A Table for Fortune Bot

Doris Martin, now twenty-one years dead, tapped shyly on the inner door of DAVE’s soft files, so he let her out for a quick mourn-and-greet

DAVE kept asking himself: Why the hell won’t my salary go up?

This establishment’s long white marble bar and polyurethaned tables were sure to gratify his wife.

And then, like Satan, Matthew went walking up and down through the world.

No fairminded citizen could blame him for not preventing September eleventh. No cretin and not even a moron could have seen it coming. (Between January 1 and September 10 of that year he had received in excess of forty Presidential Daily Briefings concerning Osama bin Laden.)

best books read so far this year

Cheney grinned like a well-mannered skull.

On July 22 we got muscular with Saddam’s sons Qusay and Uday.

So the Stevenses managed to get through Monday night until they fell asleep, leaving life to improve itself come Tuesday.

it felt so, so good to lie down; wouldn’t it be even more wonderful in his coffin?

His mind became a vast television.

What to do? It would be logical to upgrade the SADF’s cannons, but this has been categorically prohibited by the State Department due to the U.N. embargo against South Africa’s “apartheid” regime. Could Gerald BULL help?

For his part, DAVE bought and masticated a hateful tuna sandwich, guaranteed vending machine quality, which procedure deducted six minutes from his life.

At the break of another rainy dawn, the sky was blue and yellow like a corpse. Matthew went out in search of something to eat.

chilly morning drearily brightening to reveal leafless trees raking the sky like tines of a half-melted and mostly broken plastic comb, while long queues of headlights mimicked the screaming brightnesses of fast food restaurants, haloed by the drizzle and sweat on his glasses.

Over the silver-grained micro-realities of the Berlin Wall he watched, as usual courtesy of the National Photographic Interpretation Center, whose U-2 photographs had in the nick of an all too recent time revealed those atomic missiles in Cuba, laid out in that star shape which

Good man. I’ll kick this upstairs, which between you and me means, with a high level of probability, Jim Angleton. He’s a little odd, but, well, Jim needs to know you better anyway; no sense holding you back.

He bent down to kiss the wall with the lips of his mind, and the wall kissed him back. Then it split open for him, allowing him into the enemy city.