Johnny America


The Im­mi­nent Ar­rival of Gargantua


The con­struc­tion of a mas­sive sub­ma­rine sand­wich was on­ly the first of a num­ber of tasks which had to be ac­com­plished be­fore day­break. Tom, the town drunk, stum­bled across Main Street, his pants full of ter­ror. Plas­tered as he was, he knew the de­struc­tion of his beloved town would leave him with­out a sup­ply of al­co­hol, or pos­si­bly dead. He rushed home and worked fu­ri­ous­ly as­sem­bling the in­gre­di­ents for a huge fi­nal daiquiri.

Babe, the high school home­com­ing queen, was tak­en to the dress­mak­er, fussed over for hours, and stuck full of pins. She came home late that night with a box con­tain­ing the pre­cious mas­ter­piece. This gi­gan­tic and to­tal­ly busty blonde would be staked out on a hill wear­ing the dress hop­ing to ap­pease the mon­ster with raw sex. The rest of us hid in base­ments all over town and lis­tened to the ra­dio. We were smok­ing like fiends and hop­ing for the best.

Lit­tle did we know The Ronin was hard at work surf­ing the net for se­cret weapons or poi­son gas to use against the mon­ster. None of us trust­ed him much. The poor bas­tard was in love with Babe but too shy to tell her. This love was de­stroy­ing him yet it was all he had. The Ron­in’s fin­gers flew across the keys, click, click, far in­to the night. In the pearl dawn he fi­nal­ly found the crea­ture’s weak spot: Grav­i­ty was slow­ly crush­ing his skele­tal struc­ture. He would be dead in a hun­dred years (or less).

Filed under Fiction on August 17th, 2005

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