Bill D Roman

By Luke S

Part 1: Rickshaws & Robotic Talons
Classification: Surrealist, Dark Comedy, Symbolic
Synopsis:
100 precisely nonsensical short stories speckled with punchy dark humor and "random" details creating a surreal but meaningful message.

Part 2: Minka & Linka
Classification: Tragedy, Period Piece, War
Synopsis:
25 short stories that detail the fantastic and terrible misadventures of a war-time generation, canvassing the adoption of an atomic bomb from a teenage immigrant.

Part 3: Something New of a Brilliant Blue
Classification: Absurdist, Coming of Age, Philosophic Satire
Synopsis:
Different perspectives from a mysterious realm of dark absurdity surround one mind's formative and abstract maturation through a process disturbingly hyperbolic of our own.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Luke S
• Release date: May 3, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476144580

Book preview

Bill D Roman

by: Luke S.

Copyright 2012 Lucas Stetzik

Smashwords Edition

Edited by Meghan Ingram

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Table of Contents:

Part 1 – Rickshaws & Robotic Talons

The Truth #25/100

Robotic Talons #50/100

Dear Diary #75/100

Part 2 – Minka & Linka

Ghost Hunting #12/25

Part 3 – Something New of a Brilliant Blue

Intro to Lessons #7/30

Introduction #12/30

DD #16/30

William Tell #22/30

The Good Stuff #26/30

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Rickshaws

&

Robotic Talons

Couch Sitters

In a house on Mt Olympest, was a couch. This couch had seen miles of candy and cabbage but in its old age whimpered at the thought of more puppies in a box. So the couch had sitters. The one sitter was The Greatest Evil and the other sitter was The Greatest Good.

We are plural, said The Greatest Good.

Don't connect W with E like that, it smells terrible, said The Greatest Evil. Then The Greatest Evil kicked a farm from the grasp of The Greatest Good and knew that there was nothing the liquor industry could do to salvage the many gang wars that were dependent on this now kicked tommy-gun farm.

I was about to say that, said The Greatest Good, and so the hurting grew and grew and grew until the Greatest Evil demanded that the couch not be pregnant with so much hurting. The Greatest Good asked if it would like a glass of milk or perhaps just a glass (who knows what a couch desires). The Greatest Evil lit a cigarette and they all exploded as the hurt in the couch was VERY HIGHLY flammable and had seeped into the house. So now the house sits at the bottom of Mt Olympest where only the Jenga Vultures with their robotic talons and messy hair have anything to say as they pick through the remains.

This tastes quite good, said one vulture, and its tongues danced for the chill of The Greatest Good, and then writhed for the lizardy taste of The Greatest Evil.

The End

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Gobly-Gook

I don’t like the taste in my mouth, said a shark, it tastes like the number 5 and that is unlike bird eggs (because bird eggs come in three and fall in ones, not the way that soldiers fall in ones but in a more spatulated pattern.)

I will read some palms and surely that will remove this taste from my mouth! and he was correct. It was something that would evict a taste, but the taste was full of gobly-gook and would not be evicted. Instead it had made a claim before a judge in small claims court against the shark, and in the final verdict all palms were removed from the ocean, and really any place that sharks can live. And this is why fish have fins, porpoises have flippers, palm trees (which were originally a form of seaweed) are on beaches, and sharks die in captivity. But Penguins consider the flat of their foot a palm as penguins are confused about most things.

The shark went to some penguins and tried to read their palm but it was written in Arabic (as any good catholic foot is) and thus the shark couldn’t read it. Filled with shame and terrible and a taste (which wasn’t really half bad) he resigned to live under a kitchen sink with his roommate: a cheap, sleazy garbage disposal. The shark was not promiscuous to any degree, but the disposal had a liberal moral center and many, many STD’s. As we all know this combination gives one their own TV program on cable. And on many cables is a series of birds who dare not be associated with penguins as it is the case that confusion is contagious among birds and that is why penguins live so far in the south and are not part of bird aviaries in the Zoo.

The End

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Minority Tales

Once upon a time there were three fairytales. The wisest fairytale had a chest in its nose.

I have treasure, said the wise tale from time to frequent time proudly.

Does he ever stop? asked the saddest one who had vision that was 15/30 (or was it 30/15?) but was still a good enough fraction to see that a hole in logic doesn’t mean wisdom, and clearly a chest of treasure in a nose is a simple hole in logic.

But you also end in blood and grim-fated Greeks! said the tallest tale, who was SO sick of being called a tall-tale as he clearly featured not oxen, or guns, and unlike every other tall tale was not divided up like a butchers plaything and rudely inserted into grade-school reader compilations.

Yes but at least I don’t end with ‘Happily ever after.’

I vote you take out your chest and divide your nose in three so we may all share it, said the sad tale.

Yes, I vote that way too! said the tallest fairytale. This was a common occurrence, as the two both ended the same and were thus a majority in a democratic system. However, it should be dually noted that the wise tale and the sad tale applied for the same secretarial job at law firm, and despite the fact that the sad tale had two years’ work experience, the wise tale got the job. The wise tale knew the truth on this matter, while the tall tale assumed it was because the wise tale was more chesty than the sad tale.

Sadly I divided my nose in equal dinosaur shapes, said the tale that was wise and was filled with powder and lame and an aggregate. This combination was good for filling the two-thirds gap of a missing nose and is a trade secret among the Amish and plastic surgeons. The other two tales left their piece of nose to rot in their pockets, as they were only interested in the chest and the treasure. Though they had no share in the treasure-chest, it was out and for all to see. This treasure bathed the Happily-ever-after-ists in a cleansing radiance that put them on a plane of pure enlightenment. While riding coach with the Dalai Lama there was an engine failure and a light came on, and the pilot indicated that the plan of pure enlightenment had exceeded the weight capacity by two-thirds of a nose. The plane crashed in Kentucky and there were no survivors.

The moral of the story is that a minority usually precedes legislation, and legislation is just another word for rules.

The End

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T-t

Tommy tucker talked to two turkeys (though turtles think ten times their thoughts). Tom told them T-t truths till the time tolled twelve, Thursday the twentieth. Then they trotted through the teeming thickets. These tall thickets tickled their three-toed talons. This tortuous tactile texture tore the turkeys’ tears through toughness, though Thomas thought that these tears traced terrific trails (though the trails took taproots to town two Tuesdays to tomorrow).

Topaz-tower tap-dance time! Tommy trumpeted, then Teddy, Timmy, Trixie, Tommy and Tony, (the T-t’s) tap-danced, to the tower’s top tier (though ten thousand tiptoed two taps to their three, three to their two-tiled trilobite tanks.). The ten thousand tapers’ trilobite tanks trebucheted tomahawk torpedoes that took to the taerosphere, then toppled the tower.

That’s that

****

Under-the-Butterknife

Thin smiley lips said the words, My name is Ernesto. They (the lips) were sharp to kiss and hinged off the top like a door of blades, fashioned and crated on a runway to fire into the body of an innocent head like ruthless executioners. These words, My name is Ernesto, were not said to me. Rather, they were delivered to me. I was alone, quiet, clean, and in a rocker that resides in an attic, when an invisible English gentleman came in through the window and asked for my seat. I politely and hospitably moved to the edge of my bed. We ate and drank our fill and enjoyed casual conversation. When I delved into my latest shipwreck voyage, I began by mentioning that I had multiplied my father’s estate four-fold, and that this folding of states was the benefit of an investment I made in sea dogs with horsemen. Oddly enough, this triggered the Englishman to interrupt. This is something completely uncharacteristic of a gentleman, as it is very rough conversationally.

That reminds me old chap, said the invisible man in a rocker. I came to tell you about Ernesto. He is made of dogs. It was at this moment I knew Ernesto was coming to kill me and that he was made of dogs. I explained how shocking this was to the gentleman, but he had vanished (which was a long awkward silence because he was invisible in the first place).

I had to reach a sacred land, a land where I would be safe from Ernesto. In frantic, rapid pacing I uncovered the apparent trap door that this attic had to a tunnel that was safe passage to land called Under-the-Butterknife. I took refuge beneath the sand and crawled into the thin darkness, which soon became a cool blue wide darkness. In the widened room I came across a man covered in blood and certain sadness.

Where is Under-the-Butterknife? I asked this round man of olive skin and gold teeth.

My wife has cheated on me with a cheetah, confessed the man (truth be told this was his fault as he drew her attention to the fact that there was a cheetah in their room while they slept, despite her immediate disbelief). So I have cut off their limbs and then their heads, tossed them over a wall, and will now be on my way to find a virgin, or another man’s wife unattended. This did not at all answer the question I had asked but rather ones I was thinking of in reference to his appearance.

Besides a woman who has what all unfaithful women deserve, what is on the other side of that wall? I asked. The man walked away, unhelpful and determined to find his brother’s wife, who was no doubt engaged with many a partner disguised as other females or bushes in the garden.

I rambled into the way by which the man came and found a wall. The wall was guarded by a refrigerator. The refrigerator was of a brand that prided itself on guarding milk with a complex keypad of letters. I laughed like a man who knew it would be his last laugh and correctly guessed the combination was the word ERNESTO, hopeful that this would be a door to Under-the-Butterknife.

The very man I was trying to escape. Inside was a mirror, and for the first time I saw that I was old and balding, red in the eyes, yellow in the teeth, with thin lips and a plastic red ball that held precious like the true brute.

The End

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The Eternal Flame (based on a true story)

Back in the day there were people. The people wanted to do stuff. But when you just have people, things are very disorganized. So people put a small group of individuals, who were thought at the time to be very selfless, in charge of money. These people were Dicks, but because they have money, and money is very influential, the Dicks made everyone call them Richards, which was then just shortened to Rich people or the Rich. The Rich were so busy with money that they never did stuff that people want to do. So they paid other people to do stuff.

One of the best things the Rich ever paid real people to do was to explore. These people were called explorers. The explorers were trained to climb mountains, and were then commissioned to explore the signatures of Abraham Lincoln, Adolph Hitler, and Muhammad Gandhi. The rich wanted the explorers to find a way to make more money. The explorers went on their trip, and this is their travel log.

Lincoln Obsrvtn

L is very large and was a rough start to journey. Our geologist and graphologist noted that all the letters were very tall and straight up and down. This indicates desperate aspirations and the independent thought that masterminded the platypus.

39 days in, a pack of wild carmello candy bars has begun following us, we think that if we sell them our soul so that we can buy them we will be free of this annoyance.

The end of the n shoots way out and indicates assertion.

Hitler

All letters that have formed the Ridge know as ALHTR seem to be falling off the line. This indicates instability.

The team is losing moral, we are currently lost; all these letters look the same and are pressed in deep like a tense canyon. This would be fine, but team-leader, naturalist and underwater film maker John Stoneman persist in making cardboard cut outs and thrusting them at team members (this is very unscientific).

We hear fireworks and a faint singing in the distance.

Gandhi

We are calling in for air support, and the air is too thin to support anything besides physiological champions and people who have the ability to move very slowly and drink lots of water.

The letters are similar to Lincoln’s but there is more of an even meter and even more discrepancy between low letters, indicative of introversion or extroversion and high letters indicating imagination and aspiration.

We have lost a great number of men

Upon receiving this information, the Rich used it to manufacture crap and exploit desperate populations. Also, there was an eternal flame erected to the veterans of this exploration, but after two weeks the cost of natural gas skyrocketed and it was put out.

Finish

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Destructive Wave forms

That was too slow to bee seen with the naked eye. Many clothed eyes caught a glimps of That and put That into a clear plastic shoe box.

What shall we do with That? Asked the right clothed eye dressed in electric green flamingo boots.

Paint arrows around That and hope there is not too much static interference. Replied the left green eye, wearing last years little black dress. Static interference could have drown That, as many before this one. When asked why, the static interference said it was just trying to follow directions, which is why the eye decided some arrows in a round circle would be sufficient directions.

Confined in a plastic shoebox surrounded by a circle of arrows designed to keep the static directed forever, That feared the worst. Sure as the fear came true a recycled materials collection agency picked That up, mistaking the box for a recycle bin. That was carted back to the recycle center where its particles were stripped and unsuccessfully forced into photons intended for new light. That had caused such a production line malfunction that the recycling company brought in their top engineers to fix the problem.

I here we go. Said the top engineer tightening a loose washer on the problem. The problem then assed That as never having particles in the first place, and it was one of the few things they could not recycle. Therefore That must be destroyed.

The Human resources department spent the next fifteen months posting on craigslist, indeed, and monster in an attempt to find someone who could truly destroy That. Eventually a successful candidate was interviewed.

So how do you destroy it? Asked the hiring manager in the job interview.

You drown it. Said the Static Interference.

The End

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…..shladies

She was a Bar fly stuck to the stool, and he was a drunk who couldn’t remember if he was hitting on her or her burn-out girlfriend, so he ended all his lines with a slurred pause and Ladies

What? said the irritated burn-out friend, with her hair all perfectly feathered (really this was just in the front, and the back was all trashed with hairspray and matted down like a brillo pad.

I have. A rat’s nest at home, said the drunk, ladies. This was a pickup line that had worked in the past, but now was not the time and it was supposed to be ’bird’s nest.’

Do you need this? said the bar fly, gesturing to David Bowie, whom she kept in her purse.

Not yet said the burn-out.

I have, I have I have. My sister she works with dolphins at the. The LA zoo… This was a lie that had worked- ladies- for the drunk in the past, and this time it was a flawless bait, and they bit.

Gross.

Really! said an entranced burn-out who thought he said Harley.

Yeah, wanna see it? and the drunk began to undo his pants, as he had a tattoo of himself playing with baby panthers on his inner thy.

Wow!

Now! shouted the burn-out. Before they could try and make out the ink drawing thought layers of questionably damp leg-hair, the bar fly laid several hundred eggs (as this is what flies do in trash pits like this and on the floor of Toyota Tercels belonging to young men). The eggs hatched into a pile of maggots, long after the fly had died and the burn-out left. But when they did, the drunk was there at his post with a line that would surely rob the cradle.

The End

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Spoiler Alert

So some seals stole a yacht. They partied until all the booze was gone and then the bottle became their source of entertainment. They filled the bottom with seawater and then shook it to make a sound. King Poseidon liked this sound and the Greek alphabet, so he fused the two together, and this is where the ideals upon which most college frat parties are centered. Where they are not centered is on a small green screen that transports old men and pregnant women to on-location locations so that the world swallows another placebo of security. But why would any one care.

Well I care.

And why do you care?

Cuz I hate parties and need to be as far from their attention as possible, and if seals, yachts, and bottles are where all the cool kids hang out, then keep me far from blue and green Ziploc bags, rap videos, and Porgy Tire Biter’s girl friend.

I can’t do any of those things because the items on that list are everywhere. And while they were everywhere they took some pictures to show those who aren’t everywhere, and picked up a snow globe in the gift shop.

Well, then I’ll just make sure to be nowhere. This is an extremely difficult task, as Wyoming and Nebraska were already having an identity crisis about who was the real nowhere. It is actually a big mess with janitors and lawyers working side by side to clear up the matter, so as you can guess being nowhere was taken out of the picture. When nowhere got to out-of-the-picture they bumped into some seals (who at this stage in the game are business associates with the items and parties that are everywhere), so this whole process started over again. Now a hole process takes a few shovels and very determined actor aspiring to be in transformers I and II as well as play Dito in an Indy film similar to ‘81/2.’

A very confusing picture, that ‘81/2’ was, what with making reference to a tap-dancing sailor and the big circle at the end. And that is how some seals ruined the ending of the movie for me.

The End

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The Human Volcano

I trucked across the desert in a Chevy Band-Aid box, behind the linen closet. It was tough, but all the tough guys had been blow up in a tank by a child trapped in a man’s body. In the desert there were piles and piles of middle school students, all smelling the air of adult supervision. It was amidst these bodies and blankets that I met the human volcano.

How did this happen to you?

It happens all the time, smiled the volcano man, it’s part of my allergies.

‘Can we better this situation?’ was written on his knuckles, with a pocketknife.

Some teenagers came to play kissy-face up here, and when I was done with the card game I saw that they had carved that into me. Feeling pity and hungry I set up a table and some soft sitting pads (which also double as napping pads when there are dinosaurs to be napped) so that I may make him some beans as a human sacrifice. I was so foolish, I had left my hat at home and would need to call my agent and ask him to get it for me. This whole dinner would be so stressful without it. The volcano man understood. So we watched the ball drop off the horizon 2000 miles and 4hrs in the future and at 9pm we threw out hands in the air and said, Happy New Year. This was followed by driving to a car rental outlet about 2hrs away and stealing several of their free tourist attraction pamphlets.

I was looking at this one, and look at this said the volcano, now more boy than man.

I had no idea you were so immature. And in his hand the paper read ‘pen’s cave’ in a font such that at first one invariably mistakes it for ‘penis cave’ (which is only an attraction to masochists and couples that share facial disfigurations).

Moral of the story: having all the power of a volcano doesn’t make you a man.

The End

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Day jobs

Some time before the winter of 1950, the singer (he) chopper away (figuratively).

This is all wrong, said the singer to the composer, these notes are all flat.

And the composer (she) shrugged and slumped down on a bed of moss (literally).

I think you are missing the point, she said.

Yes, many points are missing. There needs to be many more sharps.

No, if you would just get the point of the piece, then it would be sharp and we could chop down this tree. Music people (in general) also must have day jobs, and these two were lumberjacks, and some are pancakes. The singer was correct; sharps would be able to chop down a tree, and the flats were just making a dull indent.

Christmas was ruined by a stubborn composer. There was no tree on Christmas morning, so instead Santa just threw all the presents into a wet sock and went around clubbing hoochies. Santa is very conservative, and for a long time wished that his authority were over people who were naughty and not children. There were many fewer naughty children receiving soft coal than good children (who like all good 1950’s children wanted lead) and the (meatloaf!) hoochies didn’t stand a chance.

Ouch! said the hoochies.

The cops showed up and asked the hoochies to fill out a Jaywalking form as though it were a criminal report.

Hoochies, please put on some real clothes, said cops. Santa was convicted of assault with a deadly weapon, after lying a really obvious lie.

A Puerto Rican named Ernie gave me this car.

He was ordered to serve consecutive sentences for each hoochie incident, which adds up the rest of Santa’s natural life. Being that Santa is immortal you can only imagine how many plus-sized-booty-shorts-wearing hoochies he beat down. There are no chimneys in the big house, and so because of two stupid musical people, all parents have to buy presents and put Santa’s name on them.

Moral of the story: Santa does exist.

The End

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The Office.

Sometimes I went walking, and where I went walking there was fire, and my mother wrestled that fire. So did my grandmother, but they were just trying to keep it from all the leaves that where everywhere, because fire and leaves get so rude when they get together, what with throwing eggs about, making condescending remarks, and saying inappropriate things as nice girls walk by. The fire and I talked and played a few games of ‘Connect Four’ (I won all of them) and the leaves ended up feeling left out, so my plan to make the leaves leave went perfectly. As soon as the janitor that brushes such things away got the last one out, I handed the fire its pink slip. It gots its things from its pit and went back to move in with its parents.

This is why I hate working in management. I wanted my old job back, but the union said there were too many photographers as it was, and if I wanted to be demoted there was a position that had just opened up in the Circle of Stones Dept., and Did I have any experience with ghost stories or s’mores? I certainly hadn’t the capacity to fill those shoes and knew it. Knowing this made me nervous and awkward. I have, ever since I was a child, been a victim of a socially debilitating dysfunction where I spontaneously turn into a monster truck when I am in an awkward situation, (current research indicates it is a psychological disorder that is similar in nature to turrets where the victim obsesses about the only thing that could make the situation more awkward: in my case… turning into a monster truck). I morphed into a green flat-bed with six foot wheels and turfed those flying magic carpets (as my superiors in the union were a pair of flying magic carpets). While driving on them, they took off and we all ended up in Kingston Jamaica.

This incident was put into my file and came up during my quarterly review. After presenting medical documentation of my condition, special consideration was taken into further meetings, and I had a holiday removed from my two weeks’ paid vacation for the time in Jamaica.

The End

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The 2009 Olympics

There was once a demon of the meat alcove. This demon had been around since shortly after the pre-construction of the alcove, when the Native Americans and elderly Chinese were moved because they were taking up the space needed for this alcove (which at the time was thought to bring pride to the nation and be a spectacle of international respect). Those that were moved were taken to a care facility, which was really a media friendly term for forced labor camp, where after 30 years a man named Snake would stage an escape so the guards could shoot down all those that joined him. This is undoubtedly evil, and since the meat alcove was built on evil, it needed a demon.

Now, despite all the supernatural horrors of a demon, it is a part of nature, and one thing that is universally true in nature is that there is gossip. The plants loved to gossip, and they gossiped that there was a new meat demon, and that all things made of meat were candidates for possession and possibly a rude and extended visit, in which their hospitality was exploited and all the wine would be gone.

The pansies say that the demon is very well endowed, gossiped the morning glories.

It is also well know that most animals don’t speak plant, and those that do know better than to trust rumors spread by brainless plants (plants are very sensitive about their lack of brains, as they are often taken advantage of in real-estate deals).

I may be possessed by a meat demon! quacked the duck. Oh, ducks are the exception in that they all speak plant and are very gullible.

Stop talking to yourself, quacked another duck, I never quack to myself. People think it is cute. Just then that duck received a letter to inform him that he would be having an unexpected visitor for a long period of time, and to please