Stacy Archives

May 25, 2007

Stacy: Saving Your Future

He gripped the paper tighter as he hurried down the sidewalk. Almost 4PM, only had about eight minutes left.

Where the fuck is that house…

He broke into a trot as his watch started beeping.

Hurry… hope I don’t have a fucking heart attack...

There it is…

He rushed to the front door, banged loudly with his fist. The startled housefrau snatched the door open, prepared for battle.

“See to your child!” he yelled.

She turned, dashed up the stairs, just as the wailing started. He placed the black paper on the entry table.

Future Fixers, Inc. saves another one.

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June 11, 2007

Stacy: Oh, You Meant...

“Martha, what on earth is this?”

“It’s the mending, Mum. Oi’ve done the master’s doublet, your hose, the children‘s nappies, the second best table linens, the downstairs draperies…”

“And what is that smell?”

“Mum, Oi’ve washed them…”

“In what, Martha, the pig trough? That stench is awful. You know the laundresses handle all the washing below stairs. Whatever possessed you?”


“But Martha, these stitches, they’re not even. There’s thread hanging loose here, this part is still rent, and that hem is uneven.”

“Oh Mum, Oi’m so sorry. Oi tried my best, Oi really did, but Oi’m a revolting sewer.”

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June 12, 2007

Stacy: Aaaand Advocate Boy!

I am poetry in motion, a death machine on two legs, blue steel and sex appeal.

I plan my approach, moving soundlessly through the trash-strewn alley. There are three perps, crouched over a recently stolen woman’s handbag. I signal my partner on the other end of the alley, and as one, we strike.

He moves too fast, though, the glory hound. He takes out the first two with one blow, as I take aim at the third. I slip and land mask-down in a pool of something vile.

Captain Defender looks at me disgustedly, swishes his cape, and stalks away.

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June 25, 2007

Stacy: Magic Shoppe, Closing Time

She locked the door behind the day’s last idiot tourist, grumbling to herself. Never wanted to pay a thing’s value, them. Always looking to get out with something truly magical for mere pennies. Well, true magic had cost, dammit, and she wasn’t running a charity here.

She settled down to her workbench and picked up the red shoes. Aye, magic had cost, often paid in blood back in the day...

With a pair of silver tweezers she carefully placed inch long thorns down in the toes of the shoes. The next idle shopper would learn about cost, aye, they would.

From Jim's At the Magic Shoppe

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June 27, 2007

Stacy: Hishi-kikkou

She woke reluctantly, head pounding. She cracked one eye then rapidly closed it. Too bright. She tried to stretch, but got nowhere. Confused, she tried again, yelped at the unmistakable pain of returning blood flow. She forced her eyes open, found her entire nude body wreathed in an elaborate pattern of cord and knots.

‘What the fuck…’

Memories of the evening trickled back… dinner with Gary and Susan, then drinks, then… nothing. A featherlight touch brushed her cheek, then stung as something slashed across her face. Susan walked into view, riding crop in hand.

“So glad you’re awake,” she purred.

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June 28, 2007

Stacy: Pirates or Ninjas?

As a pirate, you’re sailing the high seas, answering to no man, plundering where you will. Take what you want, giving nothing back! On the other hand, your nutrition is sketchy at best, and your personal hygiene is positively non-existent. Plus, your co-workers are not the most educated of companions.

As a ninja, you lead a life of ascetism and meditation, with interstitial episodes of mayhem and mass murder. Your weapons and hand-to-hand skills are unmatched, as is your general sneakiness, but you’re almost certain to die alone.

Screw it, I want to be a cowboy. Yippee kai ay, motherfucker.

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June 29, 2007

Stacy: The Cleaner

Aleksander in Budapest. Leon in Paris. Sergei in Vladivostok.

Someone was systematically wiping out our agents, and I had to find out who. And end them.

I came up short in Beirut, the target had just left. Missed again in Seoul, by three days. After spending four days, and five informants, in the EU, I finally I felt I had solid lead.

I arrived in Miami, collected my case and procured a hotel room. It was then I discovered that the case, not mine obviously, contained a disassembled oboe. And that, sir, is why I utilized a 1954 Plymouth instead.

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July 2, 2007

Stacy: Not a Bird, Not a Plane

Naw, that ain’t Superman, that’s just Edgar. He built himself some wings outta some junk he had layin’ out in the yard, jest took off flyin’ one day. Scares the chickens somethin’ awful. I tole him t’ quit it, but he’s a dadblame fool.

I kept tellin’ him I’s gonna pepper his ass with birdshot if’n he didn’t cut it out. Chickens won’t lay aigs if they’s afraid. Start losin’ alla their feathers, too. But he jest kept flyin’ and flyin’, swoopin’ over top of my house alla time.

I tole him, I did.

Taxidermist owes me a favor, ennyway.

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July 6, 2007

Stacy: Hare Trigger

I’ve tried everything, I really have. Poison, traps, elaborate schemes. But he’s still out there, still chewing up carrots and god knows what else. It’s the same old thing, day in day out… I come up with a plan, invest time, energy and money, and he ruins it. It doesn’t even have to be a plan that involves getting rid of the varmint, and still he ruins it. It ain’t natural, I tell you, a rabbit being that smart.

I’d just shoot him but it doesn’t seem sportsmanlike. It’s like I gotta outwit him, somehow.

Oh, I hates that rabbit.

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July 10, 2007

Stacy: We Fix Futures

Their marriage had never been ideal, but she’d always tried so hard. It wasn’t until their second year together that he hit her.

Things only got worse after their son was born. It took all her energy to keep the violence focused on her instead of the boy.

Then one day he came home and didn’t recognize them. They were strangers to him.

She apologized for trespassing and left the house with the boy. Outside, a man stood next to a nondescript sedan with a set of keys. She handed him a thick envelope and drove away with her son.

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