It’s been a while, but I’m always glad when I can come up with crazy new stories. Especially when said stories let me channel my inner Hunter S. Thompson.
Monsters on the Track, Liquor in the Back,
By Alexander Paul Willging
Word Count: 535
Few, dear reader, have the stomach for a flat-out, full-on, non-stop, balls-to-the-wall race in the middle of the desert. And yet, that’s where I found myself, leaning against a Harley-Davidson motorcycle at eight in the morning on top of a lonely Nevada dune.
Armand Boston, reporting live from a press tent somewhere in Clark County, desperately scarfing down vodka and burnt gingerbread cookies to stave off the morning heat. Yes, it’s true that the Las Vegas Gazette has revoked my press credentials at the time of this writing. But what of it? The Story Must Be Told. And it’s not like I could give back the rented motorcycle before Thursday…
The racers were ready at dawn. I toyed with a slice of lemon around the rim of an untouched glass of water. Revving engines and hoots and hollers filled the air outside. I only then remembered to hit the button on my tape recorder, for when I’d need color and sound to add to this article. Even if that greased-up, pigheaded Pancho of an editor refused to print it.
Instead, however, all I heard next were screams.
The Beast that attacked never stood still long enough for photographers to capture it. Not that they could, dear reader, whilst they were running for their lives. I saw the best bikers of my generation destroyed, raving, hysterical, and mutilated limb from limb. Neither photo nor prose could have prepared you for the viscera that the Creature waded through on that unholy morn…
[Editor’s Note: We apologize, but there is a missing section in Armand’s story. The article he sent for publication has at least a page and a half stained with lemon juice. Or, at least, we hope that it’s lemon juice.]
…And there I was, dear reader! Eye-to-eye with the Jabberwocky itself!
Though it did not burble as it came, it reared back its head and split the air with a bone-chilling roar. It raked the space above my head with bloodstained claws, and in my mortal terror, I did the only thing I could.
I threw cookies at the damn thing.
To my surprise, the one-eyed, one-horned giant purple people eater did not reject the torched gingerbread. In fact, the Creature seemed delighted. Its salivating maw inhaled the treats and followed up with a sickening wet crunch. O! Happy was this undevoured reporter!
One plate of cookies and a liter of vodka later, the Beast had had its fill. I stood outside the ruined tent, clinging to the remains of a Harley-Davidson chopper, and I watched the Beast gallop drunkenly back into the sandy wastes from whence it came. At long last, the desert was silent and still again, save only for the pitiful cries and crawls of the half-eaten racers at my feet.
Far be it from me to speculate, my readers, but I can only guess at how this act of mayhem might have been a monster’s commentary on the sport of long-distance motorcycle racing. Even so, while our Armed Forces continue their desperate pursuit across the empty Nevada wastelands, this humble reporter can only offer one small piece of advice.
Don’t skimp on the gingerbread cookies. Your lives may well depend on it.
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