
“I was on a quest!” said the old man, excitedly. Ben’s ears perked up.
“A quest you say?” he said.
“That’s what I said!” the man said.
“What kind of quest?” asked Ben, his interest growing with every second.
“A quest for pants!” cried the old man. He hitched up his long, torn, shirt to reveal a pair of scarlet boxer shorts covered with little white hearts. He bent over and took up a sword from beneath the dusty ground. Ben’s hand twitched. In less than a second, it flew to his belt and drew a long curved blade from its scabbard. The man began to laugh and his half cloudy eyes cleared, making way for what looked like tiny fires burning in his pupils. His sword reminisced that of a medieval crusader.
“That’s a fine pair o’ trousers ya got there, sonny” he said. “Hand ‘em over.”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” replied Ben, glaring over his glasses at the man. A dozen small boys shot up from the desert’s underbelly. They collectively played an Em chord and shot beneath the ground. Where each boy had appeared and disappeared, a fountain of fire sprang high into the sky. Drums filled the air and the sun quickly jumped from his current position in the sky to a safe hiding place behind the mountains in the West. Ben and the man walked around one another in the circle of fire. The drums thundered along as the stars watched suspensefully. Ben looked into the old man’s eyes and they flared with large flames. The drums stopped and a loud gong sounded, followed by a phantom Em chord. The old man bent his knees and flung himself at Ben, raising his sword high above his head. Ben lunged forward, raising his sword as well. The blades clashed and sparks exploded from them. Ben held his blade firm as the man pushed down on him. Ben bent his own knees and pushed himself out of the way, knocking the man off balance. He toppled to the ground and his sword cut into the sand. Ben leapt away to the other side of their flaming ring of combat. He turned his head to the ground, then whipped it back to look at the man. An Em chord sounded. The man spat a rock out and whipped his head to look at Ben. Another Em chord sounded. They both raised their blades and sprang at one another. Their blades clashed and an alarmingly loud Em chord sounded, shaking the ground for miles.
A little truck drove by, and the driver beeped his horn, which sounded like “La Cucaracha.” Inside the circle, Ben’s sword and the man’s sword whipped around, reflecting the light from the circle of fire in every direction. Ben blocked and struck only to have the man block and strike in return. The battle raged on for hours. The hours turned into days. The days turned into weeks until finally, their huge circle of fire had burned out. They sat in the center of the blackened circle, breathing heavily. A large oil tanker drove up and the driver leapt out. He dragged his large hose over to a cactus and cut off the top with a large bowie knife. He then thrust the hose deep into the cactus and began pouring fuel into the plant. After a few minutes, he stopped, and replaced the hose on his truck. He climbed in and turned on the engine.
“You’re all set, fellas!” he shouted, and he drove off.
“Thanks a lot!” the old man called back, with a smile. There was a flash of lightning and the flames were reignited. The battle continued. The tides changed constantly. Ben received a cut on his face, only to repay the man with a slash on his bony leg. The man’s beard had been completely shaven, thanks to a number of close calls. The tide finally turned when the old man made a mistake. While engaging in a bout of trash talk, the elder, assuming his age would leave him invulnerable to scrutiny made a very inappropriate comment about Ben’s mom. Ben unleashed such fury on the old man as he had never seen before. The old man raised his sword to block the blow, but it shattered into a million silver pieces, and fell into the dust. The center of their battlefield gave way and the sand fell into what appeared to be an endless pit. Ben and the old man backed away, Ben with his sword to the man’s throat.
“Listen,” said the old man, trying to bargain. “Let’s see if we can work something out. You can have the pants during the week and I’ll take them on the weekends and every other holiday. Except Christmas you can have-“
“SILENCE!” Ben roared. The man faltered, but kept his balance. “You cannot and will not ever have these pants,” Ben said, furiously. “You need to get yourself a job, go to a GAP or something and buy your own pants.”
“Buy my own pants?” The man looked insulted. “That’s madness!” Ben’s eyebrow shot halfway up his forehead.
“Madness?” He looked the man right in the eye. “I’m not going to make that joke.” He said. He sheathed the sword and walked away. The man stood there, on the edge of the hole, waiting for what was supposed to come. When it didn’t he panicked.
“Wait! You can’t just leave me here! That’s not how it’s supposed to be!” With no other option, the man turned and leapt into the whole, screaming all the way down. It was awesome.

The Tale of Jack and the Chupacabra

Once upon a time in Mexico, Jack Covell was taking a walk through his goat farm, when he tripped and fell. When he looked up, he saw his favorite little goat, Paco, in a heap, with two holes in his neck, both with little driblets of blood leaking out onto the ground.
“Paco!” cried Jack. He fell to his knees. “What happened?”
“It was…the Chupacabra,” Paco said, weakly. The ground shook for a moment and a little boy with a guitar shot out of a gopher hole. He smiled and played an Em chord before shooting back down into the dirt.
“What should I do?” asked Jack.
“Tocame una canción,” replied the little goat.
“What?” asked Jack. He furrowed his brow. “You know I don’t speak Spanish,”
“Play me a song!” shouted the goat, impatiently.
“Oh!” cried Jack. “Of course!” He ran off to get his guitar from the house.
“Wait!” Jack stopped and turned around to see what the goat needed.
“It can’t just be any song! You have to play it on the magical guitar of Carlos Santana” Jack’s eyebrows shot up in his surprise, almost leaving his face.
“Oh dear!” cried Jack. He looked up the dusty road. A jeep was coming, very quickly, kicking up a cloud of dust behind it. “Then I must go to the house of Carlos Santana and get his magical guitar.” The jeep stopped just beside the couple and Antonio Banderas leapt out of the passenger seat. Selma Hayek blew Jack a kiss from the driver’s seat and peeled out, kicking rocks and dust out from under the tires.
“It seems you are in a bit of trouble,” said El Mariachi, whipping out his guitar. He played an Em chord and threw the guitar back in its case.
“Can you help me?’ asked Jack.
“Of course I can help you! And I plan to!” Antonio replied. “Follow me!” He started down the road. Jack and Antonio walked down the road for quite some time. As they walked, the sun grew tired and slowly fell from the sky. The stars came out and twinkled a bit. The full moon crept up over the hilltops.
“Have you seen my sun?” she asked.
“He went that way,” said Antonio. The moon rolled her eyes and began her trek across the night sky. Not too far off down the road, a pair of eyes glinted in the soft white light. A Chupacabra leapt out from behind a cactus, blood dripping from its fangs, its eyes burning with tiny fires.
“Who dares pass my road?” it hissed. A nearby cactus turned brown and shriveled.
“My name’s Jack!” cried Jack. Antonio rolled his eyes and smacked the author on the back of the head!
“Don’t be redundant!” he shouted, rolling his eyes and smacking the author on the back of the head.
“Stop that!” hissed the Chupacabra. “You cannot pass!” It licked its bloody teeth and crouched low, ready to pounce when a pair of headlights came on in the distance, accompanied by the dull, but growing roar of an engine. A red Ferrari came to a sliding stop, kicking up another dust cloud. From the front seat, his guitar already strapped around his neck, the amplifier hooked up to the speakers in his car, leapt the mighty Carlos Santana. He raised his hand high in the air and threw it down hard on the strings, which sent beautiful music rocketing out of the car’s large speakers. The Chupacabra hissed at the music and backed away into the shadow, glaring at everyone with its blood colored eyes.
“Hey, man.” Said Carlos. “That’s not cool!” Drums filled the air, and Carlos played more and more and the Chupacabra could not stand it. The beast roared and scampered off into the darkness. Carlos did not see it go and continued to play, stuck in one of his long solos. Jack slowly walked over to him and put his hand on Carlos’ shoulder. The man looked up in surprise.
“Oh, is he gone?” he asked, looking around for the first time in a long time.
“Yeah,” said Jack.
“Oh, good!” said Carlos happily. “Do you guys need anything? Drinks? A bite to eat? A dying goat in need?” Jack’s ears perked up and he immediately remembered Paco, loosing blood in the field, a few miles back down the road.
“Actually we do have a dying goat!” Jack replied.
“Oh, that’s sad,” said Carlos. “Well, hop in and I’ll give you a lift!” Jack and Antonio jumped into the red Ferrari and it sped off. They came to a screeching halt and Jack jumped out, followed by Antonio’s guitar, then Antonio. Carlos jumped over his car, sliding on the hood and hooked up his guitar. Jack got down on his knees.
“We made it Paco!” he said happily.
“Well, that’s good,” said the goat weakly. “I didn’t…”
“What do you mean?” asked Jack, panicking.
“I’m dead,” said the goat, going limp, its tongue hanging out of his mouth.
“NOOOOOO!” Jack pounded his fist on the dusty ground. Carlos was hooking his guitar up to his car again. He started to play the same song Jack heard in his heart. Paco opened one eye. He lifted his head up off the ground for a moment, then climbed to his feet. Jack’s eyes were shut tight, wringing tears out like a washcloth. He flung his arms around the goat and pulled him close. “OH, PACO! WHY’D YOU HAVE TO BE DEAD?”
“Felt like…the right…thing…to do…at the time” said Paco, gasping for air. Jack’s sobs ceased. He opened one eye…then pulled his head away from the goat’s body. The goat looked at him, with a small smirk on his face.
“You’re alive!”
“I’m alive!”
“Let’s dance!” Santana started to play. The drums came back from their unknown source. Antonio and Carlos sang, while Jack and his goat danced under the moon. It was awesome.
The End.

The Barq's Bandit

“They say he’s a ghost. A myth. A legend. I know better though. I was there when it happened. I’d say that guy got what he deserved…but he didn’t really deserve that. The kid came in and sat at a table in the back. It was really shadowy, like you’d expect from his type. It was almost like a movie the way he moved. Even the jukebox seemed to know he was here. It started playin’ a song I ain’t never heard before. Didn’t even know I had that song. He sat in the back table and ordered a drink. Root beer, it was. Barqs’. Ya know how the commercials say “It’s got bite”? Well, he bit that drink right back. That’s when it all started. He let out a burp that made the lamp shake. The jukebox skipped. One of the waitresses fainted, and dropped a plate full of Southwestern Frijole, Bean, Cheese and Queso Burriots right in Spartacus Webster’s lap. Now he got up and he was real mad. He was redder than the salsa runnin’ down his face. He stood up and he walked over to that boy and he said. “Hey, boy” everything went quiet. “Ya dropped somethin’” he said. “Actually, that was your order” the boy said. Then, it all started. The boy took out a guitar. And he started to play. We couldn’t tell what it was at first, but after a little while it got real clear. Super Mario Brothers. Spartacus stood there, his veins poppin’ out of his head, one hand in his pocket, around a knife, the other in his nose, tryin’ to get a bug that flew up in it. Once he got that bug, he flung it, snot ‘n everything right at that boys high e string. The string snapped with an evil “twang!” and that boy stood up. He put the guitar down on that table, like his girl after she’d been shot. Well we was on that old Spartacus faster than Japanese tourists on a good pi’ture. He flung him into a chair and yanked the laces right out of his boots. Tied him up so quick his eyes started whirly giggin’ around! In the total opposite direction, they spun and spun and spun…and that’s when it got nasty. Ole Spartacus said “You get me outta this chair, ‘fore I tell ye a joke!” But the kid didn’t let him out. He just walked over to his table and opened up his guitar case. We couldn’t tell right away what it was he took out, but we knew it couldn’t a’ been good. “Why’d the chicken cross the road?” Spartacus was just settin’ himself up fer a hurtin’. That kid turned around and I’ll be damned if he didn’t have the biggest, softest looking feather I ever seen! He kicked Spartacus, chair ‘n all up ‘gainst a wall, so there wasn’t no room for him to move. Then he sat right down in his lap, one leg on each side and he took that feather and tickled that poor man till he wet himself. Then he stood up, packed his things, paid for his drink and left. The jukebox seemed to know he was goin’ too, ‘cause it started playin’ another song I ain’t never heard come out of it before. And that was the last time I saw him.”

Guitar Poem

What soothes him is the guitar,
that hollow piece of wood,
with its cold and steely strings,
singing songs borne from Andalusia
at the behest of his firm grip, but
gentle pluckings. Songs from
the streets of Seville, from the
moors of Malaga, and the cathedral
of Cordoba, the smell of oranges
seeping from the wooden neck of
his instrument, carved from the
very trunk of an arboreal inhabitant of Iberia.
Two, one, open
Two, one, open
Change strings
Two, one, open
Two, open, change strings, three
Do it again
He could do it all day
Throw in those high E notes
Faster!

Home from school, he walks through the door
And there she is. Her strings are so cold
Untouched since the dawn, but he
Warms them as best he can, making her
Gypsy Fire burn like the lamps in the Spanish sidestreets
The melody flows from her like a river,
Esperanza is her name and she sings so beautifully
Whether with nylon or steel
That she’s hollow becomes irrelevant
He fills her with love and she sings until dinner
Then it’s time for homework
Or maybe another song