I've had a busy couple of days and today's much the same, but I feel so neglectful of my peeps, so I'm posting 'one of my best' as proclaimed by readers at a writer's website I belong to where we post short stories for each other. I think it's just a bit silly and over-the-top, but it won an award, so maybe it's not too bad. I'm always the worst judge of my own stuff. Enjoy!
I don’t mean to come across as paranoid or anything, but I think I should definitely tell someone that the cockroaches in my upstairs neighbor’s apartment are conspiring to overthrow Wal-Mart. They’ve been pretty sneaky about it really. In fact, I’d have probably never noticed until it was too late, but the fire ants that blew my A/C unit last week told me in a fit of desperation, hoping I would bargain with them to spare their ant hill.
But I don’t negotiate. It’s the American policy towards terrorists. You might not be of the same mind that fire ants rank right up there with suicide bombers, but most of you have probably never had to deal with the little fuckers. Spend a summer in Texas, and then try to tell me that fire ants aren’t the spawn of Beelzebub. If they really put their minds to it, they could take down Wal-Mart, but evil begets evil, and they support Sam’s team.
Which is why they want me to stop the cockroaches who have seen the end of the world coming and now know an awful truth. It won’t be them at the top of the food chain, as always predicted. It’s going to be Wal-Mart employees, all of them surviving the holocaust and nuclear winter inside the thick cement walls of the job they are chained to (less than thirty-two hours a week, of course, or they’d have to be considered full-time and get healthcare benefits that would cover their lesions and irradiated flesh burns).
I told my neighbors about the cockroaches’ plan to bring the world’s largest corporation to its knees, but they just laughed at me. At first. Until they realized I wasn’t kidding. Now they don’t talk to me anymore. I swear, it’s like no one listens anymore. Not my parents, not my friends, and in the end, I might just hide in Wal-Mart with the employees when Armageddon comes. Unless they kick me out for loitering.
Sometimes I have to shake my desk just to get Darth Vader and the Joker to nod and agree with me. At least someone does, but that fucking Buddy Christ bobble head just stands there pointing at me, judging me, with that vicious smile painted across his plastic, distorted caricature. I think the spring in his neck is broken.