Short Story: Two Foolish Uncles Pooping to the Beat



by O'Keefe

Preface: This story was created by the short story generator. I put in some information and got out with this horrific mess. Enjoy.

Billy Joel had always hated grim Camelot with its gigantic, glamorous giants. It was a place where he felt exhuberant.
He was a deceitful, generous, blood drinker with burly head and black caboose. His friends saw him as a rare, rough rock. Once, he had even helped a frantic state cross the road. That's the sort of man he was.
Billy walked over to the window and reflected on his slim surroundings. The brooding teased like eating cats.
Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of Lestor Holt. Lestor was a mad baby with slim head and leper caboose.
Billy gulped. He was not prepared for Lestor.
As Billy stepped outside and Lestor came closer, he could see the defiant smile on his face.
"I am here because I want money," Lestor bellowed, in a benevolant tone. He slammed his fist against Billy's chest, with the force of 7522 cats. "I frigging hate you, Billy Joel."
Billy looked back, even more prideful and still fingering the dumb hammer. "Lestor, I want some food," he replied.
They looked at each other with furious feelings, like two cloudy, colossal cats slicing at a very bad doomsday, which had rock music playing in the background and two foolish uncles pooping to the beat.
Suddenly, Lestor lunged forward and tried to punch Billy in the face. Quickly, Billy grabbed the dumb hammer and brought it down on Lestor's skull.
Lestor's slim head trembled and his leper caboose wobbled. He looked angry, his body raw like a famous, friendly flower.
Then he let out an agonising groan and collapsed onto the ground. Moments later Lestor Holt was dead.
Billy Joel went back inside and made himself a nice drink of blood.
THE END

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Poem: The Devil's Doggerel

Image
by O'Keefe There one was a self-diagnosed genius Who went by the name of Barney Jehoshaphat. His smug assertions often upset the populace, Least of which because it was crap. Barney was the type to lecture the electrician While he was installing his sockets. And he was also the one to petition NASA let him build their rockets. He was the best at everything he could think of, From basketball to pool to quantum mechanics. A superiority complex he was on the brink of,  And, because I need a rhyme, Hispanics. Even the snootier among us were offended, For information Barn was not even seekin’. And his whole superiority shtick was upended When he whined like a hairsplitting vegan. But he was to be put to the test, Concerning his greatness one day, When at a certain stranger's behest He was challenged his brains to display. He one day found himself strolling in the park, Pondering of things dumb and weird, And at the colorful flowers he did remark, Whe...
Read more

Flash Fiction: Obi Travalar, Chapter VI

Image
by Peter O'Keefe CHAPTER SIX: The Conjuror of Lupa At long last, the troop reached the village of Lupa. It was not a large town, but neither was it small. The day had begun to turn dark early, and Cole suspected that it would rain that night sometime.         “Since we're in town and rain in possible,” he said, “I think we should get a room at the nearest inn for the night.”        Obi and Nancy were excited to hear this. They had never been to sleep at any inns, and Obi had never even been in one. Cole lead them diligently through the maze of the town. It was a rather run down place altogether, with dark, looming houses that told of long ago splendor and glory. Now, it was mostly home to street bums, smugglers and rats. This was not the ideal place to spend the night, but at least Cole knew a thing or two about dealing with evil people. Obi and Nancy were confident in his abilities.        “Remind me tomorrow,” s...
Read more

Short Story: The Tale of the Man-Eater

Image
by O'Keefe The infamous mob boss Jerry Macaroni had sent one of his associates, whose name we only know as Slick, to canoodle the mayor into letting the boss’ second hand, Jimmy Glutenfry, walk out of the city slammer. The Times criticized Jimmy, pal of the boss, rather heavily, going so far as to call him a ‘man-eater’; a colloquial term used on the street for Macaroni’s mobsters, due to their rather violent attitude. “Leave it to the press to slangify English,” Jerry Macaroni conveyed to his left foot man Slick, who dutifully went about his business. It started out as a rather cordial event. The mayor was reading the Times while going to the bathroom in a public setting when he heard from the other stall, “Hey, mayor. That you?” The mayor, thinking he was talking to some other mayor, at first ignored him. But he asked again. “Hey, you with the light-up sneakers!” And an ominous foot came out from under the neighboring stall and hit the mayor’s shoes, causing them to fl...
Read more