Commander Terek of the Imperial Star Destroyer “Attacker” was selected to approach the Captain about the memorandum sent in advance of Lord Vader’s arrival.

“Sir, is this a serious request?”

“Yes.”

“It is to be “masculine and robust” like his own. Have you ever seen his?”

“Of course not. It’s covered.”

“But how?”

“How the hell should I know? Use that stuff keep for shore leave. It promotes growth.”

A week later, the Captain and the Commander met Lord Vader on his arrival.

Vader said, “Your moustache is impressive Commander.”

“Thank you my Lord.”

The steroid worked, in two ways.

Cletus Lake walked into the liquor store. He went to the single shelf where they kept the fancy wine from California. He was buying a bottle to celebrate.

After a lifetime of digging coal, Cletus’ wildest dreams were on the verge of realization. His life was suddenly changed.

As he approached the register a man with a shotgun burst in. He asked for money. The shopkeeper went for his gun.

Instantly Cletus was lying on the floor dying.

The paramedics did their best. They failed to notice the winning lottery ticket in Cletus’ pocket – soaking up blood.

Stanley Mushnick looked across the street at the halal butcher shop. There were hardly any Muslims around. How did they stay open? The shop must be a front for terrorists. He should call the FBI. They’d check it out.

Gemal Al-Tariri looked across the street at the kosher deli. How many Jews could there be locally? How did they stay open? The shop must be a front for the mob. He should call the FBI. They’d check it out.

Special Agent Walt Grunwald got two calls. What were the odds of the mob and terrorists operating in this town?

“Nancy. Good to see you.”

“Good to see you Mr. Vice President.”

“That lavender suit is quite fetching.”

“Thanks. It’s Vera Wang.”

“Heh… You said wang…”

“Are you going to do that all night?”

…

“Get your hand off my knee!”

“I’ve got an ‘earmark’ in my pants for you.”

…

“Nancy! Look there, Sam Brownback is undressing you with his eyes.”

“Shhh!”

…

“Dick, if you pinch my ass one more time I swear…”

“Executive Privilege sugar tits. Wanna complain? I see John Roberts right over there…”

…

“Good night Mr. Vice President.”

“Catch ya later toots.”

The worst part of the zombie apocalypse was the fatigue.

It wasn’t hard to pot the hooting inhuman undead as they limped bloodshod up the farm lane.

But they came at irregular intervals, mandating constant vigilance. How could a man sleep?

Plus, the cow still needed milking.

He shouldered his rifle and climbed down from the barn cupola-come-sniper’s nest.

It was odd that Bonnie didn’t issue her welcoming moo.

Entering the stall, he saw why.

Dismembered bovine. Empty skull. Intestine-festooned manger.

It came from behind: Baaaaaas surging past bitter cuds and froth-corrupted lips.

Zombie sheep.

Shit.

Brendon Travers was proved right after all. His neighbors joked him mercilessly about the “bomb shelter” he built. Now who was laughing?

Brendon settled into his 10×20 concrete bunker (which was buried 5 feet underground). The only door was secured. The air filters were working. His generator was good for weeks.

The worldwide zombie apocalypse wouldn’t claim him.

He decided to treat himself to his favorite snack, microwave popcorn. He had boxes of it piled around. He got a pack and went to cook it. But he couldn’t.

He’d forgotten to put the microwave in the shelter.

Shit.

The captain looked down the bar at the female. Her pale blue skin shone like clear water. Of all the spacer bars in the galaxy, this one had the hottest females.

“You crew or captain?”

“Crew,” she responded. “And always looking for a better… ride.”

He was in if he played it cool. They chatted. Then the dreaded question.

“So what system are you from?”

He responded, “Kayelon Loves Grammy and Poppy 2005.”

She smiled widely and replied, “I’m glad I’m not the only one fucked by the International Star Registry.”

Dr. Howard K. Smith, PhD (Philosophy, Harvard, ’72) groaned audibly. He hated his Department Chair. The Chair had placed that filthy little slut in his class intentionally. It would drive him mad. She’d taken her first test. He now had to grade it. He opened the examination booklet and read the first line.

“I don’t think that someone’s mind should have a problem with their body. I mean we all know that our jeans control how our body looks anyway.”

Dr. Smith then, for the first time in years, prayed to a God he doubted existed for strength.

UN Secretary General Ban Ki-Moon quaked. He was on the most important negotiation ever. The alien attack killed at least 1 billion people. The aliens announced that earthlings should appoint an ambassador to hear their demands.

Ban waited in the alien spacecraft. A wall opened and an alien entered. The alien walked up to Ban and said, “You have 10 days to provide us with 10,000,000 tons of chocolate, Lindsay Lohan, and the head of James Gandolfini on a stick. If you do not it will be your doom.”

Clearly, these were not the demands Ban expected.

Perkins the butler stole into the mansion. He returned surreptitiously from vacation to do the deed. He trod silently in the passages and halls until he arrived at the bedroom of his employer. He entered the room.

Perkins looked at his employer sleeping. Pathetic. Dissipated. The young man wasn’t worthy of the family name.

Perkins put the pistol in his employer’s hand, put the gun to the temple, and pulled the trigger. It would look like a suicide. Richard Cory was dead.

Irv Mills was at the top of his game. This was his first day as CEO of ConglomoCorps, a multi-national (and multi-billion dollar) company.

“Time to start making changes,” he thought as he pulled out an organizational chart.

He noticed a box marked “Research and Development.” He scratched it out and wrote “Research & Development.”

No. Scratch.

“R and D”

No. Scratch.

“R & D”

No. Scratch.

Damn. This was going to take longer than he thought.

He regarded her.

Regarded in true sense of regard. He supposed that regarding in this sense was fairly uncommon. He wondered how many definitions of the word he’d have to read before he got to the sense he was using. One? Two? Fourteen?

Of course, it would be more accurate for him to say he was trying not to leer at her.

The non-etymological thoughts he had were lewd.

He thanked her for the coffee and left the shop.

Brother Thomas fell exhausted onto the creek bed. He turned around. His monastery burned. Flames licked the sides of the building and blasted open the roof. Black smoke rose towards heaven.

Brother Thomas had fallen asleep in the hay loft. He awoke to the sounds of the horses panicking. From his vantage point he could see that fire had consumed the gatehouse. He leapt from the loft window and cleared the back wall. He ran from the monastery compound.

As he watched the monastery burn he had one thought on his mind.

“Damned Lutherans.”

Urferd Forkbeard stood a head taller than the next tallest man in his village. Urferd was as broad as two men. His muscled shoulders sat atop a barrel chest. It was known that he could rip trees out from the earth with his massive arms. Urferd’s stony visage was punctuated by world-weary blue-green eyes. As he thought he pulled on his beard; a beard that grew in two long tendrils from his chin.

Urferd Forkbeard should have been the most feared Viking of his age.

But he was not.

Urferd Forkbeard sat on a great rune covered stone near his hut. The sun shone brightly on his face. He squinted down towards the village. The men of the village gathered at the foot of the path leading to Urferd’s hut.

They were talking in hushed voices. They looked at him furtively.

Urferd pretended not to see them.

Urferd picked up his massive axe and whetstone. The axe was a terrible sight. He wondered if there was another man in the village who could wield it like him. Amused, he sat and sharpened the axe.

He knew what they wanted.