Cliff had found a new way to store his Klein bottles, way more convenient than his basement. Because they technically had no volume, you could just take them, and give it to the friendly four-dimensional demon who ran a storage-as-a-service business. And as luck would have it, he’d get quota based on volume taken.
The girl giggled. She knew she was supposed to be a grown-up, almost done studying and about to start serious jobs at serious companies, but right now she had discovered an echo effect which enabled her to shout and feel like being in an awesome mountain rage while doing it. The echo bounced back and fourth, as if hitting the massive palace in which King Louis XV held his leisurely parties to the left, then a naked cliff not unlike the Carstensz Pyramid which the legendary expedition surrounding Inkiriwang scaled a few years prior to the right. It was a grandiouse echo, and she didn’t even had to leave her computer to get it.
As the echo subsided, she shouted again:
She was standing on the bridge connecting her island to the next. She stood there, like someone at a crossroads without a map in a foreign city, confused. Even though it just was a single path forwards she had to take. Even though the bridge was brightly lit, and dawn just around the corner. Even though she knew she couldn’t stay with her mom any longer.
One step after the next, she thought. Cars occasionally would come from ahead, coming way too close due to the lack of a proper foot path. Every time she had to stop and cling to the railing. She wasn’t even halfway across the bridge when she had to take a rest. She could just take an alternative to the dreadful path ahead. The way down always was there. She stared down for a long time, the sun probably rising up behind her, but she couldn’t bring herself to end it while looking.
With her eyes closed, she climbed over the railing, leaned forwards and finally let go. Falling the entirety of a meter or so onto a brightly lit containers of a ship, to the big surprise of herself and the captain who was anxiously watching his vessel pass tightly below the bridge.
“This isn’t happening to me”, thought the party planner as he tripped over the wire in the ball room for the third time, falling into the mirror again. The first two times, he just left some nasty finger print streaks and scratches across the mirror which King Louis XV once owned, but this third time was too much for the old thing. It burst into a hundred pieces.
The party planner was looking around in shock, if he admitted it was him, he’d be fired and, knowing his employer, a rich jeweler who might not get all of his money strictly legally, probably would get thugs sent after him to destroy his live. If he just carried on without fixing it, the jeweler would surely notice the mirror not working the moment he tried to check himself out before entering the ball room, at which point he’d be blamed for not providing an alternative, so this wouldn’t do either. He had to do something, and he had to do it quickly, and found just the right thing for the job
As the jeweler went to the ball room, he checked himself in the mirror as usual. But unlike usual, he didn’t have anything to criticize about his appearance this time. His face was bright, his smile perfect, even his posture seemed to be more elegant. Happy about himself, he went into the ball room, to the awe and surprise of anyone who looked him, for there was a big spaghetti over his face.
The party planner had exchanged the mirror with a photo of him.
The cat was bored. Every day it’d lounge around, not a worry to be seen, every night it’d bounce around, only to get scolded by just its owner. What little had it achieved in life? Thrown down a single flower pot and a cup, before the owners stopped leaving easy prey laying around? Lay on a keyboard while they were trying to work? But don’t all cats do that? It had seen others outside, roaming around freely, stealing fish from the fishermen, pooping on it’s neighbors lawn, it even had seen a cat skate, which had gotten the attention of everyone.
The cat looked around. There was absolutely nothing interesting to destroy, and nothing to get famous with, especially not at 3am. Unless…
The cat jumped on the black box with the many little knobs and switches on it. One of it made a satisfying click, it was the one which the owner would press when he started doing loud things with it. The box started buzzing quietly. The stringy thing was ready.
The cat played a perfect Bmajor7sus4 and henceforth was known as
The rat was fat
The fat rat sat
Wat? Said the rat
Should I be fit, not fat?
The jump was flawless
As it was lawless
The only solace
The rat met speedy
And was quite needy
“Will you train me, make me strong?”
“of course, you won’t be fat for long”
The fat rat that
Trained now is
A fit rit, whit’s ( // TODO: Find a better line)
No food for cat
Jack had picked up Dimitri, as the CIA told him. He needed to get exfiltrated as soon as possible, the message was, because his cover had blown. Therefore, Jack and him had to leave country by the least suspicious method known to man, a hovercraft across the tundra, towards the icy polar sea where a submarine would await them.
Dimitri pulled out his vodka, offering some to Jack who politely refused, he probably should remain sober on a journey this dangerous. Dimitri shrugged and downed it all. He probably was done for the day.
Jack was very surprised to find Dimitri keep his cover even when drunk, chanting “death to the capitalists” and like a good commie would do. He asked Dimitri if he maybe could stop that, now that the submarine was in sight, what would the commanders think, when Dimitri slurred something about a being a double-triple-quadruple agent. And indeed, shortly before they reached the submarine, a missile from an Ekranoplan destroyed it, shortly followed by a space laser destroying the Ekranoplan, shortly followed by Hitler in a UFO destroying the space laser.
The Nazis had won after all, Jack thought just before he froze to death.
He didn’t get woken up by cars, usually rolling quickly through the cobbled street. He didn’t get woken up by birds, the geese, the seagulls, none of them had said anything. Neither had the helicopters, the sirens, usually passing by frequently, reminding him that the world was not okay. What happened? Was it him? Or was it the world?
He chose to believe the former, and started going to his home office. It had to be, for the latter would be too devastating to be true.
The silent crowd was cheering her on. No matter what she did. No matter if she wanted it. They’d always write the same sort of overly supportive messages. Why? She hadn’t done anything special. Were they being sincere? How could they praise her even if she intentionally messed things up? Or did they just do it for attention, out of a mis-guided feeling, confusing cheering, an inherently one-way action, with love?
Whatever the reason, it probably was best for her to play along, while always being highly cautious. Just in case they thought they were entitled to anything. Entitled men were just too dangerous.