The Miserable Life and Completely Deserved Death of Uncle Mort
Uncle Mort woke that morning to the sounds of the birds chirping, having no idea it was to be the worst day of his life. Gary Llewellyn had marked him for death. It was only a matter of time. Mort went to his office like he did everyday at the same time; eight sharp. He went through the paychecks for the week, signing them with glee. He especially found joy in overpaying his obsequious toady, Hugo. His euphoria shifted into a smoldering malice when he came to the checks of Gary Llewellyn and Stephanie Morgan. He ripped them up and tossed them in his basketball hoop wastebasket, cackling all the while with unbridled glee. The was the 43rd week in a row he had done this. He didn’t know it would be his last.
Mort made a habit of strolling through the park on his lunch breaks. He took delight in the terror of the children as they ran screaming from the Rittenhouse Square skin thief, the malevolent Uncle Mort. For the braver ones, he would unsheath a serrated buck knife just enough to get the blade to glint sunlight in their eyes, promising to eat their mothers alive if he ever saw them again. Then he made of point of strolling to the shops while humming a baleful dirge, spending the money he otherwise would have used to pay his long suffering employees; GARY LLEWELLYN AND STEPHANIE MORGAN, on needlessly ostentatious bric-a-brac to hang on the walls of his dark oak office.
That day however, Mort didn’t realize he was walking into the trap of a one-man killing machine. A man after the only thing that matters to him in this cruel world; 43 weeks of back pay. Mort swung open the door to Some Asshole’s Gallery of Expensive Trash for Rich Douchbags. The bell dingled in the wind. The shopkeeper flashed a solid gold smile and chirped out an ass kissing salutation to her latest patron. Mort browsed the shop selecting items what’s prices would add up to precisely what he would have paid Gary Llewellyn and Stephanie Morgan. As he admired the curves of an antique French Provincial wardrobe, he pulled the doors open to ogle the inside. Out popped Gary Llewellyn, naked and crusted in mud. Gary drew his compound bow and unleashed a primal scream, letting his arrow fly. The arrow flew straight into Mort’s eye socket and pinned his empty skull against the back wall. The shopkeep died of horror. The End.
There you go, Mort. That’s my contribution to the contract negotiations. -G
I’m Not Me
Byline: Stacy Miller
Dateline: February 10th, 2018
Howdy, SEG-ites, Stacy Miller here. What the fuck? I have to negotiate for back pay, with my Uncle? We’re not allowed to publish under our own names until the negotiations are done. I’m not allowed to use my greeting either. We’re also not allowed to run articles in any other publications, forever. So, it’s me. Stacy, for the foreseeable future.