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November 30, 2006


Is that blood?! Oh, wait. No, it's...

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Jim: The Bodyguard

Jenkins, his face an expressionless mask behind dark glasses, leaned over and said, “We have to go, sir.”

“Damn!” I grunted, pushing away from my half-eaten meal. I trusted my bodyguard’s remarkable talent for sensing trouble so I tossed a Franklin onto the table and fell in behind him.

Jenkins suddenly sidestepped. He commanded, “Get down!” just as the first gunshot boomed in the crowded restaurant. Two more shots sounded before Jenkins could draw his pistol and drop the assassin.

Jenkins fell. “I’m shot, sir.”

While my bodyguard’s lubricant pooled under his motionless body, I called the customer service hotline.

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David: Movie Trivia

Norman’s mother stabbed the naked woman in the shower again and again. She felt the shock of impact shoot up her arm with every stroke. She heard the terrified screams of the harlot who had tried to tempt her dear boy into sin. Her stupid, weakling son.

And yet, she couldn’t focus. Each time she brought down the knife, her attention was distracted: the water spitting out of the shower head; the rings on the shower curtain snapping one by one as the strumpet pulled it down with her; the blood swirling into the drain, like so much chocolate syrup.

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Michele: Spill the Wine

His body went crack! as he hit the ground.

Maybe I shoved him too hard. But he stealing shit from my house.

Was he dead? Shit. I didn’t want to kill the guy. I’m not a killer.

Then I saw the puddle trickling out from underneath him. Was that blood? It was dark, hard to tell.

I turned him over to see where the blood was coming from.

It wasn’t blood. It was wine. He put my last '92 Cabernet down his pants.

I picked up the broken bottle and brought it down on his head.

There. Now that’s blood.

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From The Comments: Lisa


We used to joke with Hal that if cut, he would bleed coffee.

With just a sip, Hal could differentiate between brands of instant, fresh ground and French pressed.

“Brew of the Week”, his weekly column in the Clandel Heights Times, covered every dreg of the caffeinated bean world.

He had his own cup with his name on it at the local café. Even this morning it was still sitting there steaming, sugar and cream waiting.

Hal lived and breathed for the aroma.

Yesterday they found him in his kitchen with a broken percolator, a cup and a razor blade.

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Stacy: Interruptions

The detective cautiously eased open the door of the apartment, gun at the ready. The air inside was leaden. The landlady hovered outside nervously.

“I don’t know what he do. He a quiet boy,…”

The detective stepped forward. The smell was stronger in the back, near the bedroom. The closer he got, the sweeter it smelled, like cherries. He pushed open the door, and stopped.

Sprawled out on the bed was a brick house of a blonde, straddled by the allegedly missing tenant, who was recklessly weilding a bottle of Strawberry Luv Lotion.

“Dude!" he yelled. "Shut the goddamned door!”

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