THE MOTHER FUCKER by John Massé

No one immediately noticed the tack hammer protruding awkwardly from Nancy’s skull, like some magical rubber-grip unicorn horn. There was surprisingly little blood around the wound, and it certainly didn’t seem to stop her from happily swinging in her tree, singing little made up magical songs only a magical little girl could dream up in her steel-flavored mind.


THE JUROR by John Massé

“This wasn’t a bowel movement,” thought Reginald, “this was a revolution.”


FLAGRANT GIGGLES FROM THE GODS by John Massé

It was crass of Rachel Ray to think that just a dash of mayo could be considered haute cuisine cooking in the kitchen. Mayo wasn’t having any of that noise. He romantically threaded the silencer on the high-powered assault rifle, and wiped fine beads of white vinegar and pasteurized raw egg whites from his forehead. Oh yes, her pudgy little digits would pay dearly.


TERENCE AND THE BRICK by John Massé

The question would haunt him for years to come. Why would he respond to someone yelling, “Jesus Christ! Duck?” After all, his name wasn’t “Jesus Christ,” nor was it “Duck” for that matter. It was Terence, and now he was a stupid-headed.


THE BISHOP AND HIS KNEEBRACES by John Massé

It tasted like justice. Justice and fear. Okay, justice, fear and Clamato.


ANGELS OVER ANZIO by John Massé

“Roight bye-me guv’ner,” said pip, “eye would loike me anuva spot of tea, love?”

His friends sat around him, silently judging, with arms folded. Finally, Timothy, the mouse spoke up. If truth was to come out, it would surely have to be delivered by him.

“Pip. That doesn’t sound a fucking thing like Michael Caine.”


BELLYBUTTON BRIGADES by John Massé

She was a hooker with a heart of gold. Real gold. Obviously, she was dead.