Uncle John’s Bathroom Reader Presents Flush Fiction by Bathroom Readers’ Institute Page B
Authors: Bathroom Readers’ Institute
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with all kinds of aliens raising all kinds of hell. Weird-looking cameras every ten feet.
“Ricky had observed the winners living to fight another day. The fate of the losers remained a mystery. Ricky’s a logical guy, and he saw one logical course of action: fight to win.
“And he did. They stuck him in there against some blue, shaggy, yeti-looking character, and Ricky wore himself out beating on the guy, looking for a vulnerable spot. He finally got in a lucky genital shot, and it was nowhere near where you’d expect.
“Afterward, he sat in his cell, nursing his wounds, and concluded that the straightforward approach couldn’t work forever. He regarded the menagerie in the other cells, each creature a distinctive product of its native environment. Ricky’s only chance was to exploit what made him unique. His potential opponents sported all manner of natural weapons: horns, spikes, tentacles, fangs. But only Ricky possessed an Ivy League biology degree.
“Against insectoid opponents, he dragged the combat out as long as he could, counting on their inefficient oxygen diffusion to do them in. For amphibian opponents, he used grappling techniques, seizing them in complicated holds and letting the constant dermal stimulation dehydrate them. For beings who lacked eye structures, he covered himself with blood from the prior combats, to fool their olfactory senses, and hugged the walls so the crowd noise masked his movements.
“I don’t really understand this stuff either, Dutch, but he wrote that part down for me. Here, see? And it’s not important, anyway. The point is, he won. The whole enchilada.”
Dutch interrupts me to theorize, reasonably, that I’ve flipped my lid. He’s determined to humor me, though. Where’s Ricky now, he asks.
“Well, he’s kind of a celebrity, you know, out there.” I point upward. “But not his own man, by any stretch. He had trouble just getting permission to come back long enough to tell me what happened. Still, he has it pretty good, all things considered. As champion, he only has to fight in the final round of each tournament.
“You know, like in Karate Kid Part III. ”
By now Dutch is sizing me up for a straitjacket, but at least he accepts that I believe what I’m saying. His last-ditch strategy for restoring my sanity is to poke a hole in my story. So if Ricky’s tenure as galactic champ is ongoing, reasons Dutch, why should I ditch my title? They wouldn’t need a second earthling, so I’m in no danger, right?
“Ricky came back to warn me. Apparently they want to change the format, freshen things up.” This, Dutch understands. As entertainment, wrestling, real or fake, gets stale easily.
“For the next tournament, they’re switching to tag teams.” And I drain Dutch’s untouched vodka in one swallow.
Shoot for Jesus
Courtney Walsh
W hen Sister Agnes first set up her mission north of Pyongyang, she didn’t know what to expect, only that she wanted converts to the Lord Jesus and that she wanted to train members of the first North Korean biathlon team. After graduating from Notre Dame, she had enrolled as a novitiate at the new Sisters of Mercy athletic convent in North Bend. There she earned her habit and her rosary beads and her Karhu 10th Mountain Mountaineering skis and her Walther P22 with back strap. She trained and she trained until she could recite the New Testament from memory and get four out of five bull’s-eyes shooting from prone, sitting, and standing positions.
The first to approach her when she got off the plane were twelve of Kim Jong’s Happy Girls in their olive-drab uniforms, each with a tiny red rose in her hair. They bowed and chanted in unison, Great Leader send high regard and greeting to Poopy-San .
Poopy San ? That was her, apparently. She bowed in return, and one of the Happy Girls put a lei of red roses around Sister Agnes’s neck. Then they all stepped back and admired her.
“Thank you, thank you,” Agnes said.
“Ricky had observed the winners living to fight another day. The fate of the losers remained a mystery. Ricky’s a logical guy, and he saw one logical course of action: fight to win.
“And he did. They stuck him in there against some blue, shaggy, yeti-looking character, and Ricky wore himself out beating on the guy, looking for a vulnerable spot. He finally got in a lucky genital shot, and it was nowhere near where you’d expect.
“Afterward, he sat in his cell, nursing his wounds, and concluded that the straightforward approach couldn’t work forever. He regarded the menagerie in the other cells, each creature a distinctive product of its native environment. Ricky’s only chance was to exploit what made him unique. His potential opponents sported all manner of natural weapons: horns, spikes, tentacles, fangs. But only Ricky possessed an Ivy League biology degree.
“Against insectoid opponents, he dragged the combat out as long as he could, counting on their inefficient oxygen diffusion to do them in. For amphibian opponents, he used grappling techniques, seizing them in complicated holds and letting the constant dermal stimulation dehydrate them. For beings who lacked eye structures, he covered himself with blood from the prior combats, to fool their olfactory senses, and hugged the walls so the crowd noise masked his movements.
“I don’t really understand this stuff either, Dutch, but he wrote that part down for me. Here, see? And it’s not important, anyway. The point is, he won. The whole enchilada.”
Dutch interrupts me to theorize, reasonably, that I’ve flipped my lid. He’s determined to humor me, though. Where’s Ricky now, he asks.
“Well, he’s kind of a celebrity, you know, out there.” I point upward. “But not his own man, by any stretch. He had trouble just getting permission to come back long enough to tell me what happened. Still, he has it pretty good, all things considered. As champion, he only has to fight in the final round of each tournament.
“You know, like in Karate Kid Part III. ”
By now Dutch is sizing me up for a straitjacket, but at least he accepts that I believe what I’m saying. His last-ditch strategy for restoring my sanity is to poke a hole in my story. So if Ricky’s tenure as galactic champ is ongoing, reasons Dutch, why should I ditch my title? They wouldn’t need a second earthling, so I’m in no danger, right?
“Ricky came back to warn me. Apparently they want to change the format, freshen things up.” This, Dutch understands. As entertainment, wrestling, real or fake, gets stale easily.
“For the next tournament, they’re switching to tag teams.” And I drain Dutch’s untouched vodka in one swallow.
Shoot for Jesus
Courtney Walsh
W hen Sister Agnes first set up her mission north of Pyongyang, she didn’t know what to expect, only that she wanted converts to the Lord Jesus and that she wanted to train members of the first North Korean biathlon team. After graduating from Notre Dame, she had enrolled as a novitiate at the new Sisters of Mercy athletic convent in North Bend. There she earned her habit and her rosary beads and her Karhu 10th Mountain Mountaineering skis and her Walther P22 with back strap. She trained and she trained until she could recite the New Testament from memory and get four out of five bull’s-eyes shooting from prone, sitting, and standing positions.
The first to approach her when she got off the plane were twelve of Kim Jong’s Happy Girls in their olive-drab uniforms, each with a tiny red rose in her hair. They bowed and chanted in unison, Great Leader send high regard and greeting to Poopy-San .
Poopy San ? That was her, apparently. She bowed in return, and one of the Happy Girls put a lei of red roses around Sister Agnes’s neck. Then they all stepped back and admired her.
“Thank you, thank you,” Agnes said.
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