nice

"I've decided to kill myself 100 times per day for the rest of my life," I say.

She dies in response.  The pain turns me into a Real Man™.

"I will now execute 1 (one) Provide For My Family.™"

I do so, and God kills me.

The Shape

    "Mister..."  The head judge looks at his list.  "Rhubarb-Scale."

    The man stands restlessly before the judges' table in his cheap, ill-fitting grey suit and matching fedora, grinning triumphantly.  His tie would have been blood-red if it were new.  "Please, call me Scent."

    "Very well, Scent."  The judge wears a featureless, close fitting white jumpsuit, and on his bald head is something that looks to be a cross between a tall white chef's hat and a plastic mold of slicked-back hair.  Two more judges sit on either side of him, utterly hairless, their suspiciously smooth scalps reflecting more light than they should.  On the table in front of them sits a large red button and a thin silver microphone.  "Your product, please."

    Scent shuffles excitedly as he prepares to talk with his hands.  "You've heard of circles.  You've heard of squares.  You may have even heard of triangles."  He paces a predatory semicircle through the empty white room with his head tilted forward, pinning them down with his glare.  "Gentlemen, I give you... the newest basic shape!"

    He steps to the side, gesturing toward the door across the room from the judges.  It slides open, revealing a thin hallway filled with thick darkness.  The judges look at each other, then back to the hallway.  There is no movement and no sound except for the dissonant hum of a machine somewhere nearby.  For a moment, the judges forget to breathe.  Then a thud punctuates the quiet.  The head judge casts a confused glance at the aspiring businessman.  Another thud.  Then another as it starts to speed up.  Scent shifts his gaze back and forth between the hallway and the judges expectantly.

    A tall form is now vaguely visible through the darkness.  There is a wobbling motion, then it appears to hop, coming down with a thud.  The judges trade perplexed looks.  After a few more hops it becomes clear that the thing is having trouble balancing on what appears to be a pair of legs fused together.  It is wrapped almost completely in tight, white cloth with no seams, even where the right hand is fused to its hip.  The cloth spans all the way to the top of the forehead, covering a facial structure that basically resembles a human face, but lacks any convincing detail.  The cloth is parted only at the crown of the head where thick, coal-black hair extends nearly a foot upward, woven perfectly into a single massive dreadlock.

    The judges are transfixed as the creature hops across the room toward them, swinging its sharp-fingered left hand around to balance itself.  It stops once it's up against the table, the hum of the machine stopping at the same time.  The judges are afraid to move or even look away in the silence.  Scent watches nervously, frozen.

    The thing leans over the table toward the head judge.  Its thin neck extends like rubber as it tilts its head back slightly, coming nearly nose to nose with the judge.  He stares at its smooth, faceless, cloth-covered head which more resembles an egg than a human head.  In the utterly silent stillness, he hears only the pumping of his own blood, smells only his own fear.

    An image of hysterically wide eyes with a demented smile cuts violently into his awareness with a sound like a gunshot.  Scrambling, he smacks the red button on the table.  A metal claw extends from the dark hallway and drags the creature away in a matter of seconds.

    Eyes wide and mouth agape, the head judge turns to look at Scent.  "Wow!" he shouts, "woo!"  The other judges begin to release their nervous tension as hard laughter.  The three look at each other, nodding vigorously.

    "Congratulations, Mister Rhubarb-Scale!"  The head judge says.  "Your new shape will be added to humanity's knowledge of geometry!"

    The crowd goes wild.  Confetti rains from above as gunshots spark against the ceiling.  Cameras pan across the room, transmitting the scene to the rest of the world, where mathematicians everywhere make dirty love in celebration.  Scent is gleaming, bowing victoriously.

    "And now," says the judge, "your reward!"  The crowd pulls itself together as he produces a twenty-sided die.  He rolls it on the table and silence returns.  "We have a twenty!"

     The crowd explodes again into confetti and gunshots as mathematicians around the world around the world take another hit of math and return to their disgusting sex.  A shiny limousine drives slowly into the room and stops in front of the table where the driver steps out to open the back door.

    As soon as the door is opened, harmonized braids of low, melancholy chanting flow slowly into the cheers of the crowd.  One by one, a line of stout dwarven priests, paladins, and sorcerers step carefully out of the vehicle and march in a slow line toward the businessman.  Clothed in either sacred vestments or spectacular royal armor, each one chants to a boiled egg cradled in a jeweled golden goblet.  Each egg glows with a divine golden aura as each dwarf presents his egg to Scent, saying, "By His yolk we are saved," then ascending in a burst of light into, idk, Valhalla or something.  Scent stuffs his fedora full of eggs, then his pockets, until, hours later, he lies passed out under an enormous, holy mound of eggs.

    Scent wakes from his daydream.  The judge rolls the die on the table in silence.  It lands on one.

    Eyes wide, the judge quickly looks up at the businessman, but the words coming from his mouth are beaten by the bullet that pierces Scent's skull.

THE END