Dinosaur Ghost Chapter 6: Dangerous Emissions

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Rock Benson swirled his martini and smiled.  He enjoyed the luxurious splendor of his twenty eight-foot stretch Hummer.  The hot tub was his favorite part.  Setting his glass on the side, he eased himself into the bubbling cauldron.

Rock’s career had been soaring ever since Obama took office. Hundreds of thousands of disaffected white people seemed to have sprung out of the proverbial woodwork, and they tuned in each night to watch his stiff-lipped, hard-fisted, knee-jerk reaction to the events of the day.  His talk show, Rock Bottom, was now one of the highest rated “news” shows on cable.  (The network’s legal department insisted on using quotation marks whenever describing their programming as news.)

But it was this part of the day, after taping, that Rock loved best.  Now he could close his eyes and replay that evening’s show against the backdrop of his eyelids, and in transcript form.

Cue Music that relies heavily on timpani and bass drums.

Rock: Good evening, Ladies and Gentlemen, I’m Rock Benson, and you’ve hit Rock Bottom. Tonight we have two special guests, each representing an opposing view on a controversial topic. Is Global Warming real or is it liberal bunk? We’ll present both opinions and then let you decide. First up is Professor Jeffrey Nerdlemeyer, head of climate science at Harvard University. He thinks global warming is real. Thanks for being here, Mr. Nerdlemeyer. Tell us your opinion.

Professor Nerdlemeyer: My name is Silvermeyer, Dr. Silvermeyer, and it’s not just my opinion.  Global climate change is very real, and overwhelming evidence suggests that human activity has exacerbated the problem.

Rock: Then why am I cold right now?

Professor Nerdlemeyer: You’re sitting underneath a vent. As I was saying, greenhouse gasses, like those released from burning fossil fuels, trap sunlight in the atmosphere, sunlight that would otherwise be reflected into space.

Rock: Space? That seems a little farfetched, don't you think?

Professor Nerdlemeyer: Excuse me?

Rock: This isn’t Star Wars, Professor. It’s 2014.

Professor Nerdlemeyer: I’m not sure what you mean.  As I was saying. The trapped sunlight warms the planet, which is why the poles are melting, ocean temperatures are rising, and every year is the warmest year on record. The consequences of all this could be catastrophic.

Rock: Are you aware that other scientists suggest that you're making all this up, and even if your aren't then we’re all screwed anyway, so why bother doing anything?

Professor Nerdlemeyer: I don’t understand why some people refuse to believe in the greenhouse effect.  It’s something any seventh grader can prove at a science fair.

Rock: (Laughing) Nice try, Professor. Now it’s time to talk with a real scientist. Dr. Kooky Westerball is a professor of Scientific Studies at the Online Institute of Port-O-Prince. Doctor Westerball, you’re a doctor, is that correct?

Dr. Kooky: Yes, Rock. I have a PHD in Factitious Anomalies from The Tennessee Valley Creationist College. I also hold several other advanced degrees, including an MBA, an MFA, an MBFA, a BFF, and an LOL, from various online programs based at junior colleges throughout South America.

Rock: Pretty impressive. Why don’t you tell our viewers why Mr. Nerdlemeyer is a liberal propagandist looking to make a fast buck perpetuating the myth of Global Warming?

Professor Nerdlemeyer: Wait a second. How could I possibly profit from this?

Rock: Come on, Professor.  You’re just out to sell your book.

Professor Nerdlemeyer: But I don’t even have a book.  And even if I did, it’s not like I would get rich.  At best I’d sell a few thousand copies, and maybe make enough to support myself for a year or two.

Rock: You had your shot, Rich Boy. It’s Dr. Westerball’s turn.  Go ahead, Doc.

Dr. Kooky: Well, Rock, it has been constitutionally proven by world renowned Scienceologists—these are professionals fluent in Einstonian Geometrics, Quasi-Judicial Influenzas, and Bi-Curial Menstruations—that global climate change is easily attributable to normal Paleozoic fluctuations of the Ionosphere—just like the Ice Age suffered by Ray Romano and his friends in that movie Ice Age.  Also, current temperatic abstractions can be traced back to the fact that God is mad about gay marriage.

Rock: (Fascinated) Really? I had no idea Ray Romano was gay in that movie.

Dr. Kooky: He was the way I watched it.

Rock: Well, folks, there you have it. Two renowned scientists with two completely different takes on the whole global warming myth. Personally, I don’t know what to think. I’m stumped.

Dr. Kooky: I thought you were Rock.

(They laugh while the professor buries his head in his hands.)

Rock: Well, that’s it. Thanks for joining us.  Tune in tomorrow night, when, once again, you’ll hit Rock Bottom.  Goodnight, Everybody!

Cue drum music.

Rock pushed the button for the retractable roof and watched as a beautiful night sky opened up above him. He tossed his empty martini glass out of the moon roof, then stood up to see if it landed on a homeless person. Unfortunately, the street was deserted. Settling back into his bath, he reached along the edge of the hot tub until he found a Cuban cigar and a solid gold Zippo lighter with diamond inlays.

With the swarm of bubbles tickling his nether regions, Rock failed to notice a long tail slithering through his legs.  With his eyes closed, he failed to spot the six-foot spikes jutting out of the water.  With his ears full of wax, he failed to hear the giant armored plates scraping his upholstered ceiling.  With his mind so wrapped up in thoughts about himself, he completely missed the seventeen-ton shimmering stegosaurus, now scratching its butt against the side of his hot tub.

It was unfortunate for Rock that his stretch Hummer lacked the prehistoric vegetation that once constituted the stegosaurus’s diet. The enormous reptile had to settle for raiding the mini-fridge, where it quietly devoured a platter of expensive French cheese and escargot. And it was to Rock Benson’s greatest misfortune that at the precise moment he sparked his Cuban cigar; the Stegosaurus let loose a potent blast of flatulence that incinerated him.
Go to chapter 7

Dinosaur Ghost Chapter 5: This Poop Gets Complicated

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Helen and Eric spent the rest of the afternoon taking selfies in front of the dinosaur ghost poop.

“This is awesome,” Eric said.  “We’re going to be famous.”  He put his  arm around Helen.  “Smile,” he said. 

Helen tried to smile, but her anxiety level was rising.  Oh my gosh, he’s so cute, she thought.

Just then, her iPhone started playing “La Cucaracha.”  Looking down at the phone, she saw James’s face glaring up at her.  As in all photos, he was sticking out his tongue and using his fingers to make devil horns over his  forehead.

 “I’m sorry, Eric.  I have to take this,” she said.

“No problem,” Eric said.  “I’m going to post these photos to Twitter and Instagram.”

Helen walked a short distance away and pressed the answer button.  “Hey, Baby,” she said in a voice normally reserved for talking to actual babies.

“Don’t ‘Hey Baby’ me, Babe.  Where the hell are you?” James asked.  She heard a sound and knew he was crushing a beer can against his forehead.  A golf match played in the background.

“I told you,” she said.  “I had to do that thing.  With the dinosaur bones.  You know, to help me get into grad school.” 

She looked over at Eric.  He was smiling and dancing around while talking into his cell phone. He was obviously celebrating.  She wanted to go celebrate with him.

“Yeah, well, I need you here,” James said.

“But James, this is important.”

“Oh, and I’m not?"

"Of course you are."

"If that's true, you'll come home right away.  I can’t find the remote control anywhere, and I’m sick  of watching commercials.”

“Did you look under your butt?” Helen asked.

“What did you say?”

“Nothing, it’s just that the last time you lost the remote, you were sitting on it.”

“Damn it, Helen!  I’m not sitting on the remote.”  There was a sudden pause on the other side of the call.

“James?  Are you there?”

“Okay, this time I was sitting on it, but the next time it could really be lost. I need you to come home right away.”

“Baby, please.”

“Don’t ‘Baby, please’ me, Babe.  I said, come home right now.”  The call ended.

“Darn it,” Helen said.  She gazed up at the sky and screamed, “I am so sick of my boyfriend!”

“Thompson!  Who is this person?”

Helen was startled to discover that another character had stumbled into their scene.  He looked to be in his early sixties. He had thinning hair and a white beard that he stroked in between puffs off a rather elegant walnut tobacco pipe.

“That’s Helen, sir.  She’s been... helping me.”

“I see.  Perhaps if you weren't out here getting “helped” by some harlot, I wouldn't be missing a bloody stegosaurus!”

“Now, see here...”  Eric began.

“No, Thompson, you see here.  You see here this instant.  You’re fired!”

“What?” Eric looked as if he’d been punched in the stomach.  “Please, Dr. Watson.  Allow me to explain.”

“I think you have explained quite enough, Thompson.”

“You asshole!” Helen cried.  Even as she spoke she could hardly believe the words coming out of her mouth.  She went over to Dr. Watson, grabbed the arm of his tweed jacket, and began leading him toward their discovery.  “Eric has done nothing wrong here.  If you would just close your mouth for one second and listen, you would realize that Eric has made the paleological find of the century.”

“Helen, there’s something I have to tell you.” Eric said.

“No, Eric.  I won’t let him do this to you. Dr. Watson, come look at this. It’s right behind this boulder over here.”

“Helen, I've been trying to tell you.  Look at your phone.”

“What about my phone?” Helen released Dr. Watson.  She glanced down at her phone.  It looked fine.

“Check the camera roll,” Eric said.

“And just what is it I’m supposed to see?” Dr. Watson asked.  He was standing by the boulder.

Open your eyes, why don’t you?  Helen wanted to say.  She continued to scroll through her pictures.  What was it she was supposed to see?

“I've had quite enough of this.  Thompson, I want your office cleaned out by the end of the day.”

The pictures! There was Helen, and there was Eric, but where was the poop?  It had vanished from every single photo.  It was almost like you couldn't take pictures of ghost poop or something.  

She dropped the phone and ran to the boulder.  

Eric hung his head.  

Dr. Watson hopped in his jeep and drove away.  

Helen searched the area, but it was no use.  It wasn't just the pictures.  The entire poop had vanished.

Eric came up next to her. “There goes my career.”

Helen nodded as if realizing something.  “Of course it disappeared,” she said.  She searched her bag for one of her thingamabobs and then used it to scan the vicinity.  “The poop was just a temporal imprint.  Like ghosts themselves, their poop is only visible for a short time before it returns to the ghost netherworld from whence it came.”

She gathered her gear and started walking to her car.

 “What are you doing now?” Eric asked.

“I have to go.”

“Wait,” Eric said, running after her.  “What are we going to do about this?”

Helen stopped, leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.  “I’ll meet you at your office later.  We’ll get to the bottom of this, but there is something I have to take care of first.”

“But... but... but...”

Helen slammed the door of her Volvo and drove away.

“But I don’t have a ride,” Eric said softly, but there was no one around to hear him.

Back at her apartment, Helen dropped her purse on the kitchen counter and called out to James.

“James,” she called, “we need to talk.”

She followed the noise from the television into the den.  A professional badminton game was playing (one of James’s ten favorite sports), and a bucket of chicken bones (gross!) rested on the floor beside his recliner.  James was no where to be seen.

He must be in the bathroom, she thought.

“James,” she said, going to the bathroom door.  “I've made a very important decision.  When you come out of there, we need to talk.  Is this going to be a long one?”

Looking down, she noticed red liquid sliding under the bathroom door.  “Oh no,” she said.  “The water turned red again.   I’ll call the super.  James, don’t try to fix anything.  James? Do you hear me?”  She reached for her cell phone, and started scrolling through a list of names.  She could see the bathroom light through a crack in the door and heard water running in the bathtub.  “James, turn off the water.  You’re making a huge mess.”

She reached down to turn the knob, noticed the door was ajar, and gave it a gentle push.  She gasped when she saw James on the toilet, slumped over, another bucket of chicken bones resting beside him.

Running to him, she called out,  “James! James, wake up!”

Red water continued to overflow the bathtub.  James is dead and the pipes are broken: this is too much for me to deal with right now, she thought.  She pressed two fingers against his neck and confirmed her worst fears: he didn't have a pulse.  And what happened to your shirt? 

A trio of slice marks ran down the front of his wife beater, almost as if some kind of large animal had attacked him.  She lifted his shirt, probed his rolling belly fat, and found three scratch marks, not deep enough to end his life--that appeared to be a result of a heart attack--but clearly visible.  Whatever did this wasn’t human, she told herself.

It was difficult to see through all the steam rising from the hot water faucet, but she managed, with shaking fingers, to tap out the numbers 9-1-1.  Looking up, she stared at the steam-covered mirror.

“What is your emergency?” A woman’s voice asked.

Helen continued to stare at the mirror, unable to speak.  In crude, rudimentary scrawl, someone had written in the steam.  It was difficult to read, but Helen clearly recognized the single word and understood its implications.  This is what it said: ROAR.
Continue to chapter 6

Dinosaur Ghost Chapter 4: Conservative Repellent

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Herman sat upright in bed, his body trembling uncontrollably and drenched in sweat.

 “Go back to sleep,” his wife Lita said groggily. “It was just another dream.” 

“It wasn’t,” Herman insisted.  “It was real. I saw it.”  His voice dropped to a whisper.  “The dinosaur ghost.”

“It wasn’t real.” Lita assured him. “You know there’s no such thing as dinosaurs.”

“But what about all those bones in the museums?” Sweat continued to rain down his brow.

“That’s just liberal propaganda.”

Herman nodded. “And ghosts?”

 “Well, of course ghosts are real,” Lita said, “but dinosaurs are purely speculative.”

Herman began taking in and releasing deep breaths. Slowly, his heart rate returned to normal.  “You’re right,” he said. “It was just a dream.”

“Just a dream,” Lita repeated. Her voice transformed into snore.

“But it seemed so real.” Herman whispered.

The rest of the morning proved uneventful. Herman went about his normal routine. He showered, dressed, gobbled down the microwaveable hotcakes and bacon Lita had lovingly placed on a stick, and then took one last swallow of coffee. Lita met him at the door with his briefcase. He kissed her once on the lips and planted another on her protruding belly button.

“Have a good day little boy,” he said to her stomach, adding, “little Bruce Willis.”

As he strolled down the driveway, his nightmare long forgotten, he felt safe and comfortable, and he was about to feel even more so.  He climbed  up the steps and into his own private fortress, The Leviathan, the biggest SUV ever manufactured outside of a military facility. It got only two thirds of a mile to the gallon, but it more than made up for poor fuel efficiency with its ability to intimidate other drivers.

“Hello, Beautiful,” He said, stroking the padded leather dashboard.  He settled into plush seats made from the skin of a small herd of Italian cattle. He leaned forward and kissed the steering wheel. He loved this car: the powerful engine, the luxurious interior, and the capacity to literally crush any other vehicle on the road. He kissed the steering wheel again and then fingered the gear shift. As his tongue flickered against leather, he suddenly remembered he was driving. 

The moment coincided with a sudden jolt that rocked him out of his seat.  He frantically steered his vehicle back onto the road, while checking both directions to make sure there were no witnesses. 

“No problem,” he said, calming himself once more. He patting the dashboard again.   “Nothing can hurt my little girl.” 

The neighbor's mailbox, on the other hand, was completely destroyed.  He would have to remember to blame renegade teenagers at the next neighborhood barbeque.

A flashing red light on the console snapped Herman back to the present. “Well, Dixie Cups,” he mumbled. “I just filled up last night. And here I am late for work.”

Herman could feel his blood pressure rising.  The last thing he needed was to run out of gas.  Life as a conservative journalist was becoming increasingly stressful.  Back in the old days, all you had to do was take the daily talking points memo and then transcribe it into your own words.  These days, you had other syndicated print journalists, half a dozen radio broadcasters, a million jerks on the internet, and FOX NEWS to compete with.  With everyone reporting the same talking points, it became increasingly necessary to find new ways to zazz up the news.  In fact, that was the slogan of his own personal website: "Looking for New Ways to Zazz up the News."  

Work was stressful alright.  Luckily, he had an ace in the hole.

He’d recently entered into a new business venture selling modified truck engines.  Herman’s crew could reconfigure a standard internal combustion engine to produce nearly three times as much carbon dioxide as it would have normally, thus allowing his clients to totally stick it to the liberals. He already had a half dozen orders, and just as soon as he uploaded that YouTube video of  various patriotic Americans spewing black smoke from their trucks’ exhaust pipes into the windshields of a bunch of Prius-driving communists, sales would explode through the roof.  

Herman turned on the radio and smiled.   He had decided to ignore the blinking light on the console, and nothing calmed his nerves like the mindless jabbering of radio shock jocks. To his disappointment, every button he pressed produced nothing but static. “Dominoes Pizza,” he said.  (Herman always substituted the names of conservative-owned businesses in place of  curse words as a way of simultaneously promoting conservatism and avoiding the Lord’s wrath.) 

There was something odd about the white noise, though, he noticed.  He heard a low rumble, almost like a roar, emanating from the background. He recognized that roar from somewhere, but where?

Ahead of him on the freeway, a chain or break lights illuminated. “Hobby Lobby,” Herman exclaimed. Now he was really going to be stuck in traffic. He began to feel that old familiar anxiety that comes with a flashing fuel light. Of course, he could always manually override the “Socialist Repellent,” as he called his modified exhaust system, thereby saving much needed gasoline, but if he did that, how would he dump a black cloud on the Chevy Volt riding up behind him?

 “It’s totally worth it,” he said as he adjusted the rear-view mirror.

It was then that he noticed something strange glaring back at him from the back seat: a large pair of greenish yellow eyes. Instant recognition accompanied a blood-curdling scream. As stalled traffic barelled toward him, he tried to brake, but something went wrong.  He couldn't move his foot.

“What the Chick-fil-A?”

He looked down and saw the translucent image of a three-toed claw superimposed against his J.C. Penny loafer, holding the pedal pinned to the floorboard. He gasped as he looked up and saw the approaching rear end of a tractor trailer.

A moment later it was all over in a giant ball of fire.  

At his funeral, one of his friends solemnly remarked on the massive number of toxins released into the atmosphere following the crash.  Everyone agreed that Herman would have pleased.
chapter 5

Dinosaur Ghost Chapter 3: Phantasmic Excreta Caca

Dinosaur Ghost is now available for free as a pdf!

Helen decided to visit the excavation site on the outskirts of town, network with some of the paleontologists, and maybe pick  up some valuable work experience that she could later use to fortify her argument the next time she confronted that terrible admissions officer, Mrs. Bellingham, at her home.  I’ll show you a restraining order, Helen thought as she trekked across the barren landscape.

After an hour or so of wandering, she found the dig site: a twenty foot by thirty foot square of earth marked off with wooden stakes and string.  Just outside the perimeter, a young man in his middle twenties paced the area, occasionally taking his hat off and then putting it back on again a few seconds later.  He appeared to be muttering to himself. 

“It doesn’t make sense,” he muttered.

Helen, having decided to ‘fake it’ until she ‘made it,’ hailed him as she would an old friend.  “Hey, old friend,” she hailed. 

The man continued to pace and mutter.  “This is bad.  This is very bad.  Dr. Watson is going to kill me.”

“Hi, I’m Helen,” Helen said, extending her hand.  “I’m a freelance paleontologist who happened to be walking by.”

“How could this have happened?” The man asked.

“How could what have happened?” 

“The dinosaur bones, they’re missing.  We had three quarters of an stegosaurus's rib cage exposed, and now it’s just gone. Like it never existed!”  He resumed stalking and scanning the ground.  “Nothing!”

Helen took off her backpack and unzipped the main compartment.  “Good thing I brought my equipment,” she said.  She removed several items.

 “What is all that stuff?

Helen ticked off names as she pointed to each item.  “Endoplasmic Reticulator, Soul Detector, Anti-Matter Scatter Capacitor, Carbon Dater Meter Reader, you name it.”

“You’re kidding.”  The young man looked at her as if for the first time.  “What did you say your name was?”

“I told you, it’s Helen.”

“This isn’t paleo gear,” he said, gesturing to the stack of  hardware.

“In addition to freelancing, I’m also a paranormal psychologist.”  She held one of the devices out in front of her like a divining rod.

“That isn’t a thing.”

“Look, dinosaur bones don’t just disappear," Helen said.  "This may be the site of a major spectral disturbance.”  She focused her attention on an area littered with boulders a short distance from the dig site.

“I know what’s going on here," the man said.  "You stole them.  You stole my bones!”

Helen’s gadget started beeping like a son of a bitch.

“You think that’s going to make me believe you?” the man asked. “You must think I’m a real sucker.”

Helen stopped at the edge of a giant boulder and stood, mouth agape, looking at something on the other side.  “I think you better come over here,” she said.

The young man shook his head, but did as he was told.  What he saw when he arrived caused him to drop his Indiana Jones-inspired fedora in the dirt.  It was a humongous pile of shimmering dinosaur feces--stegosaurus by the look of it.

“I don’t believe it,” he said.

“Do you believe me now?” Helen asked.  “Oh wait, you just said you didn't.  Never mind.”

“I do believe you,” the man said.  “I’m sorry I ever doubted you.  My name is Eric by the way." He extended his hand. "My friends call me Homo.”

“Oh, are you...?”

“No, that’s just what they call me.”

“You know, you don’t have to tell people that when you introduce yourself.”

“Oh, I guess you're right.  It just felt natural.”

“You may even want to consider finding new friends.  Yours don’t sound very nice.”

“Aw, they’re not so bad, although, come to think of it, one was just put in jail for committing a hate crime.”

“Is that what I think it is?” Helen asked, pointing to the poop.

“I still can’t believe it,” Eric said walking toward the massive pile.  The poop was roughly the same height as he was--about five feet seven inches tall--but at least five times as wide.  He reached out to touch it.  “It looks fresh.”  

“Ew,” Helen said.

Eric's hand passed through the pile as it would through the atmosphere.  “Nothing,” he said.  He held up a relatively clean hand.  He put it to his nose.  “It doesn't even smell.”

“Freaky,” Helen said.  She approached the enormous collection of fecal matter with another one of her machines.  “Just as I thought,” she said after waving it in front of the pile a few times.  “Phantasmic excreta caca.”

“You want to say that in English?”

Helen leveled her gaze at Eric.  “This shit came from a ghost.”

go to chapter 4

Dinosaur Ghost Chapter 2: Or is it?

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Doctor Sampson sat at his desk, adding a few notes to the skunk file.  He furrowed his brow.  People simply weren’t visiting the skunk tanks as much as he’d anticipated.   

A knock on the door shook him from his trance.  Quickly, he re-assumed the dignified manner of a head zoo keeper.  “Enter,” he called.

Eduardo entered, nervously twisting his his cap in front of him.  “Meester Sampson.  Eeet happened again.”

“How many times do I have to tell you, Eduardo.  It’s Dr. Sampson.  Doctor!”

“Yes of course, Dr. Sampson.”

“It’s important to maintain formality.  You know, for formality’s sake.”

“Please forgive me, Doctor.  But it’s the elephants.  Something’s been eating them.  I thought you would like to know.”

Dr. Sampson threw his head back and laughed.  “Oh Eduardo.  Don’t be ridiculous.  They were probably stolen by fraternity boys.”

“I thought you would be angry.”

Dr. Sampson’s face suddenly became very stern.  “I am angry.  That’s the third elephant we've lost this month.  Elephants are a popular attraction and very difficult to replace.  Do you know where to find a good elephant at this time of night?”

“At the fraternity house?”

The doctor stroked his chin.  “Possibly.” 

“But sir, after the last elephant went missing, we drove back and forth down fraternity row all night.  We didn't see or hear any elephants.”

As Dr. Sampson pondered this reminded information, Juan suddenly appeared from behind Eduardo.  Apparently, he had been standing there the entire time.  “Sir, I hope you don’t mind me speaking out of turn...”

“No,” Dr. Sampson assured him, “it is your turn.”

“It’s just,” Juan continued, “there was an awful lot of blood in the elephant pen, along with broken pieces of tusk and part of a tail...”

It was probably shedding,” Dr. Sampson said, “you know, making room for its winter tusks and tails.  You don’t honestly  think something ate a giant elephant?” He laughed again.  “This is a zoo.  Not some crazy place filled with wild animals." 

“And the blood?” Eduardo asked.

“Yes, of course, by all means clean up the blood.”  Dr. Sampson put on his glasses and went back to his skunk report.

“Dr. Sampson,” Eduardo replied indignantly.  “I am a true Spaniard, not some lowly Mexican.” He tilted his head toward Juan.  “In my country I hold twelve degrees.  I should not have to clean up animal blood.”

Juan rolled his eyes.  “I get it, Eduardo.  You’re the conqueror, I’m the conquered. That doesn't mean I should have to clean up all the messes.”

Eduardo fired a devastating glare in Juan’s direction.  “How many degrees do you have, Juan?”

“I have two degrees, Eduardo.  What difference does that make?”

“It makes all the difference, Juan.”

“Wait, are you counting high school?”

“Yes, of course.  I count everything.”

“So, if you graduated from first grade, does that count as one of your degrees?” Juan asked.

“Of course it does.  I have the certificate at home on my refrigerator, along with the rest.”

“Are the rest from grades two through twelve?” Juan asked.

“Yes, they are all there.  Eleven plus my GED.”

“Wait, you didn’t graduate high school?  I’m working on my doctorate.”

“You’re working on your what?” Eduardo asked.

Juan turned to Dr. Sampson.  “Wait, is he getting paid more than me?”

Dr. Sampson removed his glasses.  “We need to stay focused.  Those frat boys have been stealing our elephants, and we have to stop them.  Are you with me?”

Juan and Eduardo looked at each other and shrugged.

“Good,” said Samson.  (The doctor’s first name was Samson.)  “I have a plan.”

Twenty minutes later, Eduardo and Juan were firmly ensconced in an elephant costume.  There had been some debate as to which of them should play the part of the elephant’s hind quarters--Eduardo had maintained that a man with twelve degrees should not have to serve in such a low capacity, while Juan countered that by Eduardo’s rationale he actually possessed fourteen degrees, two more degrees than Eduardo, and if you counted each year of education as a degree, as Eduardo apparently did, then Juan actually held something like eighteen degrees, six degrees beyond his Spanish compatriot.  Eduardo had no choice but to dress as an elephant’s butt.

The trap was set.  Just before Dr. Sampson pushed them into the Elephant pen, he gave them one last piece of advice.  “Be careful,” he said.  “It’s a zoo out there.  I mean, it’s a zoo in here too, since this is part of the same complex.  It’s a zoo all around here.”  With that, he closed the door.  There was nothing to do but wait.

Finding a well-lit area with a clear view of the elephant pen, Dr. Sampson settled down to read his report.  “I think we should order more porcupines,” he said to himself. 

Back in the pen, the two men tried to act as an elephant would, only there was some disagreement as to what sound an elephant makes exactly, with Juan patiently explaining that elephants make a sound similar to a trumpet’s blare, while Eduardo felt pretty sure they went moo.  They argued about this for a while, until Juan gradually became aware of a strange noise coming toward them.”

“Wait a second, do you hear that?”

“What?” Eduardo asked.

“It sounds like a small rip in the space-time continuum, followed by the low growl of a very large predator lizard.”

Slowly, Juan removed his head, while even slowlier, Eduardo removed his butt.  What they saw caused Juan to pee his pants and Eduardo to pee on the ground, since he was not wearing pants.  (This had been another source of disagreement  in the elephant suit.)

Suddenly, out of nowhere, an enormous set of glowing spiked teeth snapped shut between them like a bear trap.  They screamed and ran in opposite directions, giving pause to whatever it was that was trying to eat them.  Whatever it was had never seen an elephant divide in two, giving Juan and Eduardo just enough time to escape.

“Was anyone hurt?”the scowling owner of the zoo (whose name was Mr. Simpson) asked Dr. Sampson later that night.

“No, thank God,” Dr. Sampson answered.  “Except for that one security guard who was eaten.”

“What was it?” Mr. Simpson asked.

“I only saw a flash of light.  Eduardo and Juan saw the whole thing, but they’re not talking.”

It was true.  Both men sat in the middle of the floor, shivering and holding each other.  Neither man said a word.

“There’s one thing I know for sure,” Dr. Sampson said.  “That was no frat boy.”

*          *          *

Just outside the gates of the zoo, Alan Stimpson of the Theta Tau Omega house, joined his brother Tom in his cherry red Porsche turbo.  He closed the door behind him and stared at the windshield.

“Well,” Tom said, “Did you get it?”

Alan slowly turned to his brother.  “I just... I just...” He stopped and thought for a moment.  “No, I didn't get it,” he said.  “I saw something.  I think it was... I think it may have been...”

“What?  What was it?”

“It was a Rexapotomus.”

“Huh?”

“You know, one of those Stego-rectologists.”

 “What the hell are you talking about?” Tom asked.

“Dude,” Alan said, “I think I just saw a dinosaur.”

“You’re drunk,” Tom said.

“Yeah,” Alan said.

“Dude, we should go get more beer,” Tom said.

“Hell yeah!” Alan said,

They laughed and drove away.

chapter 3

Dinosaur Ghost Chapter 1: Everything is Fine

by Christamar Varicella

Dinosaur Ghost is now available for free as a pdf!

Helen tossed her keys on the kitchen counter and stared down at a stack of mail. One letter in particular stood above the rest--the top one.

“That you, Babe?” her boyfriend James asked from the living room.  He was sitting on the couch watching a football game.

“Um,” Helen mumbled.  She honed in on the letter.  She picked it up, studied the return address: Harlington University.  This is it, she thought.  I’ll finally learn whether or not I’m going to become a paleontologist.

Her mind traveled back in time to the interview.  That was the hardest part of the whole application process.  That and shaking the $25 application fee out of James.  She never understood why she did so poorly in interviews.  Maybe it had something to do with the way she nervously smacked her gums when questioned, or how she called everyone, “Bubba.”  She got along fine with people when she avoided talking to them, but whenever she was put in the same room with other human beings, her intelligence and poise seemed to slip away.

She waited through the awkward silence as Dr. Bellingham studied her application. 

“It says here that you already have an advanced degree.”

Helen smacked her gums and smiled.  “You got that right, Bubba.”

“According to your transcript, you have a masters degree in something called paranormal psychology.”

“Yep.”  She smacked her gums again.  So far, this was going pretty well.

“And did you get your degree from watching the movie Ghostbusters?”

Helen thought she detected a hint of sarcasm in Dr. Bellingham’s voice.  “Um no, it was a standard matriculation.”

Dr. Bellingham put down the transcript and peered at Helen over the top of her glasses.  “Ms. Fonzarelli, why do you want to study paleontology?”

Helen thought about the question.  “Well, I guess I want to know why the dinosaurs went extinct.”

“But you are aware of existing evidence suggesting an asteroid, or perhaps even a comet, crashed into the Earth, sending up a cloud of dust that...”

“I just don’t think an asteroid would be big enough to squash all those dinosaurs.  It must have been something else.”

“I think you misunderstand.  The asteroid did not crush the dinosaurs.  It sent up a massive cloud of dust that blocked out the sun and made life impossible.  That is the likeliest cause of extinction.”

But Helen wasn’t listening.  She waited until Dr. Bellingham finished talking and then responded, “I just don’t believe it.” 

This is going great, she told herself.

Back in the present (which has since passed), she ripped open the letter.

“Dang it,” she said, balling up the paper and throwing it into the trash can.  “It’s just another ‘Cease and Desist’ order.  I don’t know why they won’t tell me whether I made it into the program.  Maybe I should write them another email... or call them again.  Honey, what do you think?”

James took a sip of his beer and continued watching the game.  “I don’t know why you want to get some liberal education when you can sit around here looking pretty.”  He let out a gigantic belch and then added, “and working full-time.”

“We will be together forever, won’t we?”  Helen said.  She was so happy to have James in her life, even if he was a republican.

“Either that, or until one of us dies, or you get fat, or I get bored of you,” he said.  He crushed the empty can on his forehead and fired it across the room, where it bounced off the trash can and landed on the floor.  “Two points,” he said. 

“Oh James,” she said, jumping into his lap.

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out,” James said.  Without taking his eyes off of the game, he reached around her body with both hands and squeezed her butt cheeks.

I don’t care if I don’t get into that stupid old program, Helen thought.  My life is still perfect.

chapter 2

Six Reasons Reading List Stories Will Make You Stupid

By Purvis McGrew

We all love to read list stories, you know, those online articles whose pithy presentation of  catalogued information is a constant threat of sucking you into the proverbial Clickhole.  Who wouldn’t want to read “The Top 10  Scariest Restaurant Grease Fires” or “17 Sure-Fire Methods for Avoiding Jury Duty,” but did you know that reading list stories actually lowers your IQ? 

Here’s how:

1) Reading list stories is so easy, it makes your brain soft.  Scientists and philosophers have long known that thinking about stuff makes you feel bad, but in 2011, some German psychologists discovered a way to trick the human brain into feeling good by breaking down information  into small chunks that people can easily process and understand.  Since the formation of list stories, our brains no longer have to work so hard, and subsequently they revert to a state of atrophy.

2) The information presented in list stories often serves no real purpose.  It may seem useful to know “Nine Ways Somali Pirates are Different than Regular Pirates,” or “Eleven Disney Animals that May Have Gone Extinct,” but it actually isn’t.

3) The numbering system of list stories is totally arbitrary.  Do you know why I chose the number six for the title of my article?  Neither do I!  But you better believe I’m going to think of three more items to complete this list!

4) List article subject matter is completely random.  You see, each story topic is based solely on the writer’s interests and knowledge at a given time--whatever popped into his or her head at the time of writing.  And how did the author come to acquire such interests and knowledge?  I’ll tell you how--through a series of accidents and random events that resulted in his or her existence and through the subsequent array of indiscriminately accumulated knowledge and life experience that culminated in the writing of each individual list story.  And what are you supposed to make of that?  Absolutely nothing, that’s what!

5).  List stories are a form of manipulation.  Do you know why content providers choose to provide content in list form?  Because they attract more clicks!  And you fell for it!  Sucker!

6) Follow much?  Do you like to say, “Bah Bah,” wear a wool coat, and eat grass?  Well, you should.  Because you’re a dumb ass!

Well, that’s it.  I’ve concocted the six reasons I promised in the title.  Are you still with me, or did your mind and clicking finger wander off to some other emotionally-uplifting but otherwise mind-numbing form of content?  If you’re still here, congratulations!  You are now stupider than when you started.

Purvis McGrew is senior editor of the Daily Brass.

Femme Fetal

To see the awesome original cartoon version of this, go here.

“Femme Fetal” BY CHRISTAMAR VARICELLA

CAST: VOICE OVER, PREGNANT LADY, OLD WOMAN, OLD MAN, CHARLEY

A VERY PREGNANT WOMAN IS SHOPPING ALONE IN A GROCERY STORE.

V.O.

Mrs. Bartholomew Globinslobber was making a routine trip to the store.

PREGNANT LADY

Let’s see.  Raisin Flakes, Bran Bites, Sugar-covered fiber nuggets...

V.O.

When suddenly she was approached by a deranged hooligan.

ENTER OLD WOMAN.

When I Die

by Al Butterman

When I die, I don’t want to be buried.  For one thing I’m claustrophobic, and for another thing I don’t like the idea of being preserved with chemicals.  If I’m going to be preserved, I want to make sure people can see me.  I’d have to be displayed behind glass or something.  I've heard of a glass-bottom boat, but is there such a thing as a glass-topped grave?  If so, sign me up. 

Better yet, just have me stuffed and mounted and pushed into a corner of the living room.  Make sure the taxidermist puts a mean expression on my face.  I want my teeth bared, my eyebrows furrowed, and my claws extended.  (Have each of my fingernails sharpened to a fine point.) This way, I might still be able to help discipline the children even after I’m gone.  “Do you want me to  send you to your father?  I didn’t think so.” 

Stuck: A Tale of Woe by Al Butterman

by Al Butterman

I have this song stuck in my head.  “Istanbul, not Constantinople’ by They Might Be Giants.  It’s a good song but I don’t want it rattling around in my skull all day.  ‘Istanbul, not Constantinople, now it’s Istanbul, not Constantinople.”  That’s pretty much all I remember which makes it even more annoying.  There have got to be more lyrics than that.  This has been going on for several months.