My Dinner with Ahab

My Dinner with Ahab

INT, PEQUOD, CAPTAIN’S TABLE - NIGHT
Captain Ahab and his officers sit around the captain's table. They’re all in a good mood, except for Captain Ahab, who sits alone, muttering to himself. He's hunched over a bowl of unidentified slop and occasionally spoons some into his mouth.

Starbuck walks in with Jack. The new kid. Most of the Officers look up. Ahab doesn't.

Starbuck: This here be Jack. He’s the new lieutenant.

Officer 1: Welcome aboard, lad. Tuck in. Cooky sliced up a tuna twice as big as me. Plenty for all. 

Jack sits down. An underling spears and plops a giant tuna steak on his plate.

Jack: Wow, that’s a whale of a steak!

Captain Ahab: (looking up slowly) Whale??

The Officers groan. One of them dope-slaps the new kid.

Jack: What? What did I do?

Captain Ahab: Ahh. The whale. The whale ... That reminds me it does.

The Officers groan again. 

Officer #1: Here we go.

Captain Ahab: Did I ever tell ye lads about the Great White Whale?

Starbuck: Yes, sir. As a matter of fact. You did.

Captain Ahab: What?

Starbuck: Captain, with all due respect, you've told this story a thousand times.

Captain Ahab: (pointing at Jack) Well ... he ain't heard it.

Starbuck: One thousand and one.

Jack looks up, mouthful of food.

Jack: Huh?

Starbuck dope-slaps him.

Captain Ahab: Aye, lad. Here be the sad and sorry tale.

Captain Ahab lights pipe. Takes his sweet f***ing time before he begins.

Captain Ahab: It were a dark and moonless night ... 

The Officers all mime the words as he says them.

Captain Ahab: I was minding me own business ... when that sodding leviathan ...

Starbuck: Bit your leg off.

Captain Ahab: (pounds table) Who be telling this story? You or me?

Starbuck: You, Captain. You.

Captain Ahab: Aye. As I were saying .... where was I?

Starbuck: Whale. Bit your leg off.

Captain Ahab: Not just any whale, damn your eyes! Moby Dick! Moby Dick were his name!

Jack: The whale has a name?

Captain Ahab: Aye.

Starbuck: Yeah. (nodding to Ahab) He named him.

Jack: Why "Moby Dick" ...?

Captain Ahab: Because he's a dick!

Starbuck: Well, he is a sperm whale. 

The Officers laugh.

Captain Ahab: Ye think this is funny? Aye. Laugh it up, gentlemen. We shall pursue this unholy behemoth to the ends of the seven seas!

Starbuck: What's the point?

Captain Ahab: Revenge! Revenge be the only point!

Starbuck: Aw, Captain. Shouldn't ya just forgive and forget?  
(takes out pitchpipe) I think this song explains it all ...

Blows a note on the pitchpipe. The Officers all begin singing.

Live and let live, let Nature be your teacher
Respect the life of your fellow creature 

Captain Ahab: No! Bugger that hippie shit. I shall not never be deterred from my purpose! I aim to hunt this bleached monstrosity, catch him and kill him!

Starbuck: How, sir? It's a very big ocean.

Captain Ahab: Aye. To catch a whale, ye have to think like a whale. That's why I've been eating nothing but plankton for the last three weeks.

Spoons green slop into his mouth. Gags, but chokes it down.

Starbuck: How's that working out?

Captain Ahab: Not too good, but I ...

(OS) Whale song, trilling from outside.

Captain Ahab: What in the name of Poseidon's balls ...?

The room violently shakes.

Officer #3: It be the whale, sir! He's humping the boat!

Captain Ahab: Ah, Moby! You dick!

The room shakes again.

Audio: (OS)

Live and let live, let Nature be your teacher 
Respect the life of your fellow creature 
Live and let live, it's not such a trick.
And whatever you do, please don't be a dick.

Band with the Runs

(to the tune of Paul McCartney's "Band on the Run")

Mexican cantina.
Two-for-one burritos.
Drippy chimichangas.
A bartop bowl of Fritos.
Cheap food. Cheap food.

If we ever get out of here
Sixty miles to drive today.
Shitty gig in Galveston.
Cheap promoter, slow to pay.
Awful rumblings in our guts.
Horrible looks on every face.

Then the poor bass player drew a heavy sigh
And we ran into the john.
Pay toilet stalls were all we found
With locks on every one.

Band with the runs.
Band with the runs.
Band with the runs.

Lead guitar begged the jerk at the bar …
Could you please give us a key?
He shook his head no and raised a Glock.
Son, the road’s the place to be.

Band with the runs.
Band with the runs.
Band with the runs.

Then the crapper thundered with a mighty crash
When our drummer climbed the stalls.
Our frontman was squatting on the tiny sink.
His ass was next to fall.

Band with the runs.
Band with the runs.
Band with the runs.

A shit tsunami flooded into the bar.
And the barkeep dropped his gun.
We just kept running, dropped a tip in the jar.
So long, man. It's been fun.

Band with the runs.
Band with the runs.
Band with the runs.

That Tex-Mex dive. Did not survive.
The band with the runs.

Band with the runs.
Band with the runs.
Band with the runs.

I Have Seen the Future and it's the Bee's Knees

Art by Bob Lavin. Cover illustration for Hunt Collins' (aka Ed McBain's) "Tomorrow and Tomorrow."

The Time Traveler and his Wife pop into the future from the Roaring Twenties. Their Time Machine resembles the offspring of a Flivver and a Van de Graaff generator. They gawp at the inhabitants of the shiny, candy-colored city of the future.

Mr. Time Traveler: The future’s the cat’s meow, I tells ya!
Mrs. Time Traveler: Oh, but darling … so much pastel!
Mr. Time Traveler: Tell me about it. And not a straw boater in sight!
Mrs. Time Traveler: And the women are so … so overdeveloped. 

Mr. Time Traveler: Well, it’s the future, ain’t it? Evolution or whatever. By future standards, these dames might be flat-chested.
Mrs. Time Traveler: Oh, these chippies are shameless! I think we should go back to your time machine!
Mr. Time Traveler: You know what I think?
Mrs. Time Traveler: No, darling. 
Mr. Time Traveler: Howzabout you go back to the time machine? Set the dial to 1929 and take a powder. Meanwhile, I’ll snag me a pastel shirt and reconnoiter on the QT. Get the lowdown on the moral depravity. Hearst'll eat it up, know what I mean? 
Mrs. Time Traveler: No. How will you get back? 

They walk over to the Time Machine.

Mr. Time Traveler: Let me worry about that. Here, doll. Take a seat.
Mrs. Time Traveler: OK. I love you. 
Mr. Time Traveler: Sure you did. Twenty-three skiddoo, baby.

Mr. Time Traveler pushes a button. The Time Machine disappears with Mrs. Time Traveler in it.

Loudspeaker: Sexual fulfillment exercises begin in five minutes. Interested parties, please gather at the Orgasmic Interociter for further instructions.

The depraved Futurians squeal with glee and run.

The Time Traveler flings his straw boater to the sky and joins them.

My First Cryptid Alphabestiary

A is for "Altie," a sturgeon or plesiosaur. He likes rivers in Georgia, and eats yuppies on tours.

B is for "Bunyip" who lives in Australia. He's a government secret. If you blab, they will jail ya.

C is for "Chupacabra," Trump's nightmare come true. He won't take your job, man. He hungers for you.

D is for "Dookie." He's no monster, he's shit. But so are the rest. He's the one perfect fit.

E is for "Ent," a tree without roots. He stomped Marvel Studios, pissed off about Groot.

F is for “Fir Bolg,” the Bigfoot of Ireland. I’m stuck for a rhyme, ‘cause I’m feeling tired, man.

G is for "Gremlin," who torments Bill Shatner. If she falls from the wing, you know it'll flatten her.

H is for "Half-Elf," a miserable bum. The best you can say is he's better than none.

I is for "Id," the monster within. He hates Leslie Nielsen, but likes to see skin.

K is for "Kraken," who lives in the sea. Don't release him, you moron. Take it from me.

L is for "Loch Ness Monster," (Nessie for short.) His true name is "Cecil," I'm glad to report.

M is for "Manticore," a Persian monstrosity. ELP is his groove. He digs the pomposity.

N is for "Nü Gui," a ghost hit-girl from China. The spirit of vengeance flows from her deepest inner self.

O is for "Ogre," a creature of dread. He grinds Englishmen's bones to make gluten-free bread.

P is for "Pixie." They're cute and resent it. If you have a new car, they'll fly out and dent it.

Q is for "Qliphoth," a shell of the dead. According to Pynchon, it lives under your bed.

R is for "Roc," a big honking bird. He feasts on fat surfers, at least so I've heard.

S is for "Skunk Ape," who lives up to his name. You'll smell him in Florida. Yeah, we get the blame.

T is for "Troll," malign and online. (Visit www.troll.com to have a good time.)

U is for "Undine," elemental and watery. Like Druids, she's fluid, and likes to spoil pottery.

V is for "Valva," she's translucent and pink. A spirit of nature, it's not what you think.

W is for "Warg," a Buick-sized wolf who ravages fortresses. Not to be confused with the Direwolf, for copyright purposes.

X is for "Xenomorph," a chest-bursting bitch. A sure-fire cure for the space-faring itch.

Y is for "You," try not to feel blue. We're all monsters inside, you know that it's true.

Z is for "Zombie," and you can see why. The corpse, like the trope, refuses to die.

Shakespeare’s top ten horror plays

“A Midsummer Night’s Scream”
“A Comedy of Terrors”
“All’s Hell that Ends Hell”
“Zombie Wives of Windsor”
“Nuclear Winter’s Tale”
“Taming of the Rabid Shrew”
“Thirteenth Night”
“Troilus and Suspiria”
“Cthulu and Juliet”
“The Mutant of Venice”

Joyce Chicken

“Why did the chicken cross the road?”
—as told by James Joyce

“chickenrun, past Colonel and Sanders, from extra crispy to chicken combo, brings us by a breadpandough kick of cluckulation back to KFC. Sir Chickenheart, poulet d’amores, fr’over the thirteen spices, had dropencre clucked the bucket from his Old Kentucky Hume (Gonna lay my bourbon down!) on this side the cooped funhouse, hunhouse, henhouse to peckerfight his cockamamie war: nor had Marilyn Fired Childrens ripped the recipe: nor had Colonel Mauders kicked the bawket and braised the deads: nor had Leghorn the Foggy planked the arse of the doggy (Ruff! Ruth! Roof!): nor had Gilbert O’Shelton set the chickens free (while surprise lust) dizzydriving Cadillacs and Caddyshacks everywhichway drunkstonedbrilliantdead (mind the fowl, Mr. Kenney): nor had Superchicken heard the caul: nor had King Chicken viced his evile plans to Duckman, (Mwah-ha-haa, bawk bawk bawk!): nor had Chickmagnet aligned him’s ironyfiled AC-DC poles: wrongstory shite, the Cock of the Walk was rightbawk where he started: i.e., to wit, to what, may the feathers fly, the wing itself, in sum, in same, the rude road. Fowl circle! Joke the chicken! What too due? Cross it he must, did. (For avoidance of shame, behold peacesign tracks all the assfault way.) Ask why? No, not, nyet. The bawk stops here. Aye. When all is shed and dumb, he’s a dimbulbbirdbrain feckless fecking foul, in’t he? (Feck!) Yet, still, apparently, inerrently, in dumbness of dimness, even so, morcel of cerveau in his noggin or not, pecking and puckering roadwise in rightangled fashion, this poultry fella (our hiero!) had a dejavoodoo fritzfeeling he’d been herr befire. Just on. Tit of tongue it. Was. Memberberrying along the lions of …

chickenrun, past Colonel and Sanders, from extra crispy to chicken combo, brings us by a breadpandough kick of cluckulation back to KFC ...”