found drama

You’ve lured them (that Prince, his army) to the edge of the forest. Until now you’ve hurled only insults, taunts. You duck into the woods. They linger on the edge, the soldiers wary. The incensed Prince urges them onward, enraged, outraged. Another jibe escapes your lips, stinging that Prince beyond his capacity for tolerance. Livid, he leads a commanding charge into the trees.

You whistle. And from all around you, hundreds (perhaps thousands?) of your clones drop from the boughs, emerge from foxholes, duck around boulders and stumps. Fearless, and of one face, they return the charge into the face of a now terrified enemy.

You and President Obama are the judges on a Chopped-style burger competition. Ted Cruz and Marco Rubio are the finalists. They’re doing at it hard over the grills. When time is called and they bring forth the burgers, both of them have produced monstrosities. Rubio is oddly disparaging of his own effort, praising Cruz’s burger as more authentic in every regard. But he’s also saying all of this in such a way that he is literally spitting on the food. You and the POTUS exchange glances, unable to eat either burger. Pushing the plates gently away.

The town is flooded. But not in nature-is-vicious New Orleans during Katrina sort of way; more like a permanent war-of-attrition city of Venice sort of way. But you load them into your gondola, your bottles. Gently you bring them down out of the closet, and gently you remove them from their boxes, and gently you lay them flat into the bottom of the boat. Each bottles goes into a little cradle. Grabbing your pole, you begin to push your gondola through the canals. And you hear the hiss. A fine plume of mist has sprouted from one of the bottles. You hunch down to inspect it. The hissing gets louder. You smell the hoppy aroma of the IPA within. You grab the bottle and hurl it over the side. It explodes before it hits the water. Shards of glass like grenade fragments. It was only one, you tell yourself, and take up your pole again. But then you hear the hissing again. More than half of the bottles have sprouted plumes. You drop into the fetal position just as every bottle in the gondola explodes with a gush of nebulized IPA.