Category Archives: Fiction

Short stories by Wayne K. Spear.

Dear Diary (Jan 17)

Dear Diary,

In three sleeps I will be the 45th President of the United States and the best President ever of all time. My inauguration will be the best inauguration and they will look back and see that the marching bands were the best marching bands. I will say to President O, Get the F*** Out Of My House! Maybe I will say something else (I haven’t decided) but in my mind I will definitely be thinking GTFO. Then I will have someone pee on the bed where he slept and then burn it on a giant fire, while I dance naked under the full moon, because I hate him.

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The Orange Menace and the Spirit of MLK

in the dark pushing the tiny buttons the tiny buttons and soon morning in the dark pushing tiny buttons almost and hit send that will show the loser who is the stronger my army of angry followers my army so angry we are strong they will see how strong how so so and i am the president greater than all others the winner strong damien crusher has won has destroyed the others the president leader of the world the leader of the world i am that i am that i am

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Mr. Crusher’s Statement on Russia

JANUARY 12, 2017

Mr. Crusher’s Statement on Russia

There was no letter to Russia from the President-elect yesterday. Mr. Crusher has never written a letter to anyone in Russia including the President of Russia Vladimir Putin. He does not know any Russians. He does not know anyone of Russian background. Mr. Crusher has never been to Russia. Mr. Crusher is not aware nor has he ever been aware of the existence of Russia. If you show Mr. Crusher a map of the world and ask him to point out Russia he will stand silent and motionless until broken from his trance by the introduction into his field of vision of a Queen of Diamonds playing card. This is because he has owned many tremendous casinos (the best casinos) and cares very much about his tremendous businesses just as he cares about America. Mr. Crusher is working hard to Make America Great Again and has NOTHING TO DO WITH RUSSIA. He has never even said the word Russia what he said in fact was Prussia. If you ask him what kind of dressing he wants on his salad he will say Italian or Ranch or Thousand Island or Roquefort or Buttermilk or Caesar or Creamy Cucumber or Green Goddess or Balsamic Vinaigrette or Catalina or Tomato & Oregano but never ever Russian. He has never played Russian Roulette. He has never read Tolstoy or Chekov or Dostoevsky. He was not given a set of seven hand-painted linden wood lacquered Semenov stacking matryoshka nested dolls by a member of the Russian mafia on 9 November 2013 after the Miss Universe Pageant in Moscow at approximately 0:27 local time. Eighty-six contestants did not wear tremendous evening gowns and the best swimsuits for “the world’s biggest and most iconic beauty contest.” Mr. Crusher does not drink so there could not have been an after-party on 9 November 2013 where Russian oligarchs consumed vodka and discussed business with Mr. Crusher who has never been to Moscow. Mr. Crusher has never noted how the golden base of the stacking matryoshka nested dolls look so nice against the 24-karat gold of his Louis XIV giltwood Portor marble-top centre table featuring a flower-filled trellis frieze centred by a female mask flanked by pierced acanthus on stepped tapering legs headed by scrolled capitals hung with husk-chains and fronted by masks joined by elaborate x-shaped stretchers centred by an octagonal boss with flower finial. Russians have never admired the painted ceilings of Mr. Crusher’s home which allegedly feature Apollo according to unverified reports that have been leaked to the fake media by liars. The Russians did not leave Mr. Crusher’s home shortly after a visit to follow-up on discussions which did not happen on 9 November 2013. It is impossible to put a recording and/or transmission device into a stacking matryoshka doll. Please notice that I am standing behind a large stack of what appears to be important documents which tells you Mr. Crusher has no conflicts of interest.

– 30 –

Media inquiries: Mr. Kalashnikov: (202) 419.7939

The National Security Advisor’s General Theory of Everything

I begin with a premise. The world is mad. It must be laboured into a form of sanity. From the premise flows the conclusion. Sanity is a form. It is not a substance. If it were a substance we should not know sanity. Not until we have known the substance of sanity. The substance however can only be found through a process. Through the labor itself. Sanity is the labor. It is the process. It is independent and irrespective of substance. The substance comes later. It comes after the labor. It is a result of the labor.

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The Tragedy of the Orange Menace, King of America


The ORANGE MENACE, Mr. Damien Crusher King of America
SHIVE WHITE, Chief Strategist, and Senior Counselor to the King
RETZ TALLIS, Lord Secretary of State
GENERAL JIMMY WHACKER, National Security Advisor
BETTY CONAWAY, The President’s Spokesperson
BIANCA CASH, Spiritual Advisor to the King

DAMIEN CRUSHER  II.            }
CHARLES-EDWARD              }  children of the King
LAKI PILFE                                  }

HEDDI LINE                                }
BARRY LEDE                               }  journalists
LIBBY E. LEET                            }

Holt, the manservant
Lords, Ladies, Officers, Soldiers, Messengers, Attendants, Commoners

SCENE: America]

ACT I, Scene I

Cru. Hath it been so, that mine honor should be stained, and by this Streep?
Shiv. M’lord, ’tis so. A Streep who wills thee stripped.
Cru. Well-strapped perhaps! Yet never shall be stripped.
Shiv. Ha, thou has put a finger on it and made your point, at length.
Cru. Not of the length of my members, but of the girth of my embers, let us speak. For I burn with rage at my equator, so shall there be a stripping. This Streep shall feel the lash. Hand me that device!

[Scene II]

Enter BARRY LEED, HEDDI LINE and LIBBEY E. LEET. SCENE: the Geld News newsroom
Led. Lately the King hath issued a decree!
Hed. Prithee tell, what crisis clefts our realm?
Led. (Reads) Tho ignorant of my righteous Crown,
This Streep in vain would tear me down.
My kingly and empurpled robes
Attacked she at the Golden Globes!
I, the best as well as good,
She, most over-rated in Hollywood!
Lib. From such a twit, such tweets.
Led. The wit of the man is wet, yet I prefer my humors dry.
Hed. Of phlegm and bilious temperament is he;
Inflam’d our body politic shall be.

[Scene III]

Clob. Hast thou heard the news of late?
Whack. The King hath his sundry diversions set, of this I know.
Clob. A very cornucopia of dainties, to keep the media sated.
Whack. How easily the fools are baited!
Clob. Then let them feed in the anteroom, no further entrée shall they know.
Whack. Let us leave them to their cold collation.
Meanwhile we devour a nation.

To be continued ….

What is to be Done with Mr. Crusher’s Enemies?

As we saw in an earlier instalment, the episode with Ozymandias has left our hero in a state of unrest. The orange menace paces his realm of marble-and-gold as his mind searches for an outlet through which the pent-up emotions might soar. Soon, so soon, he will have the resources of the world’s most powerful nation at his disposal. Yes, in only days his hands will be upon the levers. For now, however, he must settle on less grand arrangements.

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Kalashnikov’s Umbrella

Today, it rains. Today I must go out. When I say I must go out, I mean to say that the choice to go out is not mine, or not mine alone, for there are external forces which compel me to rise from my bed and to venture into the world, against my will. My will! How absurd it sounds when I put it that way, as if I had a definite will and not rather a velleity. And against this will, this velleity, the many forces, some external but others perhaps not. Forces, that is precisely the word. And external, also the precise word. For everyone understands what is meant by a force, and also by an external. Were it not for these, I would stay in today, as I would stay in every day, if left to my own devices.

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A Bigly Christmas

Gather around, children, gather around. That’s right, at my feet, like good patriotic Americans. Kids, don’t sit on the Louis XIV chairs, made of the best 24k gold, okay? Sit here on the marble floor, which my servants will have an easier time sanitizing after you’re gone, which hopefully will be soon. I am kidding, just kidding … well, sort of kidding. You know satire, right? It’s when you’re sort of kidding, but also sort of serious, but also you really mean it but you don’t. You can tell satire, right? I hope so, but most people can’t, even adults can’t. Even adults who read this website, in many cases.

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The Party

The evening of the party is like every other evening. They sit around the numberless tables in a vast well-lit space. It is a sea of humanity shrinking into the horizon. Ten are seated at each table. There is no theme to the evening, no thread that ties them. Some are dressed as for a formal occasion, but most are not. Each table is draped in white linen.

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