Aquaman’s® ears were burning. Someone or some people were talking about him.
There I was, standing before my criminal peers, as well as the bosses, the dons, the capos, the crime lords, the masterminds, and the world conquerors. My objective is to convince them that I am most worthy to kill our greatest enemy, Aquaman®. I had to call upon all the eloquence Mama Killer Brick taught me. I had to call upon the conviction of every pastor and rabbi I had ever mugged. I don’t want to come off entitled, but my hatred for Aquaman® was humongous. So humongous, there is no term yet invented. If I had to invent that word, gazillious or googolnormous.
Artist’s rendering of tragic events at The Unhappy Hunting Grounds, circa 1942.
“In conclusion, that is why I believe I bear the right to kill Aquaman®.” After a detailed thirteen-minute Power Point® presentation of how Aquaman® savagely killed his brothers and father by throwing a hungry polar bear at them. The clutch-your-heart-and-squeeze moment came while the gory close-ups of the deceased faded and swiped into each other, while Sarah McLachlan’s “I Will Remember You” played. Heartstrings tugged successfully and there was not one dry eye in the house. Pretty good, considering the hall was filled with at least 200 cold-hearted criminals.
As legitimate as a cry for help from a Prince of Nairobi.
Like some kind of organized clockwork, it was December 25th again. Atlantis was quiet. It would be easy to assume that Atlanteans celebrate the birth of Christ the holy baby, and you would be completely wrong. In the same way you’d be wrong if you assume all Koreans eat watermelon, all Brazilians are good at math, and all Sudanese are always hungry. Atlantis sunk many years before the birth of Jesus on the surface land, making them unaware of the event as it happened, thus making it irrelevant to their culture. And who can blame them? Do they blame or shame us when we don’t acknowledge Mollusk March Day? FYI: they do.
A story about the two stooges on the right.
Larry Fine squinted, revealing all his age lines, 427 to be exact, as he limped out of the car and up the front steps. Each step made pain shoot sharply through his 70 year old body. “Ow, ow, ow!” one of his many catchphrases echoed through his mind. He tugged at the bottom part of his pant leg, it was clinging to his socks, not only was it static, it was annoying as all hell. It was Christmas in L.A., 65 degrees and sunny, not that it mattered. Ask anyone and they will tell you that Larry Fine was soberly Jewish through and through. He had still retained his curly kinky hair, and in this light, it looked like two ragged tumbleweeds attached to the side of a perfectly decent bald head.