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On the wagon

funny short story: on the wagon


The caped crusader approached the gymanisum's worn oak podium, and scanned the room. He counted twelve rows of rusty metal chairs. Most of them empty, reminding him of a time when just his name would fill stadiums thousands of times this size. Those were darker, busier days.

“Hello. I’m sure you’ve heard of me, but, regardless, my name is Spirit, and I’m an alcoholic,” the hero announced.

“Hi, Spirit,” the crowd groaned.

Spirit sighed.

“It’s been a hard road to recovery. Especially hard for me, you see…” Spirit said, before he hopped down, and trotted gallantly toward the front row.

“I have used my enormous range of powers to save this city from a gang of alien invaders; to appease, for the time anyway, the Great Fire Breathing Slug; and to contain the Australian zombie apocalypse …”

The front row shuttered, remembering the terrors of the undead kangaroos. “…but, even more enormous than my power, is the secret to its source. And that secret source has always been, alcohol.”

Expecting the sounds of gasps, the only thing Spirit could hear was the echo of a muzzled cough.

“Ah, yes. Very good. Why don’t you tell us how it all got started,” said Stan, the group leader who was currently flipping through a comic book.

Spirit described the events before realizing his gift. At age thirteen, back when they called him Joseph, he helped his friend Mike convince an adult to buy them a bottle of bourbon from the liquor store. What they didn’t know, until later, was that their accomplice in a long white coat was none other than Austria Baasch. This, of course, was ten years before the world knew him as Professor Heinous. The tainted alcohol killed Mike, but left Joseph a very sickly teenager. Joseph didn’t dare taste the hard stuff until his 21st birthday party. Discovering his supernatural, inebriated strength wasn’t easy, especially when learning to play beer pong.

As Spirit continued his story, a loud noise cracked through the ceiling, creating a hole big enough to fit a Hummer.

Ah, the Great Fire-Breathing Slug has returned.

“Does anyone here have alcohol?” Spirit yelled.

As soon Spirit made the request, about thirty flasks were tossed at him. Without so much as a buzz, Spirit could only manage to catch one. The crowd of recovering alcoholics rushed from the gymnasium, while Spirit was on his knees tasting the various liquors.

Ew… who drinks Peach Schnapps in a flask?

Is this Sangria?

Ah, moonshine, thank you very much…

He stopped to read the engraving on this particular flask.

Phyllis?

While Spirit chugged the moonshine, the slug peaked his five, beach-ball sized heads through the ceiling hole and shot five columns of green flames at Spirit, melting away the gym’s floor like cheddar cheese. The slug’s body slimed through the ceiling opening and dropped into the newly constructed gorge in order to look for the champion’s remains.

“It’s a good thing, I’m a light-weight!” Spirit said, hanging from a gymnasium light. Before the slug could think, Spirit flew down from the ceiling and slammed his body into each of the slug’s heads. The monster laid motionless, oozing a sparkling blue goo. Spirit lifted the slug’s body from two antennae, and, in one giant leap, was flying above the parking lot.

As Spirit spiked the creature onto an old station wagon, he placed his hands on his hips and proclaimed, “I guess it’s your turn to hop on the wagon.”

This story was written by David Gregory, creator of this website. Comment with your thoughts below!
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