Subscription sloth

It's been a month since I canceled that stupid subscription my sister ordered for me. If I had known my life would turn out like this, I would've happily let the pile of beauty magazines live in my bathroom. The problem was my bros were giving me weird looks and the subscription cost fifty bucks a month. My male pride can take a little beating, but my wallet can't. If anyone else is reading this, you might be asking yourself, what the hell is he talking about? I'm talking about getting cursed! 

So, it all started with my sister, Maggie. She is such a twerp. Why would I say such a terrible thing about my little sister? Because she bought me a "birthday gift" using my credit card for something she wanted. Locked me in for three months. When she gets old enough to have her own credit card, I'm ordering Monster Truck Weekly for her. That'll show her. 

Sorry, I am getting off topic. After enduring the pain of watching my hard earned money being grinded into a flimsy bound packet of moisturizing tips and questionable dating advice, I finally was able to cancel it. I had to call their hotline where I talked to a strange lady with a California beach blonde accent. Trust me, you know the type. Our conversation went something like this:

"Beauty Stars Quarterly, my name is Candice. How can I make your day sparkle?"

I assume she broke out the jazz hands when she said it. Felt like the kinda thing she would do.

"Hi, I was hoping you could help me cancel my subscription?"

"Why on earth would you want to do that, silly?"

"My sister bought it for me by accident and it is on my card."

"Sounds like your sister has good taste. You are lucky to have her." Her smile almost reached through the phone, judging from the peppy tone.

"Sure, sure. Can you help me out though?"

The line went silent for a few seconds and something was definitely scribbled down on a piece of paper.

"What is your name?"

"Jerry Devinson."

Her tone then changed in an instant. The peppy Candice was gone. In her place was sassy Candice. And not the fun kind of sassy. "Well, Jerry Devinson. I think you don't know what you're asking."

"Excuse me?"

"You're given a once in a lifetime opportunity and you want to throw it away, for what?"

"Money. It costs too much."

"You just sound too lazy to work a little harder."

That is when I lost it. "Who do you think you are, lady? I just want my subscription canceled. Is that too much to ask?

She scoffed and I heard keys clicking on the other side. Little did I know the next thing she said would change my life forever. 

"There. I canceled it, but it comes at a price."

"You aren't charging me a cancellation fee?"

"No. I curse you! You deserve to be with your own kind. Sloths will follow you around until the end of time!"

"Whatever lady," I said and hung up. It was one of the stranger conversations I've had, but I went to bed that night without a worry. My wallet was going to be fifty bucks healthier next month. 

I woke up the next morning, ready to tackle the day. Brushed my teeth, showered, got dressed, and when I went to make breakfast, there was a sloth lounging in my sink. Safe to say I was surprised. My next thought was how it even got inside, but when I saw my window open, I figured it was just an unlikely coincidence. It took me a few minutes to convince the little guy to leave, giving me a few minutes of peace to eat breakfast and head out to work. Never even considered the curse to be real.

Next, my commute. It was only a few minutes by bike, but not too scenic. During that ride, the most animals I ever saw were the occasional squirrel and bird. That day though, I saw sloths. One was crossing a road, one was up in a tree, another on the sidewalk. It was bizarre. There was even a news briefing about it on the nightly news. I thought it was just a strange day, but it was only the beginning.

Everyday sloths grew in numbers and seemed to always be going where I was going to be. The grocery store, the bike shop, the electronics store, even my workplace. I had to explain to my boss, "No, I don't own an army of pet sloths, nor do I feed them." At some point, my boss found it cheaper to just have me work from home. I thought it was a blessing. Nope. The sloths had more time to congregate at my one location. At any given time, my yard was swarmed with sloths. It was like a pilgrimage for them, all hoping to get a glimpse of me.

There have been some upsides. I made it on the local news and even had an agent reach out to negotiate my book deal. I don't know for what exactly, but I thought at least I can make some money off this major inconvenience. When I was able to get out of my house, people called me: The Sloth Whisperer. Kinda cool, but eventually the baggage of having all these sloths around me took a toll. I needed to get away.

What I did was drastic. I quit my job and with some help from a private pilot, flew out to a small private island, far away from any landmass. In order to prevent any sloths from following me, I brought everything I needed to be self-sustaining on the island. Water purifier, gardening supplies, you name it, I had it. Maxed out my credit cards and emptied my savings. I was finally going to be free…

As I am writing now, I realize there is a flaw in my plan. This curse was of the supernatural. How else would sloths know to converge on me, wherever I went? In the sky above me, I see sloths being airdropped with little parachutes. Must be some cult follower or animal hugger who thinks I need those creatures in my life. I need to accept my fate. These sloths will be with me always. Whoever finds this journal one day, let there be one thing to learn from my pain. Do not cancel your subscription, you will regret it.

***

Bread Rocket

“I think I misheard you. You want to send bread into space?” Mr. Banaszkiewicz said.

“No Mr. Banaszkiewicz, I want to send a rocket made of bread to space. It is completely different,” Barry said, adjusting his spectacles. 

“Let me get this straight, you want me to abandon years of innovation and peer reviewed research to send a bread rocket into space?”

“Yes.”

Mr. Banaszkiewicz pondered his proposal, looking down at the documents Barry had provided on the table. Mr. Banaszkiewicz’s advisor had a concerned look on his face.

“You aren’t really taking this man’s proposal seriously? A bread rocket? What, is it powered by butter?” the advisor said to Mr. Banaszkiewicz. 

“The prototype was. Well it was diesel fuel, but butter was one of the ingredients in the biofuel. Worked pretty well, but I was thinking of something more traditional for thrust.”

“Like what? Marinara sauce,” the advisor said.

“Alright you two. I have heard enough,” Mr. Banaszkiewicz said. “Mr. Nowak, we will fund your proposal.” 

“WHAT!”

“Thank you Mr. Banaszkiewicz, you won’t regret this,” Barry said and left the conference room.

“Mr. Banaszkiewicz, you can’t be serious?”

“I don’t have much of a choice. We have failed at everything else. President Duda needs us to succeed.”

“Why not just contact the Americans? Or the Chinese? They could help us out.”

“I think they may be part of the problem. Convenient that all our previous launches have failed, even after our rigorous checks showed nothing wrong. And besides, who is going to sabotage a bread rocket?

“It sabotages itself by even being an idea.”

“We will see.”

***

Seven Months Later - Big Launch Day

“Is everything ready Mr. Nowak?” Mr. Banaszkiewicz asked, with his advisor by his side.

“Ready as she’ll ever be,” Barry said, searching through his white lab coat. 

Behind Barry was a giant loaf of bread the size of a four story building. The light brown rocket glowed in the sun. From a distance, it looked quite tasty with its puffy design. Barry found the white remote he was looking for when a chef walked in.

“The bread is at optimum temperature, Mr. Nowak. We are ready to launch when you are,” the chef said.

“Excellent! Mr. Banaszkiewicz, do you want to do the honors?” Barry offered.

“No, you can do it,” Mr. Banaszkiewicz said.

“Alright, let's toast this loaf,” Barry said, pressing the button on the remote.

Flames shot out from underneath the bread and thick clouds of smoke pumped all around. The rocket lifted into the air, clearing the smoke with ease. Crumbs fell off the side of the ship and the bottom was starting to get dark brown, but the rocket kept going. Higher in the sky it went and Mr. Banaszkiewicz could not believe his eyes.

“It’s working. It's actually working!” Mr. Banaszkiewicz said, craning his neck to watch the rocket. His advisor too was shocked that Barry’s rocket didn’t end up as a pile of burnt toast.

They all turned to the monitor next to them to watch the rest of the footage from the bread rocket. The loaf’s bottom portion turned black from the intense heat, but nonetheless was still on a good trajectory until it broke past the atmosphere and into the vacuum of space.

“All systems are nominal. Rocket is in orbit,” a voice said from the monitor.

“I can’t believe it. It actually worked,” Mr. Banaszkiewicz said.

“Of course it did. Now time for Phase 2,” Barry said, searching for the next button to click on his remote.

“Phase 2?” the advisor asked.

Barry clicked the button and the bread turned toward the moon. Its engine lit up again and flew toward the moon.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going to land the bread on the moon.”

“Why?” Mr. Banaszkiewicz asked.

“Bread and cheese go together well.”

The rocket went faster than anyone could have expected, already reaching the moon before Mr. Banaszkiewicz could explain the flaw in his logic. The bread smashed into the moon, shattering into millions of frozen pastries. Barry's mouth hung open, devastated by this outcome.

“I...thought the moon was made of cheese. You lied to me…” Barry said, not to anyone in particular.

“Who told you the moon was made of cheese?” the advisor said, flabbergasted by his childish understanding of the solar system.

“Wallace and Gromit. How could you do this to me?”

Billionaire Brain Film Crew

"Are you getting this?" Jason said.

His body jerked back and forth as the yellow dog robot tried to buck him off it’s back. Jason held on with one hand, waving his baseball cap like a buckaroo. The crowd of boxes in the warehouse watched without emotion, perched perfectly still on their shelves.

"Yeah I am!" Ken said, with his eyes locked onto the small screen in front of him that was capturing the action.

The robot bucked him a few more times and spun around, launching Jason into a cluster of boxes on the floor. He rolled off the smashed boxes and grunted when he slapped the solid floor.

"That was awesome! Can you do that again? I want to get some more coverage."

The robot shook its body and trotted off down the row of boxes.

"I take it that is a no from Spot," Jason said, brushing himself off.

"I wonder what other cool stuff Bezos dreams about?"

Ken helped Jason up and they wandered down the rows of shelves in the large warehouse. They traveled for a few minutes until Ken turned off the camera.

"Why did you turn it off?"

"It's just endless rows of shelves and cardboard boxes. When we find something more interesting I will turn it back on.”

"What if you miss something cool?"

"What if I run out of space on the drive because I filmed four hours of boxes?"

Then a box fell from one of the shelves. It crashed into the ground and whatever was inside sounded like glass shattering. Ken fumbled with his camera while Jason approached the deformed box. The tape on top was still holding and the Amazon smile was facing him. Jason crouched down and reached his hand out to touch it.

The box rumbled and shards of broken blue plates jutted out of the box. Two of the pieces came out circular and flat against the box to form eyes above the mouth.

"Well. Well. Well. What do we have here? A couple of meatbags," the spiked box said.

"Woah! It can talk," Jason said. 

Ken stepped to the side of Jason and pointed his camera at the box creature. His smile peaked underneath the camera, knowing this was the footage they were looking for.

"You have some nerve coming down here," the box said.

"What are you talking about Mr. Box?" Jason asked.

The box's shards protruded farther out. "How dare you call me Mister!”

Jason backed up. "I'm sorry."

"Oh you're not sorry. Not yet."

The box grew two legs and arms. Both black and thin like stick cartoons. The box snapped its newly grown fingers and boxes from both sides of the aisle fell to the floor. They too grew legs and arms. Their contents also protruded halfway through their cardboard skin, each one different from the next.

One of the boxes with ripped up teddy bears sticking through it pointed at them. "Get them!”

Jason and Ken ran while the sea of demented boxes made chase. Around them, more boxes fell from the shelves like a waterfall. Over the loud noise of products being smashed in every direction, the shaking of maracas grew louder and faster behind them. Ken looked over his shoulder to see a box with a sombrero gaining on them ahead of the rest.

"They're gaining!" Ken yelled ahead to Jason. 

"What?" Jason said. 

He turned his head to look back when his feet gave out on him. Ken jumped over him and tried to pick him up. 

"Leave me!" Jason yelled, batting Ken's hand away.

"I can't!"

"You need to tell my story. Go! While you still can."

Ken looked back at the encroaching mob and back to Jason. Jason nodded to him. Ken nodded back and ran off, leaving Jason behind. The mob stopped pursuing Ken and focused on the catch of the day.

The sombrero box punched its hands through its own box and ripped out two maracas. "Hola, Amigo.”

Ken closed his eyes as he ran, hearing the groans of his friend after each maraca rattle. He left him to die. May it not be in vain.

Doppelganger Girlfriend

DON’T OPEN THE DOOR! THAT’S NOT ME! These words kept spinning around in Jim’s head while he stared at his phone. He looked over his shoulder and saw his wife laying on the fluffy brown sofa. Her eyes were closed and her arm dangled over the edge. Jim clicked his wife’s picture on his phone and put the phone to his ear.

“Honey, you didn’t open the door did you?” Alexis said frantically over the sound of a car horn.

“If I am talking to you now...then who is this on my couch?”

“You let her in!”

Jim walked over to the window and saw his wife’s white Honda out front by the curb. “I let my wife into her home. Yeah that’s how it works. How did you steal my wife’s phone?”

“Jim, whatever you do, don’t sleep with her. I’m coming home right now!”

The line went dead. Jim put his phone back in his pocket.

“Don’t sleep with my wife? What a weirdo,” he said to himself.

Jim turned around and his wife sat up from the couch, taking off her brown apron, revealing just a plain white shirt with a brown stain in the middle.

“Who was that?” she asked.

“Do you have your phone?”

“No, someone stole it. Who was that?”

“I think it was your thief. She texted me. When I called your number, this woman answered and spouted off nonsense like not to open the door or that you weren’t my wife.”

“Oh my god. Do you think she knows where we live?”

Jim walked over and sat down next to her. “I doubt it.”

“What if this woman does know? What if we are in danger?”

“Don’t worry, I will protect you.”

She cradled his arm and leaned her head against his shoulder. She smelt like fresh coffee grounds. He placed his hand on her lap and squeezed her thigh. Her blue eyes shot up to his.

“Did she say anything else?”

“She did say not to sleep with you. Like I said, what a weirdo.”

She laughed. “That is weird. How did she know I wanted to sleep with you?”

“Ha ha. I know right,” Jim said, getting up from his seat. She pulled him back down to the sofa and straddled him.

“Oh, you weren’t kidding.”

“I never kid,” she said and went in for a kiss.

Before their lips met, the house entrance caved in as a white Honda drove straight through the house. Debris filled the living room and dust particles floated in the air. Inside the vehicle two arms were wrestling with the puffy white airbag. The door opened and a woman emerged from the car with a handgun in her hand. Jim looked upon the woman with confusion. It was his wife. Alexis. Her hair was frazzled and blood was dripping from her nose, but it was her. Dressed in the same apron and shirt.

Alexis raised the handgun. “Let go of my husband!”

“Protect me, Jim!” the woman said, holding Jim tighter.

Alexis did not hesitate. Before Jim could react, she fired. Bang. Bang. Bang. The impostor rolled off of Jim onto the white carpet. Blood and chunks of flesh were all that was left of her face.

Jim still held his arms up like he was still holding her. “Alexis?”

She went up to him, gun at her side and kissed him. It was Alexis all right. Her lips tasted like peppermint and her tongue tickled his teeth.

“Baby, I love you, but right now we need to go.”

“What’s going on?”

She pulled him up from the couch. “I’ll explain on the way.”

Jim looked back at the impostor one last time before getting in the car. The rest of the house collapsed as she backed up and spun the car around. They drove off into the night and were never seen again.