Fiddlestyx loped down the road with unearthly poise and grace. His coat shone with the moon’s own luster and his hooves glinted with reflected light. His large black eyes drank in the darkness around him and gave nothing back. His mane, a long flowing column of silvery hair, whipped in the wind and streamed like a standing wave. His horn stood proudly in the center of his head, and his reared suddenly, tossing his head to the side, simply to hear that horn slice through the air with a hiss.

The forest stood in front of him, and beyond it the small town set there a generation ago by men. Men who alternatively believed and disavowed Fiddlestyx existence. He stopped, peering deep into the trees. Considering. Deciding.
—————-
In the town on the other side of the forest, Brooke sat and kicked her bare feet in the clear cool pool of water behind her house. She was happy. Almost 13 now, Brooke would soon be married. For once, unlike that unlucky bitch Kimmy, Brooke’s parents had picked a wonderful husband for her. Brooke thought about Alessio and smiled. He was tall and brave, and so very kind. Brooke shivered with delight at her thoughts of her wedding, and her wedding night. Soon, she thought, oh so soon.
—————-
Fiddlestyx dug in the dirt with a hoof. The dirt refused to cling, knowing better than to soil the golden hoof of a unicorn. To do that would be to damn your own soul. Dirt, it was not often realized, had a soul. It was the soul of the Earth and the Earth did not wish to damn itself over something as silly as clinging dirt.

The moon hid behind a cloud, fearful of what might happen. The stars twinkled, those bastard joyous stars, always hoping for the darkest of thoughts to prevail. Never trust the stars, for they are wicked and quick to shine light down upon your most hidden secrets. Fiddlestyx knew this, and though the stars often glistened, shedding their light upon his flank in ways that made him even more beautiful, he never trusted them. He would slyly glance at the stars under his thick, luscious eyelashes, but never with love. Never that.

He took off then, into the forest. Fiddlestyx shivered once and then bolted. The wind itself could not keep up with him. His horn pierced the air, scattering molecules left and right, threatening to break a few on the sharpness of its point. Fiddlestyx ran, and then ran some more.
—————-
Brooke splashed twice and then stopped, caught frozen in fear. Behind her a sound. A rushing, whistling sound like the wind but not like the wind. She turned and that’s when she saw Fiddlestyx. Brooke stood and smiled. She flung her arms wide, the joy spreading across her face like an infectious wound.

Alessio leapt out of nowhere and landed between Brooke and Fiddlestyx. He wasn’t about to let this bastard claim another one. His hands grew taut, twisting against the wood grain of the pitchfork he carried. He stared at Fiddlestyx, hefting his weapon, and swore to the stars that never would this unicorn pass.

The horn through Alessio’s gut felt cold. It blossomed there, between one moment and the next, before Alessio could blink. The stars, he swore he could hear, laughed their tinkling laugh. Fiddlestyx shook Alessio’s dead, oozing corpse off his horn and stared at Brooke. Gore and blood ran down Fiddlestyx forehead and he would have a maiden clean it. He would have her do … all sorts of things. For Fiddlestyx wanted virgins - and he would damn well have them.

The town heard her screams. They found only Alessio and hoof prints. And they knew. They cursed, wailed and cried, but they also knew. They always knew, to tell the truth, but they refused to do anything about it. For no one could stop the unicorn when the rage and lust took him. Generations had passed, hundreds had met fates worse than death at the hooves and horn of Fiddlestyx, but none stopped him. Not even the stars.

Last night was a bit kooky. At one point I was on the phone, online doing work on a project - the work required me to talk to two different people at the same time online mind you, and also in a chat room. All at once, you see.

Then I ended up on a different call, which was fantastic and reaffirmed that I work with some great and smart people. Some of who may be laughing nervously the entire time, but I can’t quite prove it, yet. Soon.

Past that, nothing much going on I can talk about.

Come Monday I will be releasing, serializing here at first, another short story for free. This time it will be High Noon of the Living Dead.

Uhm. Shit, that’s all I think I got right now.

So I mention the fact that I just re-watched Flashdance to Kirkbride. Not only that but it then “What a Feeling” was on the radio today in some kind of evil Flashdance attack. So I head banged a little to it, whatever, and told Kirkbride. He sends back this image that he whipped up:

Well his first comment on the image when confronted about it was: “I couldn’t match your super sunlight face with Beal’s beautiful olive skin, but it gets the point across near majestically.” And now you see why I love Kirkbride. But I realized that spurred on by this image I needed to write a new version of Flashdance, starring me. So here it is:

I’m a welder by day. Fuckers. But by night? I dance to the rhythm. The rhythm that is gonna get you. Fucking count on it. It’ll get you with a .45 between the shoulder blades and leave you cold on the ground like a fucking cheap ass whore after a long hard night of pissing off her pimp. Don’t EVER fuck with the rhythm, bitches.

And don’t think I can’t dance.

I can dance like Sammy Davis being dope-slapped by the hand of God. I can dance like Patrick Swayze, if he wasn’t white and was sorta maybe hip. Hells yes, I can dance, motherfuckers. That’s why I make the big bucks.

Do I strip? No. I dance. I dance interpretive dances, German based mostly, sometimes stylized takes on the Eddas and Sagas of Norway. It depends on how much time I have to do my make-up. Last week I recaptured the spirit of 1940 cartooning using only red face paint, a potato sack and Flock of Seagulls hit Telecommunication. I can dance, bitches. I can dance.

Still, I am also a welder. I weld things. Metal things. I weld them to other metal things and the welding makes them stick. Sometimes I cut them apart. It’s not easy work, the cutting and the sticking and the hot and the metal. But I do it. I’m a welder. I weld.

The other week I started to date my boss. Sure it’s wrong and kind of creepy, but who cares? I felt like it. She saw me dance. Then she saw me weld. Now we’re dating. Do the math yourself. While we were talking I mentioned that I always wanted to dance professionally. Not the way I dance now, no, that would make a lick or two of sense. No I wanted to dance ballet. A type of dance I show no real aptitude for, have no training in and don’t really get. But I think it’s pretty. So I decided I want to do it. Fuck you, I can do it if I want. Except, you know, I couldn’t.

Those bastards want training, they want someone who knows what they’re doing! Fuck them and their stupid school. I went to the club that night and did an impressionary take of Beowolf wearing a mermaid outfit to show Grendel’s isolation, all set to The Weather Girls It’s Raining Men. Fuck them.

My boss bought me an audition anyway. That bitch used her shit right and got me set-up. So of course I threw my whiskey at her, punched her lights out and left her. Fucking bitch, who does she think she is waving money around to solve my problems. I’ll show her, I’ll show them all. I’ll go to their audition, the one I hate, that I only made because of that bitch’s money and I’ll… well, they’ll see. They’ll all fucking see.

I showed up. I danced. Hell, I took my welding torch in, too, and I welded some stuff. I showed off my leg warmers and I downed some whiskey. Then I held up a match and blew fire at those motherfuckers. I set them on fire. Judge that, assholes.

When the screaming died they started to tap their feet to my musical choice, Wham!’s Wham Rap. Fuck right they did. One of them was slow, off-beat, I welded his foot. The rest got the message. They let me in. I’m gonna learn ballet. Like no other son of a bitch on Earth, I’m gonna be a dancer. A dancer like you’ve never seen.

Fuck yeah.

I just got some spam with the following subject line:

Longer sperm robot killing free!
I didn’t bother to read the email. I already know that story. Let me explain…

See, once upon a time I worked as a Mad Scientist. It happens, you need to pay the bills and find yourself building death rays. It wasn’t really great work, long hours crappy pay, no good lair to speak of. But I kept at it. And I considered getting into the robot business. Robots sell. They can be a bitch to work out, but if you get it right you can do great things.

Just remember everyone tends to want Cylon eyes and Dalek voices, add the capacity to go up and down stairs, a gun and a laser or two and you have a sale.

I wanted more than that.

So I built a sperm robot. What was the thing for? Well it was a normal looking robot, Cylon eyes and Dalek voice, a gun in the foot and laser ears, but it could also shout “Sperm!” when attacking and then kinda wiggle its hips around as if it was trying to spawn upstream. You would be surprised, or maybe not, how disturbing that was. I figured it would take a lot of people off guard and allow for better killing numbers.

Well, I was wrong. No one wanted one. They were all too freaked out by the idea. So I retrofitted it with a segmented torso, to enhance the undulating swimming motion. The longer sperm robot was born. I was impressed, my customers less so.

Worse yet, they talked about it endlessly. If they wanted to buy a fucking lava gun they would manage to work in “and no longer sperm robot, ok?” every time. Fuckers. It cost me business. It got ugly. I couldn’t even afford henchmen, after a while.

So I ran some ads. I dropped the price. I tried to give them away. I contacted a firm that promised email marketing. They sent out that mail. Well, that pissed me off. First I make a robot that kills my career and then I become known as a spammer? Well fuck. I killed them all, the only time the LSR-4590 was ever used in combat. The undulation was fantastically creepy, for the record.

In the end I destroyed the robots, gave up the gig and got a job doing “normal” things for a change. But today, to get my own mail back like that? Just brings it all back, man. Fucking robots.

(I actually did just get spam with that subject line, I just couldn’t ignore it. Forgive me. Some things beg to be written)

There’s something very important I forgot to tell you.

What?

Don’t cross the memes.

Why?

It would be bad.

I’m fuzzy on the whole good/bad thing. What do you mean, “bad”? Like that Final Fantasy quiz type of bad?

Try to imagine all jokes as you know them stopping instantaneously and every reference in your brain exploding at the speed of light.

Total moronic reversal.

Right. That’s bad. Okay. All right. Important safety tip. Thanks, Egon.

Do not listen to Egon.

Crossing the memes is perfectly safe.

Zod’s right.

Of course I am right.

Oh, shut it, for once.

KNEEL!

KKHHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAANNNNNN!

Uhhh, Venkman?

Yeah, Ray?

Traps work on them?

Should. Okay; sticks?

PULLED ‘EM.

Heat ‘em up.

SMOKIN’.

Bang ‘em hard.

READY.

Let’s show these silly bitches how we do things downtown.

TO BE CONTINUED…?

probably not.

There has been talk about both myself, General Zod, and my friend here, Robotic Yul Brynner

Hello, meatsocks.

Yesterday, Robotic Yul Brynner told you to draw. In response some of you said that he was weak and beaten by Richard Benjamin. Some of you suggested that he should fight me, Zod. One of you even suggested that Chuck Norris could defeat Robotic Yul Brynner.

Robotic Yul Brynner was not amused by the Chuck Norris insinuation.

So we wish to set the record straight. You fools think that Richard Benjamin could truly defeat Robotic Yul Brynner?

I have muscles. They are metal. They can crush you watery ones. Squish squash. Squish squash.

Exactly. This is like claiming that I was sent to my endless doom by that wretched ape, Kal-El. How stupid is that? Hello, citizens of Hoostan. It was a movie! They both were!

Hollywood created the endings to make you feel better. We were not defeated. We won. They lied.

Did you see Superman III? Obviously a fake Superman. Same with IV. Why? Because I killed him. He would not kneel and so I, General Zod, destroyed him.

Richard Benjamin ran a lot. It made Robotic Yul Brynner chase him down a lot of corridors. When I caught him his wet bits went squish squash a lot. Then they stopped. Because he was dead.

But you fools demand to believe in these movies you see, as if they were telling the truth. Robotic Yul Brynner, did you know some of them even believe the JFK movie?

I shot him, you know.

I know! But do the stupid humans know this? No! Fools! Your second complaint was that Robotic Yul Brynner and I should fight. Why would we fight? We’re friends! Some of you shall kneel before Zod. Those that might escape my clutches? You will be forced to draw.

Draw meatsock. Draw and lose.

You truly are simple creatures.

And then they said Robotic Yul Brynner would be defeated by Chuck Norris.

I threw him into the sun ten years ago. He did not kneel.

He would not draw.

And now he is atomic matter in your solar orb. The orb that gives me my power. I destroyed your Chuck Norris and made him part of my energy source. I “ate him for breakfast” as it were.

Should we tell them who the Chuck Norris replacement really is?

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

HA*click*HAHA*click*HA*click*HAHAHA*click*HA!

That’s right, fools! I am your “Chuck Norris”! I get paid well for it too! I just put on a special suit and swagger a bit and you never know! I mean, you might have wondered why Walker, Texas Ranger bitches about Marsha, Marsha, Marsha, but you are all probably too dumb to notice.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

HA*click*HAHA*click*HA*click*HAHAHA*click*HA!

I hope this clears things up for you, people of Hoostan. Do not doubt us again.

And if you do… draw.

Well, we’re back.

We are that, Feldog. So what’s up this time? Saving the universe from the plans of your evil brother that no one knew about until just now?

I was thinking more along the lines of “Celebrity gossip” and less “Star Trek V”

What does God… need with a… spaceship?

What did… we… need with…. that crappy… script?

All right fine, bitch. Who’s up first?

Scarlett Johansson. She was, according to rumors, a total bitch on the set of Justin Timberlake’s new video.

Woa. Only rumors? Come on now, Feldog.

I know, ShatAttack. But PR-Inside says she denies them, but then reports them. Anyway they say that she was bitch and demanded to know why she couldn’t smoke when they had fire dancers on the set anyway.

She has a point. If she did it. Or said it, or whatever. And besides. It’s Scarlett Johansson. If she wants to smoke on set you ask if you can watch her lips work the filter. You don’t complain.

Right-o, Bill. And for all those anti-smokers who are going to want to bitch and moan about this? Find a real cause, for today at least. Thanks. Yes, it’s evil, horrible, bad, wretched… but she smokes and that’s her choice. Except on the set of a Timbersexy video.

There’s also speculation about those two now isn’t there?

J-Tim and ScarJo? Yeah. Word has it he’s putting his dick in her box, if ya follow.

The blind could follow that one, Feld. Let’s move on to Angelina Jolie. Have you heard this?

Which?

In an Elle interview she said: “I think I feel so much more for Mad and Z because they’re survivors, they came through so much. Shiloh seemed so privileged from the moment she was born. I have less inclination to feel for her… I met my other kids when they were six months old, they came with personality. A newborn really is this… yes, a blob! But now she’s starting to have a personality… I’m conscious that I have to make sure I don’t ignore her needs just because I think the others are more vulnerable.”

So where’s the problem?

Some people are saying “Oh look, she isn’t a holy saint she loves her adopted kids more.”

And those people are fucking idiots, Bill. Come on, this is a woman who seems to be perfectly honest. She feels more for these kids than for the one she had, because Shiloh was born into grace. And she’s a newborn so there’s no personality to latch onto. But she’s trying and she knows the problem and is doing her best.

If more parents were honest about shit like this…

Haim wouldn’t have happened.

Word. Anyway I think we might be out of time for now, Feldog.

So soon?

It’s heart breaking. But what does God… need with a…

Closing line! Until next time, folks! I’m, Cory Feldman.

And I’m Bill Shatner. And this has been Talking Heads.

On the first day of Blogmas,
My true love gave to me
A comment on my entry.

On the second day of Blogmas,
My true love gave to me
Two porn stars feltching,
And a comment on my entry.

On the third day of Blogmas,
My true love gave to me
Three chain letters chaining,
Two porn stars feltching,
And a comment on my entry.

On the fourth day of Blogmas,
My true love gave to me
Four furries dancing,
Three chain letters chaining,
Two porn stars feltching,
And a comment on my entry.

On the fifth day of Blogmas,
My true love gave to me
Five goatse.cx stretched,
Four furries dancing,
Three chain letters chaining,
Two porn stars feltching,
And a comment on my entry.

On the sixth day of Blogmas,
My true love gave to me
Six whining fan boys,
Five goatse.cx stretched,
Four furries dancing,
Three chain letters chaining,
Two porn stars feltching,
And a comment on my entry.

On the seventh day of Blogmas,
My true love gave to me
Seven wiki-entires,
Six whining fan boys,
Five goatse.cx stretched,
Four furries dancing,
Three chain letters chaining,
Two porn stars feltching,
And a comment on my entry.

On the eighth day of Blogmas,
My true love gave to me
Eight kitten pictures,
Seven wiki-entires,
Six whining fan boys,
Five goatse.cx stretched,
Four furries dancing,
Three chain letters chaining,
Two porn stars feltching,
And a comment on my entry.

On the ninth day of Blogmas,
My true love gave to me
Nine viral markets,
Eight kitten pictures,
Seven wiki-entires,
Six whining fan boys,
Five goatse.cx stretched,
Four furries dancing,
Three chain letters chaining,
Two porn stars feltching,
And a comment on my entry.

On the tenth day of Blogmas,
My true love gave to me
Ten YouTubes tubing,
Nine viral markets,
Eight kitten pictures,
Seven wiki-entires,
Six whining fan boys,
Five goatse.cx stretched,
Four furries dancing,
Three chain letters chaining,
Two porn stars feltching,
And a comment on my entry.

On the eleventh day of Blogmas,
My true love gave to me
Eleven emos cutting,
Ten YouTubes tubing,
Nine viral markets,
Eight kitten pictures,
Seven wiki-entires,
Six whining fan boys,
Five goatse.cx stretched,
Four furries dancing,
Three chain letters chaining,
Two porn stars feltching,
And a comment on my entry.

On the twelfth day of Blogmas,
My true love gave to me
Twelve memes a posting,
Eleven emos cutting,
Ten YouTubes tubing,
Nine viral markets,
Eight kitten pictures,
Seven wiki-entires,
Six whining fan boys,
Five goatse.cx stretched,
Four furries dancing,
Three chain letters chaining,
Two porn stars feltching,
And a comment on my entry.

I’m not sure… chicken or fish?
…and inside Mel Gibson’s head…

I like fish. I really like fish.

But what if it’s bad fish?

Then we can have chicken! Chicken is yummy for my tummy!

Oooh! Oooh! Bird flu! Could we get bird flu from the chicken?

We aren’t Jews! Only Jews get bird flu!

Is that true though?

My happy juice tells me that it is true. So. Since we aren’t dirty evil Jews, we can have the chicken. YAY!

But maybe the fish…

The chicken laid eggs! We like eggs, too!

Oooh! Oooh! Salmonella!

See that waitress? Damn she’s hot!

What? What about the Salmonella?

What about the tits?!

We could get in trouble again.

Don’t be silly! The happy juice says no!

Salmonella! Arrest! Danger! Danger!

Shut it!

But…

Shut it! We’ll have the chicken, and her tits!

But…

QUIET!

Why do I suddenly want to eat chicken off of
that woman’s breasts? Huh.

Super-heroes are a funny lot. They vary greatly in power, respect and ability. None, however, is more daring, more amazing or more astounding than Arm-Fall-Off Boy.

Who is Arm-Fall-Off Boy, you ask? what secret does this dashing man of mystery hold? I’ll tell you.

Uhhh. None.

Back when the Legion of Super-Heroes was, well, a bit sillier, they had try-outs. The Legion try-outs were known for the absurd. Every other goofy comic book try-out is based, in part, on them. From Mystery Men to uhhh some other thing very much like it, yeah.

Arm-Fall-Off Boy is the pinnacle of this whole process.

Sure Infectious Lass sounds like a candidate. Maybe you think Color Kid is the oddest of the odd (the ability to, uhm, change the color of things isn’t exactly world shaking…) I don’t know. I just know you are wrong. For Arm-Fall-Off Boy is the best of the best. The coolest of the cool.

You see, if you didn’t get it, his arm falls off! Well, all right it doesn’t fall off so much as he tears it off. But he can turn his arm into a club, wielded by his other arm! He can use both arms this way, but I would think not at the same time. Still!

Versatility in limb removal, thy name is Arm-Fall-Off Boy!

With a powerful PLORP! his arm comes off! With a mighty KRAK! it hits the table and demonstrates his unending ability to tear off his arms and hit people with them. Sure, his shoulder looks like an asshole. No, I don’t know why his gloves are elbow high French Ticklers. Those things are not the point!

Arm-Fall-Off Boy, although denied membership into the Legion of Super-Heroes (Legion of Stupid Heroes if they didn’t take Arm-Fall-Off Boy), he still, I am sure, patrols the galaxy keeping everyone safe.

With his purple one piece leotard and pointy hat. Don’t forget his oddly rock shaded legs. Those might be boots. Or leggings?

The battle cry of HA-YAAAA! lets villains everywhere know to die! Die, I say! DIE! HA-YAAAA!

Anyway. Yeah. Arm-Fall-Off Boy. Plorp. Genius.

(I know the caption photo has it spelled villian. So does the comic panel. I was being faithful to what they put in the panel)