Right, I’m going to confess something here! No, just kidding, it’s the title of a new story. This time it’s doodo!  who came up with… this…

Government deceit sexuality

I can only assume it’s meant to be three separate themes, because I just can’t see this working as a single phrase. They’re pretty heavy themes though, and because they’re so abstract and high-level, they offer a tremendous wealth of options to choose from. So much so, that it’s pretty overwhelming, and I initially had trouble trying to find an angle for the story that properly tied the three together. In the end, I settled on something that I think works. I hope you think so too.

Confession

Dear Ada,

As I am writing this, you are looking at me from your cradle with your lovely big brown eyes. You won’t be reading this until you’re old enough to understand, but I feel if I don’t force myself to write this letter now, I shall never do so.

Ten years ago, this country was in crisis. War, unemployment, divisions. What was needed was strong leadership. Heaven knows I was the perfect candidate for the job, but as you will undoubtedly (or should I say hopefully?) learn in your history classes, I could not run for any sort of office. Ours was a patriarchal society in the truest sense of the phrase. No women allowed. I truly hope you will never, ever be in a position similar to mine.

But I digress. Perhaps you will also learn about how I “tricked” the system by posing as a man. Once I got elected as Prime Minister, I could have revealed myself. But I did not. In a way, I enjoyed it all. Dressing up, putting on that fake moustache, wearing my hair cropped… ordering other men around! Oh God, I loved it all so much. But that’s not the reason I’m writing this to you.

After all, a year into my term I did  reveal my secret, and people didn’t seem to mind. They saw how I had noticeably improved the country, and they saw that, yes, women too can do great things for society. But as I was saying… It’s hard for me to write this, and I find I keep dawdling, so I’ll just say it outright: I cheated on your father, with another woman.

Oh, dear Ada, you wouldn’t know the relief I feel now that I’ve finally shared that with someone. I actually had to take a break from writing this letter, just to cry. Not tears of sadness, but tears of relief. I haven’t told your father about this, and I’m not sure if I ever can. But when I look into your big brown eyes, I know that at least you  will understand. And I pray that you will never be in my current position.

But I know I needn’t be afraid. You will be strong. Stronger than I have been.

Love,

Mother

When coolsome  came up with this idea, I got rather excited:

Poirot’s First Date

Agatha Christie is one of my favourite writers, and Hercule Poirot is one of my favourite characters ever . I love his books, and I adore David Suchet’s portrayal of the character in the fabulous TV series. So it’s easy to see why my heart skipped a beat when I saw the name “Poirot” in the list of story suggestions. At the same time though, I am a bit scared. Will I do the character justice? Ah well, we’ll see. I guess there’s nothing for it but to just jump right in…

Poirot’s Very First Case

It had been a while since I’d seen my old friend Hercule Poirot. Whenever I had the chance to return to England however, I made sure to pay the little man a visit. On one of these occasions, he told me a rather peculiar story…

“Ah, mon ami ! Please, come in, seat yourself!”

“Hello, Poirot.”

“So, what brings you back from the Argentine?”

“Oh, you know, business. Thought I’d drop in to see you, old chap.”

“Ah, Hastings, how I have missed you. You know, our cases have always been the most interesting, n’est-ce pas ?”

“Oh, right.”

“But where are my manners? I forget to offer you the drink! A little sirop de cassis ?”

“Well, ah…”

“Ah, but I tease,” Poirot laughed, wagging his finger. “A glass of the whisky for my old friend. Now,” he continued, carefully placing the glasses on the table, “tell me, how is your wife?”

“Oh, Cinders is doing smashing. We love the South American way of life. Quite different from the British way of doing things, mind you, but in a good sort of way, if you catch my drift.”

“Ah, yes, Poirot, he catches the drift.”

I smiled. “You know, we really owe a lot to you. If it weren’t for you, Cinderella and I would never have met… it’s hard to imagine, we’re so fond of each other, really.” My thoughts went back to that time we first met, on that train in France.

Poirot looked at me. “You think of the past, do you not? I can see it in your eyes, mon cher  Hastings.”

“Oh. Yes. You know, actually… and this may sound weird, but…”

“Yes?”

“I was wondering… about your own, ah… first date.”

“Hastings.” Poirot looked at me like a school mistress would look at a pupil who had just done some mischief. But then he smiled. “Very well. I shall tell you about it.”

At first I thought he would relate the affair of the chocolate box to me again, but to my surprise he went back much further in time.

“It may surprise you, but Poirot, he was an accomplice to a crime once.”

“I say!”

” Mais oui , it is true. When I was a little Hercule, in school, there was this girl. You must know, Hastings, I was young, impressionable. Ah, but I bore you with my little excuses. You are the man of action! Very well, I shall get straight to the dot. This girl, she had a report card that was… bad. She came to me for advice. What could I do, but to advise her to turn the three into an eight, with two simple strokes of the pen?”

“Good Lord, Poirot. You really did that?”

” Oui , Hastings, I did. I am not proud of it, but the teacher, he was not a nice man. He picked on the girl whenever the opportunity arose. Naturellement , nothing makes crime acceptable, but in this case…”

I sank back into my chair. “And then what happened? Did anyone ever find out?”

“Oh, Hastings, how little faith you have in me! Of course no one ever found out.”

“And what about the girl?”

“She and I had a brief romance… but it did not last for more than a few weeks. No, Hastings, I found out that crime, it does not pay. In fact, I would not be surprised if that was what planted the seed for my career as a detective…”

“I say…” I said, still rather shocked. I took another sip of whisky and looked at Poirot. He was laughing!

“Poirot, you’re not pulling my leg, are you?”

“Come now, Hastings. How many times do I have to tell you, Poirot does not pull the legs.”

But the twinkle in his eyes and the mischievous smile told me a different story, and soon we were both laughing.

Today’s story is for Silverwolfpet , who got this brilliant idea:

Team Fortress 2 Characters… playing Team fortress 2.

Yes. Hmmm. See, the thing is, I think this would work great  as a short film. I could of course just write a script, but instead I’ll try to keep it reasonably cinematic through heavy use of dialogue. Hopefully I’ll succeed.

The Party

Ding dong.

“Just a second! I’m baking a cake here.”

A second later, Scout opened the door to find… no one.

“Hello? Anyone?”

In the seconds that followed, Scout ran a few circles around his house, but he couldn’t see anyone. When he returned to the front door, he found it closed. He rang his own doorbell, but there was no answer. Since he hated waiting, he decided to just repeatedly hit the door with his baseball bat. That did the trick.

“Ah, do come in!” a disembodied voice said.

“Uh, hello? Who is this?” Scout asked.

“Don’t you recognize your old friend Spy?” This last word was accompanied by a flash and a bang as Spy uncloaked.

“Stop scaring me like that!”

“I’m sorry, it just never gets old. Now, about that cake…”

“Yeah, uh, the cake was a lie. But we do have sandwiches!”

“SAAAANDVICHEEEEEEEEEEEES!”

This last sound was made by a particularly large man, who ran past the astonished Scout, albeit not very fast. The following moments all happened in slow motion. Heavy was still running towards the sandwiches, when Scout roused himself to action. He overtook Heavy, only to slip on a cigarette butt, carelessly thrown on the floor by Spy, who was watching the whole thing rather nonchalantly. Scout clambered back up, but he couldn’t reach the kitchen table in time prevent Heavy downing all the sandwiches at once.

“I love sandviches,” Heavy said, as time returned to its usual speed.

“Oh, great, fatso,” said Scout. “Now what’ll we eat during our LAN party?”

“Not too worry!” a Teutonic man in a lab coat shouted through the window. “I’ve got us some marzhmallowz!”

“Aye,” said the man’s companion, “an’ I’ve brought us a wee bottle o’ whisky!”

“Oh, great, Medic and Demoman are here. Come on in guys, then we can get started!”

Scout sat down on the couch. Heavy sat down at the other end of the couch. Scout flew up into the air.

“Sorry, comrade!”

Scout sat down on a chair. Spy, Medic, and Demoman followed his example, leaving the couch entirely at Heavy’s disposal.

“Right, everyone ready? Let’s get going! I’ll be on the blue team,” Scout said.

“An’ I’ll be joinin’ ye!”

“Gentlemen, so will I.”

“It looks like we’re made for each other then, Doctor!”

“I vouldn’t have it any othzer vay, my friend.”

After an hour or so, they got rather bored of playing as themselves. Demoman’s whisky had started kicking in as well, so they were being rather silly by now. That is, even sillier than they normally were.

“I zay, I zay,” said Medic, “let’s all play as a Zniper! Gutes idea, ja?”

“I like the way you think, sir,” Spy said. “Let’s do it.”

“Crikey! Crikey! Crikey!” said Scout, before being bonked on the head with a bottle by Demoman.

“Natascha…” said Heavy, who had fallen asleep on the couch and was now evidently dreaming of weaponry.

“You know,” Scout said, after five minutes of nothing happening, “I think everyone playing as a sniper isn’t such a good idea after all. Whose idea was it anyway?’

“‘Twas the Doctor’s wee idea.”

“Oh yeah. Which reminds me. Whatever happened to those marshmallows? I’d really like some about now,” Scout said. Then he slapped his forehead. “Oh! I forgot! Pyro isn’t here yet! I wonder if she’s late. Maybe we just haven’t heard her ring. Spy? Will you be so good as to check the door?”

“I’m on it.”

Spy opened the door, and indeed, Pyro was standing there.

“How long have you been here?”

“Mffghhhnggg!”

“Have you even rung?”

“Nffm.”

“Why not?”

“Mwwwffyo ghoomnvn waolijtohno mmmmm.”

Spy looked at Pyro’s gloves, and noticed that it would indeed be hard to ring a doorbell wearing them.

“Oh well, you’d better come in.”

“Pyro! Welcome! You’re just in time for the marshmallows!”

“Mfffgnnnng?”

“Yeah, sure, go ahead and roast them with your flamethrower!”

“Ah, lad, I do nae think that is a good idea…”

But it was too late. Pyro had already switched on her flamethrower. When it came into contact with the ample supply of whisky that hadn’t yet been consumed, the whole house went up in flames. After a few minutes of absolute silence following the explosion, Medic briefly raised his arm.

“Is there a Doctor in ze house?” he asked, before collapsing again.

No, I didn’t do anything wrong, that’s just the title of today’s story. The idea came from divisionten , who has thought up these three subjects:

A screwdriver handle with no driver head
a wobbling picture frame
and
a safe with a lock that has sixteen unmarked buttons

However, there is a catch!

You may NOT include a burglar, spy. or thief of any kind.

Right then, let’s try this!

Oops

Peter sat behind his desk. It wasn’t exactly his  desk. It was his father’s. But since he was away on holiday, at some relaxation clinic in Switzerland, Peter considered the desk his own. He looked at the picture frame on the desk, which held a photograph of his father, who was a rather narcissistic man. It was like looking into a mirror. Peter looked almost exactly like his father, except for the moustache. Ah yes, the moustache… he remembered that one time when they went to the party at the embassy. He had worn a false moustache, and his father had shaved his off for the occasion. Everyone thought he was him and him was he. Or something. It was fun, anyway.

Now where was that false moustache…? Ah, yes, he remembered now. After rummaging through some drawers, he found it and some glue. Oh, glory! Now he could relive those days. He carefully applied the moustache, and to complete the picture, Peter took out one of his father’s best cigars and lighted it, and put his feet up on the table. He had hardly assumed this posture when someone came storming through the door.

Peter coughed. “Wh-who are you?”

“Ah! Carruthers! There you are,” said the visitor. He looked rather queer, Peter thought. A huge amount of hair on his head, like one of those Beethoven busts people who can’t play the piano use to decorate their piano. And his beard, my God, his beard… Karl Marx would have been jealous. And then his voice… all croaky, as if the man had just downed a bottle of whiskey and washed it down with a bottle of bleach.

“I…” Peter began. He first wanted to tell he man he wasn’t his father… but then, why not have a little fun? Why not indeed, continue the masquerade, like that memorable day at the embassy? “How can I help you, my good man? Please, please, sit down.”

“Oh, thank you, Carruthers.”

“Cigar?”

“No, I want to get straight to business. The case is this. Remember that contract you signed, to take over my company?”

“Contract? Uh, yes, yes! Of course! How could I ever forget, right?”

“Indeed. Our board of directors has decided to go through with the sale, but yours is not the only bid. Now, I’m doing this only because we’re old friends, and you told me how much you need this company. I’ve managed to convince the board to grant you a period of 24 hours exclusivity. That is, tomorrow we will consider the other bids as well. And let’s face it, those will be better. I know how hard up on cash you are right now.”

Peter remained silent for a moment or two.

“Eh, Carruthers? What say you?”

“I…”

“Come on, it’s the offer of a lifetime! So open that safe and bring out the contract. I’m ready when you are,” the hairy visitor said, reaching into his jacket pocket to bring out a fountain pen.

“Right,” Peter said, trying to sound determined. He gingerly stepped towards the picture frame behind which his father’s safe was located. It wobbled as he tried to remove it.

“Oh come on, why won’t you budge?”

“Is anything the matter, Carruthers?”

“Oh, no, everything’s fine,” answered Peter, who gave another tug at the painting. Well, that removed it all right. It just broke the frame. “Um. No harm done! I’ll just have a new frame made.”

A new challenge presented itself. Peter was face to face with a safe, which had a lock with sixteen unmarked buttons on it. He stepped back to think, not noticing the painting on the floor. He stepped on it and slipped.

“Oh dear, are you all right?” asked the visitor.

“Yes, yes.”

“And what about the painting?”

“I’ll… I’ll have a new one painted.”

“Ah. Do let me know when you’ve succeeded in bringing back Rembrandt from the dead.”

“What? Oh. Well, anyway, let’s open up this baby!”

Peter typed in a random sequence on the keypad. Nothing happened. He grinned at the visitor, who seemed to be getting slightly impatient. After another two failed attempts, Peter decided it was time for rather more desperate measures. He searched through a cupboard, eventually finding a screwdriver. He tried to pry open the safe with that, but the whole thing broke off in his hands. The handle flew across the room, barely missing his guest.

“Oh. Sorry about that.”

“I assume you’ll have a new screwdriver made?”

“Huh? Oh, a joke! Haha. Yes, I might. Oh! I have an idea. Wait here!”

After half an hour, Peter returned, relieved to find that his guest hadn’t left yet.

“Here, this is bound to open it,” he said, brandishing a blowtorch. He was just about to switch it on when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Peter, sit down.”

Astonished at the sudden familiarity with which his visitor addressed him, Peter obeyed.

“Listen, son, this is why I can’t leave you in charge of the company when I’m away,” said Peter’s father, removing the ridiculous wig and false beard. “You were about to open your own safe with a blowtorch in front of a man who you didn’t even recognize as wearing a disguise.”

Peter hung his head, apparently embarrassed at what he had just done.

“Now, I still love you, Peter. It’s just that a business career isn’t for you. Maybe you should try painting.”

Peter looked up. “Oh my God! The painting! I ruined a priceless Rembrandt!”

“Priceless? Yes, you could say that. Nobody would put a price on a forgery like that.”

“Oh God, what have I done… wait, forgery?”

“Yes. Now run along and return that blowtorch. Meanwhile, I’ll see if I can get you a placement at the art academy. I’d feel a bit safer if you hung around there instead of at the office.”

This next story is based on a prompt from supmandude85 . Read and weep:

I have an idea: Freakazoid kills Batman and Sonic the Hedgehog is a witness. So, Sonic hides out on the moon, but Donald Duck tells Freakazoid where he is. Freakazoid goes to the moon and fights Sonic while Moe the bartender watches. Sonic gets killed and the Kool Aid Man eats his corpse. Then, the Grinch drinks the Kool Aid in the Kool Aid Man, but it’s laced with poison so, he turns into a chicken and sings “Hello, My Baby.” Then, Yakko Warner says “Good night, everybody.”

It has to include a talking Mexican cheeseburger vampire with an eyepatch who has a job as an Elvis impersonator.

Also, Strong Bad must make an appearance as a French poodle with a lisp.

Yes… that’s… interesting. The thing is, there’s not much space for me to work within, the story has already been written. Sure, I could add some flowery language here and there, but even then, the story would not be mine. So I’m doing things a bit differently here.

Fill In The Blanks

“You!” __________ said, staring at __________, who was standing over the lifeless body of __________.

__________ looked back at __________, astounded.

“Where did you come from?” __________ asked. And then __________ took out a __________ and went after __________.

__________ wasn’t stupid, however, and quickly ran to his/her/its hiding place on __________.

“Dang, now I’ve lost him,” __________ said. But from the corner of his/her/its eye, __________ saw a figure. It was __________, who told him/her/it where __________ was hiding.

__________ then proceeded to follow __________ into his/her/its hiding place. A big fight ensued. __________ watched it all, wiping out a milk glass. “That’s one fine battle,” he/she/it remarked.

At the end of the battle, only __________ was still standing. __________ appeared on the scene to eat __________’s corpse. But then __________ appeared to relieve __________ from his/her/its bodily fluids. However, said fluids were laced with poison, so __________ turned into a __________, and broke out into singing that timeless classic, “__________.”

__________ was joined in song by a __________ __________ __________ with a/an __________, who earned a little extra cash as a/an __________. He/She/It had brought along his/her/its pet __________ __________, who had a/an __________, but was actually __________ in disguise.

And then, __________ appeared and said: “__________.”

THE END

---

That’s it. Feel free to leave a comment where you fill in the blanks if you like!

After a short break of a few days (yeah, like any of you even noticed!) I’m back writing stories. I also found out that the ratings don’t quite work like I had hoped. That is, I can put multiple rating thingamajigs in the same post, but they’ll all display the same score. So for that reason, from now on I will not include multiple stories per post, but give each story its own post. That should give your stories the proper respect that they deserve, right? And not to mention, it’ll probably increase the number of hits on my site as well, but you didn’t hear that from me.

Anyway, with that out of the way, here’s another story, yay! This prompt is from TomPravetz , and it goes a little like this:

Considering that it is easy for ideas to get lost or passed over in this thread, I shall prepare.

-TomPravetz

Yes. That should work. (Do this and I shall use the full limits of my creative to test yours.)

Now, in the original post, “TomPravetz” was written in huge  letters, leaving no room for mistake that TomPravetz would indeed have to be the story’s main focus. Keeping that in mind, let’s start.

The Double

One day, TomPravetz went for a walk around the block, as he was wont to do. He was breathing in the fresh air, enjoying the warm sunlight on his face, when all of a sudden he was struck by a horrific event taking place right in front of him. A mother duck was leading her ducklings across the road, but to TomPravetz’ horror, a truck rolled towards the water birds at a tremendous speed, paying no heed to these newly-hatched additions to the already so fabulous landscape. TomPravetz did not hesitate for one moment, but jumped in the way, shielding the duck and her offspring.

“Stop!” he shouted.

The truck could not brake in time and sped towards TomPravetz, who was bravely holding his ground, encouraging the astonished mother duck to cross, assuring her that there was nothing to fear. The truck kept rolling on, until it came into contact with TomPravetz’ outstretched arms. Miraculously, this so slowed down the truck that it came to a grinding halt. TomPravetz then lifted up the truck and tossed it away into a ditch, leaving its driver confused but not injured.

“Thank you so much,” the mother duck said. “You saved our lives.”

“Oh, it was nothing,” said TomPravetz, for whom this was no more than his civic duty.

“At least… tell me your name…”

“My name,” said TomPravetz, “is TomPravetz.”

He rather expected the mother duck to say something like “I shall remember that name,” or “Thank you so much, TomPravetz, you are my new best friend.” Instead, he could only hear an outraged gasp, followed by an accusation.

“Liar!”

TomPravetz’ mouth fell open.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You are not TomPravetz!”

“I… what?”

The mother duck then brought a wing to her bill and pulled, removing what TomPravetz now noticed was a duck costume.

“But…” the astonished TomPravetz said, “you’re… me !”

And indeed, TomPravetz was now looking into his own face. The ex-duck was now the splitting image of his handsome self.

“How can this be?” he asked.

“Search within yourself, TomPravetz. Deep within, you know it to be true. I  am the real TomPravetz.”

“Yes, yes, I see it now. All these years, I’ve been living a lie. I am not TomPravetz! I am-” and TomPravetz, that is, the one who had stopped the truck, removed his mask, revealing a beautiful woman. “Yes,” she said. “I am actually PatriciaTomvetz!”

“Oh, PatriciaTomvetz,” TomPravetz (the former duck) said. “I… I love you.”

“I love you too,” PatriciaTomvetz answered. Then she remembered the ducklings. “Are these…”

“Yes, they are our children.”

And with that, the ducklings transformed into the cutest kids PatriciaTomvetz had ever seen, completing their happy family. For once, the cliché became a reality. They all  lived happily ever after.

Welcome to another instalment of Bouffon Stories. Today I have two more tales for you. The first one is for WarpSpeed , who had these words for me to work with:

Tow truck
Haystack
Suicide

Wait, that sounds too much like a Country song. We can’t have that, so let me also throw in…

Penguin

Let’s see what I can come up with…

The Needle, the Haystack, and the Penguin

So, there I was, driving my tow truck. Just another day on the road, on my way to pick up a tractor at a ranch. It could get very lonely on the road, but also very pretty. This would be one of the pretty days. The sun emitted its orange glow over the desert landscape, the wind blew gently in my face, and Johnny Cash was serenading me from my stereo. Little did I know then that this day would end in a, shall we say, unusual way.

When I reached a farm close the city, something crossed the road. An animal. That in itself wasn’t so unusual, but it is when that animal is a penguin. Why did the poor thing have to go on a suicide mission, and why did it have to do so in front of my truck? Thankfully, I managed to swerve the car just in time, avoiding the wintery bird. My tow truck ended up embedded in a haystack, but not much damage was done.

I jumped off the truck and rushed to the penguin, checking if it was all right. Just when I stooped over it, I felt a sharp sensation in my neck. It felt like a needle. I staggered backwards and fell down into the haystack. Well, I thought, this is it. I managed to prevent the penguin’s suicide, and now I’m dying myself.

Later in the hospital, when I came to – thank God! – I heard what had really happened. A penguin had escaped from the zoo, and in order to catch it, they wanted to shoot it with a tranquilizer dart. Instead, they hit me with it. All in all, it ended well for both me and the penguin. When I think back to it, I can’t help but laugh, because the dart came loose when I fell. And now someone is looking for a needle in a haystack.

---

The next one is a very interesting prompt, by RetroVortex , who told me I could write any story. That’s easy, right? But there’s a catch. I have to use the word “cake” exactly 21 times. I hope I can keep things interesting…

Baking

“Mmmm, this cake is going to be delicious,” Sarah said, licking her finger after tasting some of the batter.

“Sarah! Stop that,” said her sister Becka. “You’ll ruin it.”

“Oh, come now, baking a cake is a piece of cake for you!”

“Oh, that reminds me. Sarah, do be a dear and check if the birds have enough food left.”

“But I replaced the cake yesterday!”

“Yes, and maybe they’ve eaten it already! You do know how much they enjoy those peanut things.”

“Bah, let them eat cake!”

“They won’t be able to if you don’t give it to them, Marie Antoinette.”

“Oh, very well…”

Just as Sarah went out, she passed a boy coming in, carrying a box.

“Oh, hello, little brother.”

“Hi! Look what I’ve got!”

“Look, Jim, I’m a bit busy right now. I have to give the birds a new peanut cake. But you can show it to Becka if you like.”

The boy eagerly ran inside. He couldn’t wait to show his sister.

“Hey Jimmy, what’ve you got there?”

“A cake.”

“But I’m baking a cake!”

“No, no, not that kind of cake… look…”

The boy opened the box, revealing a cake firework. Becka’s eyes widened.

“Take that out of here immediately!”

“Why?” asked Sarah, who had just returned from feeding the birds.

“Because it’s dangerous, that’s why! Look! Little boys like Jimmy shouldn’t be playing with fireworks, especially this kind!”

“Oh, come now,” said Sarah, who never saw the true danger in anything, “it’s not like it’s yellow cake!”

“What?”

“You know, that uranium thing? Anyway, Jim… maybe Becka is right. Better bring it back to the shop.”

“Oh, okay…” Jim said.

“And when you come back, you can give me hand with decorating the cake.”

“Yippee!” said Jimmy, who ran off to the store to return the cake firework.

“You know,” said Becka, “this may just be the best cake I’ve ever made.

“You think? I think you may be right in that.”

“Okay, let’s put it in the oven and wait.”

“Oh, I have an idea! Let’s try that puzzle again. You know, from the puzzle book I got the other day.”

“Puzzle? What puzzle?”

“The one with the cake number!”

“Oh! Yes, that seems strangely appropriately. Although our cake is not a cube.”

“Oh, well, that doesn’t really matter.”

“No, you’re right. And maybe the cake number is a lie anyway!”

The two girls laughed at their little in-joke and sat down, trying to figure out how many parts they could get out of a cube with 7 cuts. They didn’t really expect to find out this cake number before their own cake would be ready, but at least it gave them something to do.

They were suddenly interrupted by a sound. They had anticipated it to be the oven, or maybe the doorbell to signal Jimmy’s return. But it was a song. Frank Sinatra  by Cake – Becka’s ringtone.

“Hello? Who is this? Police? Oh, God. Ill… illegal fireworks? Yes, but I told him to take it back to the store. He did? Good. What? What?! You… you can’t be… I… God, NO!”

She dropped the phone from her hands.

“What is it?” Sarah asked, anxious to hear the news.

“Jimmy… Jimmy… he… won’t be here to decorate our cake…” was all Becka could utter before she lost consciousness.

I’ve updated this blog with some new features. For instance, you can now rate the Bouffon Stories I write. Please do so! The more ratings I get, the better I am able to determine which stories I should include in the anthology. Also, you can now give comments a thumbs up or down rating. Now you people just need to start commenting. Don’t be shy! And finally, I’ve made it a bit easier for you to submit writing prompts for the Bouffon Stories. Just go to this page and leave a comment , it’s that simple.

Now, on to the stories for today. The first one is for TTG forum member Ribs , who came up with this elaborate prompt:

Okay, I’ll try something else too; three lines of dialogue, two props, and a basic premise/setting.

-”Well, that’s what I call a difficult seal to club.”
-”You cannot conquer the galaxy without the space crystal!”
-”So are you and Mark still together?”

-A revolver
-A purple balloon

-A politician announcing an affair with his mistress

Here’s the result.

Somewhere Over The Arctic

“Well, that’s what I call a difficult seal to club,” Mark said, looking over the edge of the basket held up by a purple hot air balloon. “Oh, sorry, Yvonne… It’s just that I deal with these things on a daily basis, and I get desensitized, right?”

“Right, right, sure.”

“I mean, it’s all good, right? Oh, darling,” he said, filling his lungs with the cold polar air, “you really must love me very much that you booked us this amazing trip.”

“Right, right, sure.”

“Darling? Is something the matter?”

“No. I just wish that for once, you were honest with me.”

“Honest? What do you mean?”

“Oh, come on, I’m not blind! I know all about you and that hussy… Paulette.” The last word came out as if Yvonne had just bit on her tongue and spat out the blood.

Mark gulped. “Look. Listen. I… I don’t know what you know… what you think  you know, but…”

“Just tell me this. Is it true?”

“I…” Mark hung his head. “Yes.”

“Good. That’s all I wanted to hear.”

Yvonne took a cell phone out of her purse.

“What… what are you going to do?”

She didn’t answer.

“Oh, hi, Paulette, it’s you, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Paulette answered, confused.

“Look, it’s me, Yvonne.”

“Yvonne? Oh! What… what’s up?”

“Mark just told me all about you two.”

“Really now,” Paulette said, and she started laughing heartily. “So are you and Mark still together?”

“Not for long,” Yvonne answered, and she ended the call. Then she ordered the balloon pilot to land.

“You can’t land here!” Mark said.

“You’ll find that there is very little I can’t do,” Yvonne said, taking a revolver out of her purse.

“Now look, you can’t do that.”

“Why not, mister high and mighty governor? Always giving out orders, feeling like you’re… you’re… yes, like you’re a space crystal in a science fiction film. Everyone is always looking up to you, longing for you, everyone wants a piece of you. Well, not anymore. This is the end of the line. Get out.”

“But, surely…”

“I said get out of the basket!” Yvonne snapped, pointing the revolver at her husband.

“Now it’s my turn to conquer the galaxy,” she said, leaving Mark behind in the barren Arctic landscape.

“You cannot conquer the galaxy without the space crystal!” Mark shouted after the ascending balloon.

“You can if you get yourself a new crystal…” Yvonne said. Her lips curled into a smile as she embraced the balloon pilot. “To South America… darling.”

---

Next up is a prompt that took me a while to get my head around. It’s by Lucoshi , and it goes like this:

Strong Bad
Vocaloid!

Not knowing what Vocaloid was didn’t help either, but like a good writer, I did some research. Fortunately I am  familiar with Strong Bad, but even then, getting him into a story isn’t particularly easy. The character was made  for cartoons. I didn’t want to turn it into fan fiction either, at least not blatantly so. So anyway, here’s the result.

Hiring

Two businessmen sat at a desk, looking through piles of paper.

“What do you think of this one?”

“Hmm, no, not creative enough.”

“And this one?”

“Yes, that’s more like it, but look at all those spelling errors! No, that one goes straight into the bin.”

After an hour of this, they came to the last sheet in the pile. That one was rejected as well.

“So, what now? Do we just hire nobody and do it ourselves?”

“What?! You mean work ? But then who’ll run the company?”

“The same people who do it already. The accountant, the tea lady, the wage slaves.”

“Tell you what. There’s one application I haven’t included. Mainly because it’s not on paper.”

The man pulled a disc out of his jacket pocket.

“What’s that?”

“I’ve got no idea. Could be a virus. Could be anything, really.”

“Hmmm… okay, let’s see.”

It was a DVD.

“Who’s that?” one of the men said, pointing to a figure that had just appeared on screen.

“Oh, I know, that’s… uh… String Bod or something. My son watches these cartoon thingies on the Internet, and I’ve seen that guy once.”

“Oh. Ah, he’s going to say something.”

“Hello you guys. My name is Strong Bad, and I’m going to sing you a song!” the character on screen said. It then transformed into an anime character with blue hair, and began singing a most unusual song, with pitches way outside any human being’s range.

“That… that was…”

“Beautiful,” agreed the other businessman.

“Yeah, and that’s some skill with Vocaloid ! Just what we need for our new ad campaign!” He picked up the phone. “Miss Evans, please send in the applicant who gave us that disc.”

A few moments later, a little yellow… thing… with black spots… came walking in.

“Mwee?”

“Uh. Hello. You’re… uh… hired. I guess.”

“Mwoo wee mroo!”

I know what this looks like. The day before yesterday, I wrote four stories. Yesterday, three. Today I’m writing two. Rest assured that I’m not gradually decreasing the amount of stories per day until it reaches zero. It’s just that you awesome people keep coming up with more outlandish concepts, that push my creativity to its limits. That’s not a bad thing, of course! I like my creativity stretched like a rubber band. It just means the time it takes for me to work on a story may increase. But enough blabbing, I know you’re dying to read these stories!

So, first up is another trio of themes from Telltale Games forumer seibert999 .

gods
transformation
darkness

Now, if you think that can only result in a clichéd story, think again.

For Science

“Mister President, walk this way please.”

“I must say, I’m very curious about what you’ve been doing here. That telegram of yours certainly piqued my interest.”

A man in a white coat, wearing horn-rimmed glasses, gently ushered the head of state into a room devoid of any decoration. Only one wall was different from the other three, in that it had a large window. And beneath the window stood a console full of buttons, levers, and controls that made the president slightly nervous.

“Don’t be alarmed, Mister President. Now, let me explain all about our experiments. You have probably heard about DNA replication.”

“Uh, yes, yes, of course,” said the president, who went to business school and knew nothing about biology, but he had to keep up appearances.

“Normally, that process takes place in our body, allowing us to make new cells. Now, scientists have figured out a way to do that outside the body. That’s nothing new though, we’ve known about that for decades.”

“Then… what is it that you’re doing here that’s so special?”

“Ah. Suppose… suppose one could isolate DNA from dead tissue and replicate it. And I’m not talking about things that died recently. Of course, we started experimenting on lab mice, each time increasing the period between death and DNA recovery. We found that there was no loss of quality over time, so we started to experiment with older things. Much  older things.”

“You mean… like… dinosaurs ?”

“Oh, no, Mister President. We’re not trying to create some sort of Jurassic Park or anything. We’re scientists , after all. No, we thought: what do we really  want to know? The big things in life. Where will we go, and…”

“Where do we come from?”

“Exactly. And we think we have solved part of that puzzle by bringing this baby back from the dead.”

The scientist flipped a switch, showing the figure of a being that was something halfway between a man and an ape, blinking and shielding its eyes.

“What… what is it?” the president asked, astounded.

” She  is a Neanderthal, one of our early ancestors. And the fun thing is, we can actually understand her. It took a team of some of the world’s best anthropologists and linguists to crack the code, but now we have built a machine that interprets her growling noises and transforms it into English, using speech synthesis.”

The president looked at him questioningly.

“You know, like that thing Stephen Hawking had.”

“Ah, yes. Well, I’m interested to hear what he… er… she has to say.”

The scientist pressed some buttons, and a whirring noise was heard. That was then interrupted by the mechanical sound of a voice.

“You… gods? You gods! Me worship you!”

“This is…”

“Amazing?” the scientist offered.

“Well, yes, but the word I was looking for was ‘frightening’.”

“Ah, yes, she tends to have that effect at first. You get used to it quickly though. See, the thing is, the shock of being brought to our modern times has confused her. She thinks we’re gods. Which is interesting, because it tells us the Neanderthals had some form of religion.”

The president stood there, shaken. All he could do was look at the primitive figure behind the glass, rambling about gods.

“Well,” the scientist said, “best not keep her too excited for too long. “I can see you need some time to take this all in yourself. Okay, let’s switch off the lights.”

“No! Me afraid! Me no like darkness!”

The president, who was already on the verge of leaving, turned around. “Um, professor… she… she doesn’t seem to enjoy herself.”

“Yes, but what can you do? That’s not the point, is it? We’re not here for her enjoyment. We’re here to further our knowledge. That’s what counts.”

“I… I suppose it does,” the president answered, swallowing the lump in his throat.

---

The second one is another of RetroVortex ‘ ideas.

List of props:

- Glass of Milk
- Rock
- ipad
- Gentleman’s Magazine
- Loin Cloth
- Plasma Rifle
- Brocolli
- Hammer
- A DVD of Happy Feet

There is one logical way I have thought of including all these elements, and it would involve a short story about maybe a modern couple fighting over whether to watch TV, (a bit of channel surfing), a DVD, or to play Halo 3, which could then escelate to other petty argument, maybe even a major argument, and an eventual resolution.

However, thats too easy.

Which is why you have to also include this:

- Surrealism

Now, personally I think that adding the element of surrealism has made it a bit easier. After all, you can fit anything you like into a surreal story, right? Even so, adding in all these elements can prove to be a bit tricky. I’ll try.

Sentenced to Broccoli

“Hear ye, hear ye!” said a judge, hitting his hammer on an anvil to attract attention. “We are gathered together here for the case of the state of Subconsciousness versus Lopez. Brrrrrring in the accused!”

Charlie Lopez was brought in by two police officers, both wearing loincloths. One was blue, the other a fashionable pink.

“Now, Mister…?”

“Lopez,” Charlie whispered.

“Do you plead guilty?”

“Guilty of what?”

Gasps reverberated around the courtroom.

“WHAT?! You mean you claim to have no knowledge of the facts you perpetrated? Bailiff, bring me more chocolates. What? No, the ones with caramel in. Yes.”

Five minutes passed. The bailiff returned, red in the face. “Your honour, here they are.”

“About time. Now,” the judge continued, stuffing his face with chocolates and taking a big swig from a glass of milk, nearly choking, “let’s resume. The facts, I presume, are clear to all present?”

The assembled crowd synchronously nodded in approval.

“Do you deny,” the judge said, addressing Charlie, “that you have threatened to shoot these upstanding law officers with a plasma rifle?”

“I do.”

“Then how do you explain this ?”

The bailiff brought in an iPad.

“Hm?”

“I have no recollection of ever…”

“I’m sure you don’t, Mister Lopez! And yet, members of the jury, look what happens when I switch this thing on! Look here! This is nothing more or less than a copy of that subversive piece of literature that is widely known to be only read by anarchists! Yes, genties and ladlemen, I speak of that despicable Gentleman’s Magazine !”

Cries of foul and shame were uttered by all present.

“But that is not all, no… this… filthy  individual has implicated himself even further! Bailiff! You lazy piece of work! Bring in exhibit B, at the double!”

The bailiff hurried out and returned in the blink of an eye. He popped a DVD into a player and pressed a button. The film Happy Feet  was projected onto one of the courtroom’s walls. After a few minutes, the judge hit his head against the anvil.

“I think we have seen quite enough of that filth! I think by now it is no great surprise when I tell you that the defendant has not only this film, but many other similar immoral pictures in his possession.”

“You dirty pervert!” someone in the audience cried, throwing a rock at Charlie Lopez.

“Bailiff, remove that man. That is not how we do justice here. Charlie Lopez Bloom, I hereby sentence you to a life of eating broccoli!”

“But… but I don’t even like broccoli!”

* * *

Charlie woke up, bathing in sweat. He looked at the clock.

“Oh God, I’ve overslept.”

He rushed down without even taking off his pyjamas.

“Betty, I’m late for work!”

“Charlie, what’s wrong? It’s Saturday, don’t you remember?”

“Oh… oh… yes, now I do.”

“You look a bit distressed. Tell you what, how about we stay at home today and watch a nice movie? Let’s see, what to watch… oh, I know, we haven’t watched that one you bought at the jumble sale. You know, the one with the dancing penguins? What is it, darling? You’re looking a bit pale. You need some good food, get that blood rushing to your head again! Something with lots of vitamins… oh, I know! How about broccoli? I know you’re not fond of it and we haven’t eaten it in years, but… darling? Oh God, Charlie, what’s the matter? Wake up!”

That time where I write stories based on your  prompts. The first one is for Telltale Gamer Profanity , who gave me these themes to work with:

Kings
Crows
Night

And that resulted in the following concoction.

A Royal Mistake

A young man kneels down before a stone. The moon shines its light on the stone, revealing the words “Here lies our king”. The young man is wearing something on his head. A crown. He speaks.

“Father… I never wanted this burden. And I would bear it, I would, if only I had some help. But I have none. Everybody died in that battle. I’m the only one left of your line and I haven’t got the mettle to prove our strength. Oh, father, if only I would have had another year in peace with you. I would trade this crown for that… even just a day of being with you, sitting at a banquet, entertaining and being entertained, not a care in the world. Now I have nothing.”

He takes the crown from his head and studies it carefully. He smiles. It is a sarcastic smile.

“Ha! They said you would always be here with me. At the moment of my coronation, those silly, stupid, idiotic priests… they said you would be with me from that moment on. What do they know!”

The man hangs his head. A black bird looks at him curiously.

“All that studying of holy scriptures… where did it get them? Where did it get you, me, our kingdom? Nowhere, that’s where!”

The bird, a crow, approaches the young man, who has spotted it.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, go away! I’m in the middle of something here.”

The crow, startled, jumps back. It flies off.

“And what a stupid religion we had. Really now,” he says, turning the crown around in his hands nonchalantly, “who would be so stupid to believe all the kings of old would reincarnate in this, a man-made piece of gold?”

The man hangs his head. When he looks up, he sees that the crow has landed on his father’s gravestone.

“Caw.”

“Look, what do you want? I have no food. Just, go away…”

The bird comes closer. It gently nudges the man with its beak, in an unmistakably affectionate fashion. The man’s eyes open wide.

“You mean… oh! Oh, I get it now! Those priests with their books, they couldn’t even read properly! The old kings don’t reincarnate in a crown… but in a crow !”

“Caw! Caw! Caw!”

---

The next one is a request from Chyron8472 :

Guybrush Threepwood’s origin story.

(please don’t make him a child in a delusional pirate fantasy.)

That means I won’t be able to publish this story in the first (yes, I’m already assuming there will be more than one) Bouffon Stories anthology, due to legal difficulties. But I don’t mind writing a bit of fan fiction now and then, especially if it’s Monkey Island.

A Pirate Is Born

“Now, dear, don’t forget your lunch. And have fun at school!”

“Yes, mom,” Guybrush said, acting as if he would have fun. In reality, he hated it. The boys were always picking on him for his unusual name. It didn’t help that his parents weren’t exactly rich, and most of the other children’s parents were. Filthily so. It’s only logical when you think of it. On a Caribbean island such as this one, which was aptly named Pinchpenny Island, there were bound to be masses of traders from England, who had come here to increase their fortune. There were also bound to be butchers, bakers, fishermen, grocers, and farmers. And there were the people who skinned the fish. Guybrush found his father a generally likable fellow, but sometimes he wished he was the son of one of the wealthy traders. Today started out as one of these days.

When Guybrush approached the school, he could already make out the group of bullies. This would be another one of those days, he thought, shaking his head.

“Oh, look, it’s Guybrush Threepwimpy again!”

“Ha, ha! Ew, you stink of fish!”

“Come on then, Guybrush, paint us a picture with your magic brush!”

Just as he had always done, he pushed past them. But something was different now. He was stopped at the entrance by a particularly nasty boy. The boy looked as if he could have easily been pushed aside by even the wimpiest of kids, but looks deceived. The little kid was actually pretty strong, and he pushed over Guybrush.

“Hey, why did you do that?” Guybrush asked, dismayed.

“Because.”

“Because what?”

“Because I can!”

The other kids laughed. Guybrush prayed that nothing worse would happen. But his hopes were in vain, for the kid took a dead herring from out of his bag, and started hitting Guybrush with it. When he saw the teacher approaching in the distance, he stuffed the herring into Guybrush’ pocket, who was looking and smelling pretty miserable by this point.

“Remember, Guybrush,” the kid said as he entered the school. “Wherever you hide, on deck or among the cargo, you can’t ever run away from Largo!”

“Oh yeah,” Guybrush said below his breath, making sure Largo couldn’t hear him. “Well, one day I’m going to get even with you. One day…”

---

And now for something completely different. This one is for Jon NA , who gave me the following to work with:

Misunderstanding
Atheism
Tragedy

Tantrum

“I hate you!”

“Lizzy!”

“Yes, I hate you and everything you stand for!”

“But… but why? We’ve always been good to you, haven’t we? We love you, the people love you! They worship you like they do us!”

“Yes, and that’s exactly what I hate. They worship you, but why? What have you ever done to them!”

“Lizzy, stop that nonsense. Listen to your mother, she is right. For heaven’s sake, we created them.”

“So you keep telling me. But is that true?”

“What do you mean is that true? Lizzy, I’ve a good mind to spank you!”

“Now, now, Gaia, let me handle this. You know as well as I do, Lizzy, that it’s true. If you don’t believe us, then listen to the people, the people who love you.”

“You think? You really think they love you? They hate you! And some of them don’t even believe you exist at all! You know what I think of your people? The people you supposedly created? This!”

* * *

“Brothers and sisters, we have gathered together here to pray for a swift end to this war. Please join us in a prayer to Lyssa, goddess of madness, that she may confuse the ranks of our enemies and turn them against each other!”

A loud noise was heard as the temple shook on its foundations. The believers attending the service just stood there for a moment, blinking. Then they killed each other.

By some stroke of luck, the priest who had prayed for this event to happen (albeit on the other side of the conflict), was miraculously spared. For a moment, he just stood there, blinking. Then he took the bronze statuette depicting Lyssa and threw it into the furnace.

“Damn all this,” he said, as he shut the temple door behind them for the last time.

* * *

“Lizzy! Don’t ever do that again!”

“I… I’m sorry… I don’t know what came over me…”

“Now, there, there.”

Gaia took the little girl on the arm and kissed her on the forehead. The goddesses smiled at each other. And below them, mothers and daughters cried when they heard news of what happened at the temple.