Tag Archives: black humour

310. Cancer for sale

‘Cancer for sale’.

The sign on the lawn was written in crude, childish letters, which puzzled me even more than the message itself. As my next client had cancelled, leaving me with an idle hour, I decided to walk up to the door, knock, and ask what the sign meant.

It took a while for someone to arrive. Some cluttering and muttering was audible, followed by a slow shuffle, as of someone dragging a bag of sand behind them, before the door was opened and a small girl came peeking through the askew door with big, inquisitive eyes.

“Mummy and daddy aren’t home,” she said off the bat.

“Did you write that?” I asked.

She nodded.

“What does it mean?”

“It means what it means.”

“It says you sell cancer.”

“Then that’s what it means. You interested, mister?”

I was, I suppose, if only to quell the nagging enigma.

She flung open the door completely.

“You can park your keester on the couch. I’ll be right back.”

Though her face had not been different from that of any other girl, her body showed a wear and tear uncommon at her age. The dragging sound, heard before, came from her club foot. It wasn’t yet prevalent on the quaint picture that hung on the living room wall however, that saw her posing with a thirty-something couple, feigning a smile.

“Head’s up, mister.”

I turned around and in a reflex caught the green, glowing rod. Its radioactive energy soared through me like instant lightning.

“What have you done?” I yelled in agony, as I sunk to my knees and caught the pungent odour emanating from under the floorboards.

“I gave you what you wanted,” she said, her gloved hand picking up the rod.

“That’ll be 50 bucks.”

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192. Boo Boo Snicklefretz

Boo Boo Snicklefretz believed every word she read. And thus she was convinced on Monday that global warming was nonsense, on Tuesday that it was an undeniable fact and on Wednesday that the weather might be a tad warmer than usual but at least that was better than a tad colder. In short: her gullibility was mostly harmless.

That all changed on February 9th, when in the back pages of the Kingston County Chronicle she came across her own obituary. Clearly this was a mistake most people would have laughed off as just a grim joke, but for Boo Boo Snicklefretz it triggered an existential crisis.

How was it possible, she pondered, that she was dead, while at the same time she was enjoying jam on toast? She was also still breathing, which for someone without a pulse, was quite a feat. And yet there it was, in black ink on white paper: Boo Boo Snicklefretz, aged eighty-eight, untimely taken from us.

Perhaps she was a ghost. But then, would not she be translucent? For in everything she had ever read ghosts were always see-through. They were also mostly nasty and cruel, which Boo Boo Snicklefretz, even now she was dead, certainly was not.

So for a brief moment she considered the paper might be wrong, only to laugh it off immediately. Why, if it was wrong about her demise, wouldn’t it also be wrong about it being a tad warmer day than usual, which it was? No, she was dead alright.

Luckily she had a shotgun stowed away in case of emergency.

Equally lucky, after scattering her brains all over the paper, she was no longer able to read the factual error in her obituary, which categorically stated she died of a heart attack.



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