#comedy troupe

[storyfromthehip]

Inside the Mysterious Cube | by Shoot From The Hip

The helicopter thudded impatiently on the landing pad, its blades chopping the air into anxious pieces. The sky had the color of old steel. Below it stood the President of the United States, coat tugged tight, staring at the horizon where the Cube had begun to glow again.

"Sir," said the guard beside him, stiff and careful. "They’re ready when you are."

The President nodded, then paused. "How are you feeling?"

The guard blinked. "Me, sir?"

"Yes. I like to know the people around me."

"I’m… fine. Just security."

"What’s your name?"

"Robson, sir. Son of Rob."

The President smiled faintly. "Robson, son of Rob. A good name. How long have you served?"

"Twelve years. Three presidents."

"And your favorite?"

Robson hesitated. "We’re not meant to—"

"Oh, come on."

"…Obama," he admitted. "He was a good man. Lost him in the war."

The President looked toward the horizon. "Yes. On the horse."

"Shirtless," Robson said solemnly.

"With a sword."

"A shame he didn’t take a tank." Robson said "But, he chose the horse."

They stood in silence. Somewhere far away, the Cube hummed—a low geometric sound.

"My time has come," the President said. "The Cube has returned."

Robson swallowed. "The last cubing nearly ended us."

A voice interrupted them. "Husband!"

They both turned. A woman hurried forward, fierce and breathless.

"My wife," the President said. "She calls me that."

"Husband," she said again. "You can’t go."

"I have to."

"No. You don’t. You remember what happened to Obama."

"I have to be like him."

She grabbed his sleeve. "Then at least don’t take a sword."

Robson nodded vigorously. "Sir, respectfully—any weapon but a sword."

But the President shook his head. "The Cube doesn’t fall to bullets. Or rockets. Only a sword and a horse have ever worked."

"I’m coming with you," the woman said.

"No."

"I am."

They stared at each other until the world narrowed to that single moment of stubborn love.

"I love you," she said. "And you’re the President of the United States of America," she added, as if daring him to contradict her.

He smiled. "Say it again."

───

Across the country, people watched the Cube’s shadow creep closer.

Two men sat on a porch in the South.

"Looks like the one from twelve years ago," one said.

"I remember that," the other replied. "Didn’t vote for Obama, but I respected him. Shirtless on a horse. That’s leadership."

"That’s how I wanna go."

A radio crackled. Then silence.

"Oh, what’s he going to say now?" Bubba muttered. "Probably that we’re out of water. Again." He gave a dry laugh that didn’t quite land.

"Or that he’s calling up the Reserves. That’d be me." Jeremiah muttered. 

Bubba turned toward him sharply. "Don’t say that. I mean it," he said, softer now. "I don’t want to hear it"

Bubba stepped closer, voice breaking through its usual bravado. "I don’t want you going anywhere. I love you. I’d hide you in the basement if I had to. I’d tuck you up in the attic and board the door shut. Anything to keep your body safe."

Jeremiah smiled, sad and tired. "I know."

"Stay with me," Bubba said. "Don’t go somewhere I can’t follow."

Jeremiah looked down at his hands. "I made a vow to my country."

"And you made one to me," Bubba shot back. "In that cornfield. You went down on one knee and said my name like it was a promise. You said you’d never leave my side. Not ever. Not even after the war took my legs and gave me these wooden ones instead."

"You don’t have to remind me," Jeremiah said quietly. "I carry those vows with me every day I think about going back out there. Every day I think about that Cube."

"You can’t fight it," Bubba said. "You don’t have a horse. You don’t have a sword. That’s the only thing that’s ever worked."

Jeremiah huffed a bitter laugh. "You think the Army doesn’t have thousands of horses they could lend me?"

Bubba tilted his head, studying him. "Sounds like you want to go."

He opened his mouth, closed it again. "Maybe I do. Maybe when you’ve been to war like I have—"

"Don’t," Bubba snapped. "Don’t you dare tell me about war. My legs are made of wood."

The words hit the room like a dropped plate.

Jeremiah swallowed. "You know as well as I do," he said gently, "a part of you always stays on the battlefield."

Bubba stared at him, jaw tight, eyes wet.

"Yeah," he said. "My fucking legs."

Then, finally, the President’s voice—The broadcast crackled into life with a long, uncertain breath.

"My friends… Americans… Romans… Americans… and—ah—people."

"I come before you today because I have… a great—" he stopped, regrouped, then continued, his voice drifting strangely southward, rounding its vowels. "I come speakin’ to you in your own tongue, so you can understand me a little better down there."

The accent wavered, tried to settle, failed. It was not quite Southern, not quite anything, as if geography itself had lost confidence.

"I know many of you don’t want a return to the war from years ago. The one where we lost Obama." He paused. "But enemies have a way of comin’ back stronger. You cut off the head of a snake, it grows back meaner. And when the enemy is a cube—well."

He cleared his throat.

"When you cut the head off a cube, you don’t really solve anything. You just make more sides. More problems. A cube can become… well. Somethin’ else. An octagon. Or maybe a quadragon. The math ain’t important. What matters is this—"

His voice sharpened suddenly, rising with borrowed conviction.

"What matters is you. Look at the person you love right now. Really look at them. Imagine a great cube descendin’ from the sky and crushin’ them flat. Legs gone. Head gone. Everything you know about them turned into geometry."

He inhaled, audibly steadying himself.

"And then tell me you wouldn’t climb onto a horse. Tell me you wouldn’t ride out and fight for the human race."

The signal wavered. Static hissed like wind through dead grass.

"I’ll leave you with a poem," he said, softer now, almost pleased with himself. "By Rudyard Kipling."

He recited it poorly, but with conviction:

" 'When the wind does blow,

To and fro,

You must get your shit together

And fuck up them hoes.' "

The broadcast cut out shortly after, leaving only the hum of electricity and the uneasy sense that history had just cleared its throat again.

The man with wooden legs squeezed his partner’s hand. "I’d go," he said softly. "So I understand if you gotta go."

"I gotta go." Jeremiah muttered

Bubba nodded, "I’ll keep the farm waitin’ for you."

───

The Cube army arrived without ceremony.

They descended like thoughts made solid: vast, humming blocks folding space around themselves. Smaller cubes bustled beneath them, chirping in tones that almost sounded cheerful.

"We seek the Nintendo GameCube," announced the Cube Commander. "The most powerful cube-based technology in human history."

A smaller cube malfunctioned mid-sentence and collapsed with a sad electronic wheeze.

"No!" cried another. "He was my friend!"

The cubes regrouped.

"Send scouts," said the commander. "Stealth Cubes. Learn how many swords. How many horses."

Light twisted. Shapes softened. Two cubes reformed themselves into human outlines, imperfect and glowing.

"Remember," one whispered, "less cubic."

They walked toward the front line.

A soldier greeted them cheerfully. "Defense post! Round front. Confuses the cubes."

One of the disguised cubes tried to walk and forgot how arms worked.

"Think water," the other hissed.

Music played from a nearby radio. A crooner sang about the moon.

"What is this?" the cube asked.

"Frank Sinatra."

"I know Frank Sinatra," the cube said instantly.

"You do?"

"Yes."

"What’s his famous song?"

"Cube."

The human frowned.

The radio began to howl—frequencies warping, reality bending.

The disguise failed.

Steel screamed. Someone screamed louder.

"They’ve breached the line!" the soldier shouted. Gunfire erupted around them.

───

Inside a command tent, the President paced.

The figure burst into the command chamber with urgency badly disguised as confidence.

"Where is the President?" it demanded. "I bring a message. Not about cubes. About presidents."

The President looked up from the console. "Are you the man they sent to fix my computer?"

"Yes!" the figure said at once.

The President clapped once, relieved. "Good. I need this working. I have to send orders. The troops must advance through the eastern front."

"The eastern front?" the figure repeated, tilting its head.

"Yes. And then they’ll attack. We have to attack." His voice wavered. "They’re already coming. Oh God… I’m never going to be like Obama."

The figure leaned closer. "You knew Obama?"

"I did," the President said. "Now he’s dead. He has two sides. Like a square."

The figure considered this. "Do you want to be a square?"

"No—if you’re not cool, you’re a square."

A voice burst in before the thought could finish forming.

"Husband!"

He turned sharply. "Wife! I— I thought you were— how was the front?"

"Beautiful," she said, breathless. "Terrible. Beautiful."

She gestured toward the stranger. "Who’s this?"

"My technician," the President said quickly. "He’s helping with the computer."

"I’m helping," the figure agreed, pleased.

Miranda studied him, head tilted. "You’re very… square."

"Thank you," he said warmly.

An awkward quiet settled, humming with machines and distant alarms.

"Did you know Obama?" the The President asked.

The technician nodded. "I was there. At the end of the Obama-time."

The room seemed to contract.

"He came rushing forward," the technician said, eyes brightening. "Riding the cubes themselves. So fast. So strong. For one moment, the cubes hesitated. He broke their front line."

The air thickened as the story took shape.

"His sword pierced the greatest cube. Jelly poured out—cube jelly. Everything became soft. All jelly. We did not like it-" A pause. "The cubes did not like it, I mean."

A small, nervous laugh escaped him.

"And then Obama disappeared into the jelly. One man for many. Gone inside it."

Silence followed, reverent and uneasy.

The technician lowered his voice. "He went through so much. When you are on a battlefield… a part of you does not come back."

The President swallowed.

"Oh," he said quietly.

And in that softness—in the shared reverence, the confusion, the grief—the room seemed to tilt, just slightly, toward something else. Toward a trap quietly closing.

───

A stealth cube. In the camp. The President had been taken.

Outside, alarms wailed. Inside the Cube, something deeper awakened.

They rode together into the breach: the President, his spouse, and a cowboy.

They rode on one horse, singing badly, yelling defiance at the sky.

Inside the Cube, geometry folded inward. Space became argument. Logic curved.

The cowboy fell first. Held in the arms of his love, Bubba. "Go inside the Cube. Finish it!" Jeremiah told him with his last breath.

At the center waited the Queen Cube—vast, radiant, patient.

"You have entered the cube-within-cubes," she said. "We came for your GameCube. But we found more."

The President’s spouse appeared, transformed—cube legs humming softly.

"I chose this," she said. "To understand them."

The Queen Cube spoke gently. "We are tired of war. Humans become jelly. Cubes become jelly. In jelly, we are equal."

"You killed him," Bubba said.

"Would you like him back?"

Silence.

"There is enough life-jelly for one return."

The choice hung in the air, heavy as gravity.

"Not Obama," Bubba demanded. "Bring back my husband."

The Cube hesitated. "That is… love."

"Love doesn’t have shape," Bubba said. "It doesn’t have sides."

The Queen Cube considered this.

"Very well."

Light poured out. Forms melted and re-formed. Jelly shimmered, rearranged itself, remembered.

A body returned. Human. Breathing. Jeremiah was alive again.

The Cube dimmed.

"Peace," it said. "A world that is part round, part square."

───

Later, as dawn rose—round and soft—Bubba and Jeremiah stood hand in hand, back in their field, staring up at the empty sky where the cube had been just hours earlier. 

───────

watch IMPROVISED PLAY #11 | "Inside the Mysterious Cube" | Shoot From The Hip : 

[coyging]

[montypythonsbestbits]

Daily Monty Python Sketches (redo) @montypythonsbestbits

[takineko]

Some more thoughts on the Animaniacs reboot

Here’s the thing, some of these characters are really tied up in the person who created them. For example, Slappy and Mr. Director.

Slappy was a complete creation straight from Sherri Stoner, she not only had a lot of control over the writing of her, she also voiced her. So any ideosyncracies in writing or talking or behavior would come naturally to Sherri were as a new writer has to mimic that tone. That’s not new, writers do that all the time-- except this time they don’t know her personally. They haven’t studied her, they don’t have her there to ask her questions and pick her brain, they only have a 2 decade old cartoon to review and mimic.

The same is true of Mr. Director even if he IS just a parody of Jerry Lewis. I’d argue it’d be even harder with a character tied up in Paul Rugg’s personality. Have you seen Freakazoid? Mr. Director’s deliveries have a lot in common with him. Paul has such a unique way of writing comedy that I’ve spotted his writing in cartoon shows I didn’t even know he worked on. That’s how specific his humar is to himself.

And another thing about these two-- They started off as COMEDIANS first. How many cartoon writers on the new staff do you think will be successful comedians? Sherri was hired by Ruegger and she went to all her buddies at The Groundlings, which is a prestigious stand up comedy club in LA, and she hired them, one of which was Paul Rugg. They were all doing improv successfully BEFORE writing successful comedy into a cartoon. How many shows are on air today that can say the same?

I’m glad for you if you’re looking forward to the 2020 Animaniacs reboot, but I’m so tied up in my love for the writers that I’m worried. The one good sign is that Tom Ruegger and Nate are both being very quiet. Which means they CAN’T comment YET. Which means Tom is probably making phone calls or is already in talks to see if he can get involved with the show in some way. That’s just my guess, but I’m holding on to that sliver of hope...

[storyfromthehip]

The Cardboard Stegosaurus | by Shoot From The Hip

Chip had finished the stegosaurus just in time.

It stood on the kitchen table, wobbling slightly, its cardboard plates carefully folded, its tail reinforced with tape. A gift made with patience and hope. He stepped back and smiled.

"Happy Father’s Day."

His father looked up slowly, as though surfacing from deep water. His name was Cliff, and grief lived in him now the way weather lived in stone.

"I miss your mum," Cliff said.

"I know," Chip replied gently. "But… today doesn’t have to be about that."

Cliff nodded, then didn’t. He stared at the cardboard dinosaur as though it might begin to speak.

"She loved cliffs," he said. "That’s why she married me. My name’s Cliff. She said it felt poetic."

Chip swallowed.

"She was the bravest geologist in the world," Cliff went on. "Fearless. Always leaning too close to the edge. That’s how she died. Saw something interesting. Said, ‘That looks like a trilobite!’ and...well."

He gestured downward.

They sat with that.

Cliff sniffed, then brightened suddenly. "You did a good job on this stegosaurus. Looks like a moving rock."

"You were a geologist too," Chip said. "That’s how you met her."

"Aye. We were chiseling opposite sides of the same stone. Didn’t even know the other was there. Then—crack. Through came daylight. And her face. French. Brilliant. Furious. Perfect."

Chip smiled faintly. "You were the best geologists in the European Union."

"Aye. The great international coalition."

Something in Chip's face twitched. His voice slipped, briefly, into another accent.

"Sacre bleu—"

Cliff caught him. "Hey. You’re doing the thing again."

Chip froze. "Ah. Right. Yes. The… episodes."

They came like storms: sudden, loud, bilingual. A leftover fault line from a life split between languages, places, and grief.

"What if we went on a little trip," Chip said gently. "Just you and me. We could visit all the places you and Mum found your favourite rocks."

Cliff considered this, eyes drifting somewhere far behind Bradley’s shoulder. "Aye," he said at last. "That would be nice."

A pause.

"We could even take the Eurotunnel."

At the word, something in Cliff seized. His shoulders stiffened, his voice dropping into a strange, heavier register. "No. No, I can’t go back there, son. I can’t."

Chip frowned. "What do you mean, you can’t go back?"

Cliff rubbed his hands together, agitated. "It’s just— I can’t go back. Not there."

"Why?" Chip asked.

Cliff swallowed. "Your mum and I… we worked so hard. Just the two of us. Side by side."

There was a long silence, filled with the sound of wind and memory.

Chip voice came carefully now, edged with hurt. "Then why did you bring us to the cliff where she jumped?"

He hesitated, then corrected himself, gentler but no less sharp. "I mean—fell."

"She went with enthusiasm."

Chip closed his eyes for a moment. "Dad…"

"She died as she lived," Cliff added softly. "In a rock."

───

"It doesn’t make sense."

"No, it does not," Pierre said, his accent thickening with indignation. "How did they make this tunnel so… perfect? But now—now that those English pig-dogs have left the European Union…" He sucked air through his teeth. "Mmm. I think we should block it."

"You want to block the tunnel?"

"I want to block the tunnel."

"Why would you do that?"

"Because they left us," Pierre snapped. "And we do not take rejection well. They want to be independent. They want to not be in our family anymore. Très bien. Then we will lock them in the sea. Their little island—pfah!" He spat to one side. "I spit on their island!"

"Pierre," his companion said gently. "There’s… there’s a lot of rage inside you."

"Ouiiiii," Pierre agreed at once.

"They’re just people, though. The English. Like us."

Pierre blinked. "Really?"

"Yes."

He narrowed his eyes. "Then name three British pastries."

"Well—"

"Go on."

"Uh… roll de sausage?"

Pierre recoiled. "Oh! Do not even call that a pastry!"

"Of course it is!"

"It is NOT a pastry! It is a sausage wearing bread like a disguise. Pastry has flakiness. It has flavour. It has a je ne sais quoi."

He took a breath, trying to steady himself.

"Listen. I came here because we were just—just two French geologists, okay? This was our site. Our work. We did not come here to block tunnels." his companion tried to calm him

A pause.

"Marie-Claire is dead."

"…Marie-Claire?" the other man echoed. "The woman who did half the tunnel?"

"Yes."

"She did half the tunnel?"

Pierre stared. "Yes. She dug half the tunnel."

"You mean when we built the Euro— the Eurostar?"

"Yes!"

"And she was a geologist?"

"Yes! Were you kicked by a horse?"

"I’m just trying to assemble the facts."

Pierre pinched the bridge of his nose. "This is the Eurotunnel. Built by the French and the British. On the French side, we worked with Marie-Claire. She was a geologist."

"Okay."

"There was an English team on the other side."

"Right."

"We met in the middle."

"…Right."

"And Marie-Claire met a man named Cliff."

A beat.

"I was in love with her," Pierre said quietly. "But she loved Cliff. And she ran off with him to England."

Silence.

"I put it behind me," he continued. "I truly did. And then Brexit happened." His voice cracked. "And all of it came back. The same pain. Again."

His companion softened. "Pierre…"

"I am hot," Pierre snapped suddenly. "Emotionally. I feel like I have eaten a pain au chocolat—"

"Okay…"

"—and when I bite into it, instead of chocolate, it is full of merde."

"If you close this tunnel," the other man said carefully, "it will not close the pain in your heart. You understand that, yes?"

Pierre nodded slowly. "I understand."

A beat.

"Good."

Another beat.

"I have to kill Cliff."

"What—NO! That is absolutely not the lesson!"

───

They drove the next morning.

The radio kept interrupting itself with grimly cheerful news jingles. Chip tried to turn it off and failed repeatedly.

"BBC News!" the radio announced.

Chip laughed despite himself.

They passed the cliff. They passed the road where memory sat thick as fog. And finally, they reached the tunnel.

It was sealed.

A massive red cross had been painted across the entrance.

Cliff stared at it, stunned. "It’s closed."

A guard waved them down. "Closed. Someone’s blocked it from the other side. Big slab of granite."

Cliff stepped out of the car slowly.

"I built this tunnel," he said.

The guard shrugged. "Well, someone’s very committed to undoing it."

Cliff opened the boot.

Inside: a diamond-tipped drill.

"No one closes Marie-Claire’s tunnel," he said quietly.

Chip groaned. "Dad—"

But Cliff was already fitting the drill together, eyes blazing with purpose.

───

On the other side of the tunnel, two men stood in the dark.

"What have you done? This is not the way of the geologist. This is the way of a madman. Marie-Claire would never have wanted this."

"She does not want anything anymore."

A beat.

"I know what I want," Pierre went on, almost tender now. "To feel this smooth, hard, impenetrable granite beneath my fingers. To know that on the other side there are thousands of British tourists who, even though they did not want to be part of our place, still want to come in without filling out a single fucking visa."

He smiled, sharp and pleased with himself.

"Fuck them all."

"I’m going to the police."

Pierre laughed once. Short. Dry.

"How?"

"What do you mean, how—"

"I blocked the other end of the tunnel."

Silence.

"We are now in an eight-by-eight box," Pierre said calmly. "The oxygen will run out soon. And then… I will be with Marie-Claire."

"Pierre—how could you do this?"

"Because I knew you would try to run to the police."

"No— but how? When? I’ve been standing here the whole time!"

Pierre shrugged. "I am a very fast geologist."

A reluctant, horrified beat.

"You’re a fucking good geologist."

"Yes."

"That’s why everyone loved you. Because you were so good at this."

Pierre’s smile faltered.

"Then why," he whispered, "did she not love me?"

He looked up, eyes burning.

"Why did she choose that British piece of filth instead?"

Now the granite trembled.

A drill screamed.

"Wait—wait. Listen. I don’t know what’s going on through there, but my name is Cliff. I worked on this tunnel—"

"Cliff?"

The drill shrieked against granite. Ppppffffttt!

"Stay back a moment, son," Cliff said. "Are you all right in there? Have you been trapped?"

"Oh no," Pierre said softly. "You don’t remember me, do you?"

"I—no. I don’t think I do. Who are you?"

"You don’t recognise my face?"

A pause.

"I built this tunnel with your wife."

"Oh. Yes. She—she chiselled from one side and I chiselled from the other. We met in the middle."

"I know," Pierre said. "I was there."

Silence.

"I was her assistant on the French side."

"Oh…"

"I followed her every movement. The way she held a drill—so delicate, so precise. Like a sniper. I wanted to learn everything from her. I wanted to watch her every day. I was trying to work up the courage to ask her out. And then, I remember breaking through the wall and seeing your face."

Cliff swallowed.

"In my dreams," Pierre said, "we are almost together. And then she turns to vapour."

A beat.

"So this is why you did it," Cliff said quietly. "You blocked the tunnel to get revenge on me."

"Yes."

"You knew this tunnel was what brought us together."

"Yes."

"I know she’s dead," Pierre went on. "And my heart has a hole in it. I needed to block something up."

"How could you let her jump off that cliff, Cliff?!" he suddenly shouted. "You had her. You were supposed to take care of her!"

"She was a free woman."

"Well now she’s a flat woman!"

Cliff flinched.

"I tried to make her happy," he said. "I don’t know if I did. Maybe I failed. But I know she was proud of this tunnel. And she was proud of Chip."

"Chip?"

"Chip, come in."

"I’m okay, Dad!" A voice echoed faintly

"It’s me, Chip!" A young boy made his way from behind Cliff.

Pierre blinked. "Who is that?"

"This is her son," Cliff said. "Our son."

"Hello," Chip said politely. "Nice to meet you."

Pierre stared. "You have her eyes."

Chip’s face twitched; his voice slipped suddenly into French. "Oui… I suppose I do."

"And you have her voice."

"Papa?" Chip asked softly.

"This is a friend of your mother’s," Cliff said. "And he’s going to help us unblock the tunnel."

"A part of Marie-Claire is still alive," Cliff went on gently. "Because she lives in him. In us. In this tunnel."

A beat.

Cliff lifted the drill. "Listen, my friend."

The drill whirred. Vrrrrrr.

"All lives start the same, and all lives end the same. But what we do in between can be a monument."

"For her," Pierre whispered.

"For her," Cliff agreed.

"Together?" Pierre asked.

"Together."

"Angleterre et France," he said softly. "On the same side again."

"Yes," Cliff said. "I remember what that felt like. It felt like hope."

"Like when you bite into a pain au chocolat," Pierre added,"and there is actually chocolate inside."

"Exactly," Cliff smiled.

───────

watch IMPROVISED PLAY #16 | "The Cardboard Stegosaurus" | Shoot From The Hip :

[storyfromthehip]

Death for a Dollar | by Shoot From The Hip

Bill Hannigan leaned back against the worn bar, his hat tipped low and a half-smile beneath it. The saloon hummed with the quiet chaos of mid-afternoon: clinking glasses, low conversation, and the occasional laugh.

"Hi there, barkeep!" Bill called, his Southern drawl stretching each syllable. "I’ll have another one on the house, please."

Danny, the young bartender of seventeen, moved quickly to pour the drink, but a slip sent the mug skidding past Bill, shattering against the bar. Beer sprayed across his chest and hat.

"I told you! Don’t throw the glasses if they ain’t lookin’!" Mr. Twilliger barked from behind the counter, his eyes narrowing at Danny.

Danny winced and held up his hands. "I’m sorry! I thought he’d catch it! He’s got the fastest hands in the West, after all."

Bill sighed, wiping beer from his coat. "Why am I covered in beer? Damn it! Guess I’ll just have to have another one on the house then. Come on now."

From the corner, Danny muttered to himself, shaking his head. "Why do we give this guy everything on the house?"

"You don’t know what he did for this place," Mr. Twilliger said firmly.

"What’d he do?" Danny asked, leaning closer.

"He saved it from the bandits," Mr. Twilliger replied.

Danny’s eyes widened. "Are you serious, Mr. Twilliger? My daddy told me about it—about ten years ago."

"Yeeeah, It was a mighty tough time for this town." the older man said.

Bill glanced at Danny impatiently. "Can I ha—can I have my drink?"

"You better make sure he’s looking," Mr. Twilliger muttered. Danny carefully slid the glass across the counter.

Bill caught it gracefully, grinning. "Oh, thank you so much. Hey—"

"Where was your showmanship?" Mr. Twilliger teased.

Danny shook his head. "So, you’re saying this man saved this town from the bandits, Mr. Twilliger?"

"It’s not my story to tell," Mr. Twilliger said.

"Sounds like you know it," Danny pressed.

"I know," the older man admitted. "But he’s the one who goddamn did it."

Danny nodded. "Ah, I see. This is me being the bartender—getting the stories out of the customers so they reveal things, and then they wanna drink more because they’re reliving their trauma."

"I prefer to think of it as reliving their life story," Mr. Twilliger said with a wry smile.

Bill clapped his hands. "Hey Tony! Let’s get another one—another round on the bar!"

Tony, the wiry musician, hammered out a few notes with the three remaining keys on his battered piano. "Aaaaaahhh! You want another one?"

"Yeah, yeah! Do my favorite! Come on, my favorite!" Bill said.

"I only got the three pianny keys," Tony reminded him.

"That’s all we need," Bill said, nodding.

Ping. Ponk. Plink. The sparse notes rang out, and Bill tapped along, vibing with the rhythm.

"Ten years ago, we had the full set, but the bandits stole the other eighty-five keys," Mr. Twilliger said.

Danny leaned forward. "What’s his name?-"

"The fastest hand in the West," Mr. Twilliger said, smiling. "He’s old Bill Hannigan."

Danny clapped his hands. "Alright! I’m ready. I’m ready to be a full-time bartender!"

"Ahh, Mr. Hannigan," Danny said, awe in his voice, turning towards the man.

Bill laughed, the sound loud and warm. "Yehehe! Some people say I drink too much, but is there such a thing? Hehahaha!"

Danny leaned closer, his voice low and earnest. "I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind tellin’ me the yarn of how you drove those bandits away."

Bill shook his head slowly, raising his mug. "1854. That’s when it all began."

───

Bill Hannigan had grown up under a relentless sun, on a farm where the earth was as unforgiving as his father. The old man was blind, but not gentle; he ruled the farm with a sharp tongue and sharper temper, shouting over the winds and expecting obedience, precision, and speed. Bill learned early that to survive, one had to move faster than the eye could follow.

By day, he tended the fields, plowing, planting, and harvesting under the sun’s scorching glare. By night, when the farm was quiet and the world outside slumbered, he practiced with his pistol. The gun was an extension of his hand, his will, and his mind. He became quick—so quick that objects and threats alike seemed to slow before him.

"You’re fast," his father would mutter, peering blindly across the field. "But don’t think speed makes a man noble."

Bill only smiled. He knew that speed, when needed, could save more than just crops—it could save lives.

It was during one such night that the true test came. Bandits had long prowled the countryside, ruthless men who saw law and order as obstacles. That night, they came to the Hannigan farm while the family slept, shadows slipping through the trees like phantoms. Bill awoke to the creak of the door and the shuffle of heavy boots.

He moved silently, heart pounding, every instinct alive. The first bandit barely saw him before Bill’s pistol barked in the night, and fingers—a grisly souvenir from his skillful defense—were lost to the darkness. The other bandit froze, hesitated, and then fled. But Bill did not stop to count his victory. There were more outside, more yet to come.

By dawn, the farm stood, the intruders gone, and the young man who had once merely practiced with a gun had become a guardian. His parents looked at him with a mix of awe and fear; even they could see the devil in his talent.

"You… you’re something else," his mother whispered, her voice trembling. "The boy I knew… he’s gone."

The law, unforgiving and blind to circumstance, did not forgive either. For defending his home, Bill was sent away—to prison, a place meant for those who lived outside society’s rules. He spent years there, honing his skills even further, digging, escaping, surviving.

When he finally emerged, it was not as the boy of Tennessee, but as Bill Hannigan, the fastest hand in the West, carrying both the memory of a farm lost and the shadow of a childhood shaped by fire and fear.

Even then, he knew: the world had not seen the last of him.

Bill Hannigan rode through the night, the pounding hooves of his horse echoing like thunder across the barren plains. Prison had not broken him; if anything, it had sharpened him. He had escaped with nothing but the clothes on his back, his wits, and the deadly precision of his hands.

The United States behind him, Bill crossed into Mexico, a land of sun-bleached adobe and wide-open skies, where the law was less rigid and opportunities for survival more plentiful. He needed work, shelter, and anonymity. What he found instead was life—and love.

A man on the edge of a small town offered him work on a farm, his eyes wary but hopeful. "You can work," he said. "Or you can… protect the farm. We have trouble."

Bill smiled, not out of arrogance but recognition. He knew trouble when he saw it, and he knew how to handle it. "I can protect," he replied.

The farm was simple but alive, tended by hardworking hands and nourished by the warmth of the local people. Among them was Maria, a woman whose eyes were as green as the fields she tended. She was strong, clever, and unafraid of the world—a perfect match for the man who had seen so much darkness.

Bill was captivated. Every glance, every word, every movement drew him closer. And Maria, wary at first, soon recognized the honesty behind his speed, his strength, and the quiet fire in his soul.

Days bled into weeks. Bill patrolled the fields, guarded against bandits, and tended to the farm with a dedication he had never known before. Nights were for music; Bill played with his small ensemble, filling the adobe walls with sound, his fingers dancing as nimbly as they had with a gun. Maria listened, her voice rising to match his notes, soft and enchanting, a balm to his restless soul.

Their bond deepened. Love blossomed in the dusty sunlight, in shared laughter, and in quiet moments after long days of labor. And then, one evening, as the sun dipped behind the mountains, Bill asked her to marry him.

"Yes," Maria said, and the world, with all its dangers, seemed to pause for them.

For a while, the shadow of his past faded. The farm became a sanctuary, and Bill found peace in her presence. Yet he knew, deep down, that the world had not finished testing him. Bandits did not forgive, and the echoes of his past in Tennessee would not be silenced forever.

But for that brief, shining moment, Bill Hannigan—fastest hand in the West—was simply a man in love, living a life he had carved out with skill, courage, and the relentless beat of his own heart.

Bill Hannigan awoke one morning to the warm glow of the Mexican sun spilling across the fields. Maria was beside him, humming softly as she tended to the garden. For a fleeting moment, he allowed himself to believe that the horrors of the past—prison, gunfire, blood—were behind him.

But the West, he had learned, never truly lets a man rest.

Word arrived from an unexpected messenger, breathless and terrified. Two of the bandits Bill had once chased from Tennessee had returned, not alone this time, but with a horde of criminals at their back. They had come for revenge, to reclaim their lost pride, and to challenge the man who had humiliated them years before.

Bill’s heart hardened. He glanced at Maria, who met his gaze with quiet strength. "We’ll face this together," she said. Her courage steadied him.

That night, under a silver moon, Bill mounted his horse and rode toward the approaching danger. His hands, fast and unerring, rested lightly on his gun. Years of practice, of survival, of necessity, had forged him into a weapon of deadly precision.

The bandits had created a roadblock along the dusty trail. Two hundred men, guns leveled, eyes gleaming with malice. They thought numbers would intimidate him. They thought fear could break him.

Bill laughed softly. "Numbers are meaningless to a hand like mine," he murmured.

He moved like a ghost, disarming, dodging, and shooting with a calm borne of years surviving impossibilities. Bullets whizzed past, ricocheted, and found their marks. Chaos reigned, but Bill’s mind was a steel trap; every movement calculated, every shot precise.

When the dust settled, the field was littered with the defeated. Bill Hannigan stood alone, unscathed, as the first hints of dawn touched the horizon. The bandits’ threat had been vanquished, but the victory was bittersweet.

He returned to the farm, to Maria, but the peace of their life together had been fractured. The weight of his past, the inevitability of danger, and the memory of those who had fallen haunted him. Yet, as he looked into Maria’s eyes, he understood something vital: even in a world of violence and betrayal, love and courage could endure.

Bill Hannigan, fastest hand in the West, protector, fugitive, husband, knew that the story was far from over. But for now, in the fields of Mexico, amidst the warmth of the sun and the gentle hum of life, he found a momentary sanctuary—a fragile, precious peace worth fighting for.

The morning was bright, deceptive in its calm, as if the sun itself were trying to warn them of what was coming. Bill Hannigan tended to the small chores of the farm, the rhythm of labor grounding him after years of chaos. Maria moved gracefully beside him, her presence a balm to the scars he bore. For a moment, he allowed himself to imagine a life without constant danger.

But the West has a memory that refuses to fade.

Without warning, lawmen—American authorities—descended upon their quiet sanctuary. Their accusations were sharp, merciless: Maria, accused of bank robbery, her fate sealed by a system that considered even a dollar’s theft a capital crime. Bill could hardly believe the words as they were spoken, the cruel simplicity of them striking him like a physical blow. Maria’s eyes, wide with terror, searched his for reassurance he could not give.

"You’ll return for me," she whispered, clinging to hope. Bill’s heart clenched. He had promised her safety, but he had also promised his country, his family, and the lawless code of the West.

The electric chair awaited. One dollar had condemned her to death. One dollar.

Bill tried to fight, tried to scream, but the law was inexorable. Maria was led away, her composure trembling but unbroken. The clang of iron bars, the hiss of machinery, the cold efficiency of justice—or vengeance—echoed in Bill’s ears.

He could only watch, powerless, as the chair claimed her. The room was silent except for the dreadful whir of electricity. And then—her final scream.

Bill’s hands, the fastest in the West, shook. Rage, grief, and helplessness converged into a storm that threatened to consume him. He had survived countless gunfights, outwitted men who would kill without hesitation, but nothing had prepared him for this.

As he stumbled away from the site, blood pounding in his ears, tears blurred his vision. The warmth of Mexico, of their love, had been extinguished. Maria was gone—dead for a dollar, the ultimate price for a life lived under law and fear.

And in that moment, Bill Hannigan understood the full weight of the world: a life of skill, courage, and loyalty could still end in tragedy. The West had taken its due, and he, the fastest hand alive, was left to carry the memory of a love stolen and a justice so cruel it seemed almost farcical.

Bill drank. And he would drink again. For grief, for rage, for the memory of Maria. And as the sun set on the Mexican plains, the West whispered its cruel truth: even the fastest hand in the land cannot outrun fate.

Bill Hannigan rode alone through the dusk, the reins loose in his hands, the horizon stretching wide and empty before him. The wind carried the scent of the desert, dry and unyielding, a mirror of the life he now led. Mexico had once offered sanctuary, love, and hope—but that chapter had ended, burned away by the electric chair and the cruel judgment of men who measured justice by coin alone.

He remembered her voice, soft and melodic, a sound that haunted him like a ghost in every empty tavern and every silent night. Maria. She had been a bloom in a barren world, and he had been too late to protect her. One dollar. One cursed dollar.

The townsfolk still whispered his name. Bill Hannigan, the fastest hand in the West. To them, he was legend—a savior against bandits, a man whose pistol moved faster than thought itself. Yet the truth beneath the stories was heavier than any gun he had ever carried. Heroism came with its own toll, and Bill bore the weight of memory like a scar across his soul.

He found solace where he could—in small acts of justice, in fleeting friendships, in the quiet satisfaction of survival. Farms needed guarding, towns needed protection, and in the shadows of the lawless land, he became a guardian, a ghost, a story parents whispered to keep children wary of danger.

Even as he moved through the West, tales of his deeds grew taller, embroidered by those who witnessed them. Children imagined him larger than life, adults whispered his name with awe and fear. He had earned their respect, but not their understanding. No one could measure the cost of the bloodshed he had witnessed, the friends lost, the love stolen.

And yet, he continued. Because to stop would be to surrender—to let chaos claim what remained of the world he had once tried to protect. Guns in his hands, lightning reflexes, and a heart tempered by grief, Bill Hannigan became more than a man; he became a symbol. A reminder that courage comes at a cost, that even the fastest hand cannot save everyone, and that sometimes, survival itself is the heaviest burden of all.

In the quiet of night, when the wind whispered through the cacti and the stars stretched infinite above the plains, Bill would lift a mug to Maria, to the dreams they had shared, and to the justice that had never been his to command. And somewhere, in the soft rustle of the desert, he could almost hear her laughter—a fleeting echo, reminding him that even in loss, love leaves its mark.

The West remained wild, unforgiving, and eternal. And so, Bill Hannigan rode on, fastest hand in the West, carrying a legacy written in bullets, in courage, and in the memory of a love lost for a dollar.

───

The saloon had begun to empty, its noise thinning into a low, tired murmur. Lamps burned low. Dust drifted in the amber light. Bill Hannigan sat heavy at the bar, his hands finally still, the story spent.

Upstairs, footsteps creaked. A voice called down—warm, familiar, teasing.

"Hey now. You comin’ up? I’m still waitin’. I got somethin’ to say to you."

Bill hesitated, then pushed himself upright. He glanced once at the boy beside him—Danny—whose eyes were still wide with everything he had heard.

"I gotta go," Bill said softly.

The bartender snorted. "It ain’t so bad up there. You can go say hello to my ma."

Bill laughed, rough and tired. "Yeah. I will."

Before he moved, he held out two revolvers. They gleamed faintly, polished, well cared for.

"Take these," he said.

Danny blinked. "Okay?" 

"What, you dont want em?" Bill asked

Danny took them, "What could possibly go wrong," he laughed, "handin’ a pair of guns to a southern-american teenager?"

The woman laughed, then softened. "Sweetheart. You’ve got school tomorrow."

Danny paused, then nodded. As he started toward the stairs, Bill called after him again, gentler now.

"Hey. In your life… when you find somethin’ that matters—really matters—you don’t ever let it go. Not for pride. Not for fear. Not for the past."

Danny turned back to him, eyes wet but steady. "I won’t."

He hesitated once more. "You’re an inspiration, sir."

Danny turned to the woman stood beside Bill, "I love you, ma"

"I love you too." The woman smiled at Danny as they watched him walk away.

Then, quieter, as though confessing something long buried, she turned to Bill, "You know… when we faked my death, I never thought it would go on this long."

Bill froze.

Her eyes softened, full of memory and mischief and ache. "Someday," she said, "you’ll have to tell him the truth. That he’s yours."

The words hung in the air like a struck bell.

She glanced toward the boy at the bar.

"Yes," Bill said softly.

She smiled wider now. "You teach him your fast hands. I’ll teach him my language."

He laughed despite himself.

"One day," he said.

"One day," she echoed.

Outside, the wind brushed against the windows. Somewhere far off, a harmonica cried a thin, wandering note. The past remained tangled and bloodstained, full of wrong turns and unfinished goodbyes—but here, in this quiet moment, there was something like peace.

The legend would go on.

The boy would grow.

And the truth, like all things worth knowing, would wait until it was ready to be told.

───────

watch IMPROVISED PLAY #43 | "Death for a Dollar" | Shoot From The Hip :

[storyfromthehip]

Beetroots & Murder | by Shoot From The Hip

The cell was narrow and damp, lit by a single bulb that flickered like it had something to hide. They were not real prison bars, not quite, an old iron ball and chain shackle clamped around his ankle. Still, it was enough to keep a man where he belonged.

"I’ve been in here a long time," the prisoner said. "A long time to think."

Officer Jenkins stood on the other side of the room, arms folded, boots planted wide in the way men stand when they want to look immovable. "You don’t get to think your way out of what you did," he said. "You burned down half of Somerset."

The prisoner winced. "I know. I know. I got… competitive. About the beetroots."

Jenkins scoffed. "Competitive? You destroyed the good half of the county. The arable land. You know they still can’t grow anything there."

Silence pooled between them. Somewhere, water dripped.

"I was young," the prisoner said at last. "Eighteen. I had dreams. Hopes. Aspirations. They all were ruined in a single day. I snapped."

"You murdered for vegetables."

"I know," he whispered. "I know i can never take it back, ill spend the rest of my life in this prison. But if I could go back—if I could speak to that boy—I’d tell him there’s more to life than beetroot."

Jenkins stared. "More to life than beetroot?"

"Its not worth murdering for" he insisted, more to himself than to Jenkins.

The air shuddered.

A voice came from nowhere and everywhere at once, echoing through the cell like wind through roots.

Go back.

The prisoner clutched his head. "What—who—"

Go back.

The walls dissolved into light and sound. Time bent like warm tin.

And then—

He was young again.

Eighteen. Whole. Standing in his childhood home, sunlight slanting through the window. His mother’s voice floated up the stairs, alive and ordinary and devastating.

"Good morning, son!"

His heart lurched. "Mum? You're alive!"

She laughed, bustling past. "Of course I’m alive. What are you going on about?"

His father appeared next, solid and unburned, smelling faintly of soil. "Morning, son."

Sam swallowed hard. "Dad… I’m sorry."

"Sorry for what?" his father asked, puzzled.

Down the street, a voice called cheerfully, keeping rhythm with its own footsteps. The town peacekeeper—always humming, always smiling—strode by, reminding everyone that Somerset was safe, orderly, and proud. The beetroot competition was tomorrow. The great event. The one that mattered.

A whisper slid through the air beside Sam’s ear.

"They can’t see me," said the Spirit of Somerset. "But you can. And you can still choose."

Sam nodded shakily. He remembered this day. He remembered what came next.

The beetroots.

He had been growing them in secret, enormous and perfect, hidden in his room like a guilty miracle. He showed his parents, desperate for approval. They praised him, laughed, encouraged him. His chest swelled with pride—and fear.

If he lost, he knew what would happen.

That night, Sam heard the window creak.

Justin was there, grinning, flanked by laughter and shadow.

Justin Trouble, they called him. Smiling, cruel, adored. A boy who knew how to make mockery sound like music. A boy who had learned early how to hurt before being hurt.

He mocked the beetroots, called them worthless, ruined. Confessed—cheerfully—that he had sabotaged them already.

"Acid," he said lightly. "Just a bit."

Something in Sam cracked.

The Spirit whispered urgently, Choose differently.

But rage is loud. Rage remembers. Rage convinces.

The memory rushed forward: the gasoline truck, absurdly easy to access; the salesman humming as if temptation had a tune. A ladder. A window. A match offered too casually.

Sam shook his head. "No. Not again."

The Spirit hovered close. "Rage does terrible things."

"I won’t burn it all," Sam said. "Just theirs. Just enough to make it fair."

The lie tasted familiar.

The competition day arrived in a blur of bunting and shouting. Somerset gathered. Beetroots were displayed like holy relics. A man calling himself André Beetroot presided with theatrical pride. Justin basked in attention, soaking in applause.

Sam came not to compete, but to finish what he had started—or stop himself from doing so.

Gasoline sloshed quietly in the truck behind him.

Justin sneered when he saw him. Taunted him. Prodded the old wounds. Spoke cruelly of his parents, of fire, of fear.

And then—unexpectedly—something shifted.

Sam saw him clearly: not a villain, but a boy built from loss, hiding behind cruelty. A boy burned long before any flames touched Somerset.

"There’s more to life than beetroots," Sam said aloud.

Justin laughed, sharp and defensive. "Then I win."

"No," Sam said softly. "You don’t."

He lowered the match.

For a moment, it seemed the world held its breath.

Then—too late, or perhaps too soon—a spark caught. A cigarette. A careless flick. A small fire bloomed where no one meant it to.

Panic. Smoke. Shouting.

Sam threw himself forward, shielding Justin as flames licked upward. Not the inferno he remembered. Just a wound. Contained. Painful, but not apocalyptic.

The prison returned in a blink.

The chains. The damp. The light.

The Spirit stood before him again, quieter now.

"Did you change?" he asked.

Sam hesitated. "I don’t know. I must have changed something, the big fire didn't go off- only a little one- is half of Somerset okay?"

"That’s not what I asked- I didn't ask if you changed Somerset." The Spirit’s voice softened. "I asked if you changed"

Sam looked at his hands. "Obviously not, im still here. Still locked up"

"Sometimes what happens to us… isn't due to what we've done. All we can control is the man inside."

"Spirit, thank you for giving me a chance to, if not, make things perfect.. at least make them a little better." Sam said as The Spirit faded away.

Footsteps echoed. Officer Jenkins entered, "Guess no visitors again today?" Sam asked him

"You're not quite right on that front" Jenkins said with a small grin.

"What do you mean?"

"The Detectives just got in touch with us, new evidence has come to light." Jenkins explained. "Apparently it was that André Beetroot who started the fire. Old footage finally turned up, looks like an accident with a cigarette."

Justin walked slowly into the room, hands jammed into his jacket pockets, rocking faintly on his heels. He looked older than Sam remembered, or perhaps just quieter.

"All right," he said, attempting a grin that didn’t quite hold. "Big dick."

Sam snorted despite himself. "Justin."

There was a pause — not hostile, just careful.

Justin cleared his throat. "Listen, um… after you, uh… you know. Back then. When you pulled me out of the fire." He gestured vaguely, as if the memory might ignite again if pointed at directly. "After that, we tried to… well. Make sense of things."

Sam said nothing. He waited.

"I came to give you a lift," Justin went on, words tumbling now. "If you want. Home, or wherever. They said you’re free. With the new evidence and all. Turns out things weren’t… exactly how we thought."

He glanced away, embarrassed. "I figured maybe I— maybe I acted out a bit."

A beat.

Sam let out a quiet laugh before he could stop himself. It surprised him — the sound felt rusty, unused.

"So," Sam said, "you came all this way just to offer me a lift."

Justin shrugged. "Seemed like the right thing to do. Thought I owed you one. Or… a few decades."

Silence settled again, softer this time.

Sam stared. "So… I’m free?"

"Yes," the Officer Jenkins said gently. "You’re free."

Outside, the world waited—imperfect, scarred, still standing.

As the door opened, the Spirit’s voice faded like wind through leaves.

Sometimes changing the world isn’t about fixing everything, just becoming someone who wouldn’t burn it down again.

Sam stepped forward.

The past stayed behind.

And Somerset, battered but breathing, endured.

───────

watch IMPROVISED PLAY #23 | "Beetroots & Murder" | Shoot From The Hip :

[storyfromthehip]

The Evil Make-A-Wish Kid | by Shoot From The Hip

Marty coughed.

Once. Then again. Then, with theatrical commitment, one long, rattling cough that echoed off the hospital walls.

"Cover your mouth," his father said automatically.

"Yes, Father," Marty replied, pressing a hand to his lips. "How… wrong of me."

The doctor exhaled, weary. Everything was unfolding exactly as predicted. Charts confirmed it. Scans confirmed it. Fate, apparently, had signed off. He offered the practiced tone of comfort—assurances, condolences, the promise that they would make Marty’s remaining time as pleasant as possible.

"This is your fault," Marty said mildly.

The doctor winced. Then excused himself, muttering something about letting them "unpack this together," and fled the room.

"Thank you, Doctor," Marty called after him. "You tried your best. Obviously medical school didn’t try very hard with you."

"Marty," his father snapped, "don’t be rude."

"He can’t save my life," Marty said. "Or his marriage."

The room froze.

"Marty," his father said, startled. "You don’t know that."

Marty smiled and pointed. "Your ring’s loose. Means he’s lost weight. Means he’s not eating at home. Means his wife isn’t feeding him anymore. Probably feeding someone else. Someone hungrier."

Silence followed, thick and uncomfortable.

"Wow," someone muttered. "That kid is mean."

"And sexist," his father added weakly.

"That’s right," Marty said brightly. "I’m evil."

The doctor disappeared into the break room. His father rubbed his temples.

"I’ll be dead soon," Marty continued conversationally. "You won’t have to worry about me."

His father turned back, alarmed. "Marty—"

"I worry about your soul," his father said, grasping for something solid.

Marty laughed. "Souls aren’t real. Who told you that? The Bible? Or are you just a hillbilly?"

"This is a Christian family."

"Oh, which part do you like best?" Marty asked. "the part where God gives cancer to children as a fun little test?"

"Marty!"

"Why did God give me cancer?" he pressed.

God, apparently, worked in mysterious ways. God tested people. God challenged them.

Marty frowned. "Seems excessive for an eight-year-old. Maybe there is no God. Ever think about that?"

Something in his father’s face broke.

"There is something very wrong with you."

"I know," Marty shouted suddenly. "I have cancer! And I’m angry! I’ve been dealt a bum hand, so I’m slapping people on the bum and telling them exactly what I think!"

"The other kids aren’t like this," his father whispered.

"They just lie there and accept it," Marty said. "Not me. I’m going out like a firework. A firework in a petting zoo."

The phone rang.

His father answered.

It was Tina.

She was crying. She said she was locked in a room. She couldn’t see. She was tied to a chair.

Something was dripping onto the floor.

Oil.

"Marty," his father whispered, horrified. "What have you done?"

"Oh, Father," Marty said softly. "We’re just playing a game. I’m going to miss games when I’m dead."

There was a sound on the line—a sudden roar, a burst of light—

—and then nothing.

"That’s the firework," Marty said.

'What did you do?!" His father screamed.

Marty explained it calmly.

"When I met Dwayne The Rock Johnson," he said, "I wished to take my mum to Disneyland. He’s not very smart. I convinced him to tie her up. Covered her in olive oil."

He shrugged.

"Don’t worry. It was fast."

A pause.

"And furious."

───

"Detective," the commissioner said, rapping the doorframe. "We’ve got a serious problem."

The detective looked up, laughed once, harsh and tired. "Christ. You want a cigarette?"

"I don’t smoke."

"Why not?"

"Cancer."

That shut the room up.

The commissioner cleared his throat. "People all over the city are being tied up. It’s not random. It’s games. Sick ones. We think we know who’s behind it, but we can’t prove it."

"The kid," the detective said.

"Yes. And no one’s going to believe that."

The detective leaned back. "I believe it. You ever seen what kids can do? Candy cigarettes. No—diabetes. Still. I believe it."

"You think he’s working alone?"

"I don’t think anyone that clever ever is."

The commissioner gestured at the evidence board. Papers fluttered. A map tried to appear and failed. Photos spilled out instead—vacation shots, bad lighting, someone’s birthday.

"Those were for your birthday"

"Touching," the detective said.

Finally, the right document stuck.

A map of the city. Red string. Pins like wounds.

And then another page.

The title sat at the top in thick black ink:

THE EVIL MAKE-A-WISH FOUNDATION

"For every good thing," the detective said slowly, "there’s a bad version. Every time Make-A-Wish helps a good kid on the way out… this helps a bad one."

"That’s a myth," the commissioner snapped. "It was disproven."

"Maybe myths are getting tired of being ignored."

"I told you to drop this case."

"Well, it dropped me right back here."

The detective stared at the board, nodding to himself. "Connected all the dots. Thought I had—nope. That’s my connect-the-dots puzzle. Wrong one."

He pulled it away, revealing the truth beneath.

The room murmured.

"It’s real," someone whispered.

Even the doctor believed it.

The commissioner sighed. "Alright, Johnson. One shot."

"I’ll need more bullets than that."

"No guns. No shooting. You get five minutes with the kid and no funny business."

"Obviously."

"Nothing weird."

"Why would you say that, now you’ve invited weird."

The commissioner rubbed his face. "Just—don’t be weird. And stop breathing smoke on me. Use a window."

The detective nodded. "Five minutes. I’ll see what I can glean."

"If I hear anything else about this Evil Make-A-Wish—"

"Foundation."

"Whatever. You’re off."

"Off?"

"Off-off."

───

The boy coughed—deep, theatrical, practiced. The heart monitor answered with a polite, lonely beep.

"It’s nice to look out the window, Father. This isn’t my hospital room," the boy said brightly. "Am I about to meet Blake Lively?"

"No more celebrities," his father said. "Your wishes are finished."

"What a pity," the boy sighed. "I suppose you don’t want to make them come true anymore."

"I’ve made all of them come true, Marty."

"I wished to live."

His father didn't answer.

"So you lied to me," Marty said, nodding. "I also wished for an honest father, but apparently eight-year-olds don’t get what they want for Christmas."

His father swallowed. "Why do you hate me, Marty?"

"Hate you?" Marty laughed, then winced as the laugh turned into a cough. "Do you know how expensive my medical care is? This is America. Why don’t you have a better job?"

"I work at a petting zoo."

"And people don’t even like goats anymore."

"Should I come in?" a voice asked.

A detective stepped into the room, trench coat creased with fatigue, eyes sharp with curiosity.

"I’ve got five minutes," the detective said. "No funny business."

Marty grinned. "Officer… Blake Lively?"

The detective sighed. "Don’t be cheeky."

"I know," the detective said. "And I know what you did."

Marty tilted his head. "Do you?"

"Yes," the detective said. "Because I helped you."

He flipped a badge. It spun. Wrong insignia.

"The Evil Make-A-Wish Foundation," he said. "Founded by me."

Marty’s eyes widened—not in fear, but delight.

"So that’s where the fireworks came from."

"We only approach children when they’re dying," the detective continued. "You need to understand how empty life is before you can enjoy destroying it."

Marty nodded eagerly. "And children have the imagination for it."

"Exactly."

"But you’re forty-two," Marty said.

"I’m seven," the detective replied. "Evil ages you terribly."

Marty leaned forward. "So if I keep doing evil… I get to grow up?"

"Faster than anyone."

"Then I know what I want," Marty said. "I want to cancel everyone."

The detective handed him a device. Old. Black. Buttons instead of a screen.

"The most evil interface ever made."

Marty typed furiously. Click. Clack. Beep.

"Sent."

The detective smiled. "Thank you for the login."

Marty smiled wider. "Check your signal."

The detective looked down.

One bar.

Marty coughed. Harder this time.

"I activated Bluetooth," he said. "Logged into your hotspot. I’ve had Wi-Fi since you brought me into the station."

The heart monitor screamed.

"I didn’t post anything in 2007," the detective said weakly. "I'm seven."

"No," Marty whispered. "But your mother did."

Flatline.

The detective stared at the still body.

"A worthy adversary," he murmured.

Later, as congratulations were exchanged and promotions promised, someone noticed something odd.

Petting zoos. Burning. Everywhere.

The boy had been bluffing about nothing.

He had used his final wish to burn them all.

───────

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