His history, dreams and many moods don't matter —— even his name is not important here —— but a few gratuitous details:  He was Nils Squib, author of  Ters Interlu— [Blip Press, 2000] ("...like bursts of laser beams killing little puppies..." -- Depersonalized Week), a collection of short-short stories. He was strangling his childhood sweetheart of thirty-five minutes, Cherryl-Louu Hellssingg-Brinnett -- an act of meaningless violence -- but a strangely compelling one.

 "Why?!" she gagged.

"Why not?" he said reasonably. "I mean, why lead into violence? If it's meaningless, why get all worked up? Here, there; then, now; who cares? If we start with it, then we can end the charade all the sooner. No one will be exhausted. Yes, my fingers will be a little cramped, and you, of course, will be dead -- but what of the others, my readers, my critics?”

"Life isn't a short-short story," she gasped. She slumped to the floor, blue and puffy. She and life had nothing to do with each other anymore.

Those are the breaks. He broke, gratuitously, her legs.

About here was a surreal sequence. Squib remembered, through something to do with cultural subconscious or critical mass, strangling an elk. He remembered, yes, it was in Norway, and it was cold. The elk was dead. It slumped over sideways. Squib was wearing a fur loin cloth. He rubbed his hands up and down his upper arms, hopping from foot to foot in front of the beast -- which (very considerately) was steaming in the snow. He formed his first word: "Elk." He formed his second word: "Dead." He said the latter with a Southern accent: "Dad." He thought of his father, then of his mother. Then he stopped thinking. The dream, vision, cultural subconscious, or whatever one chose -- or was ordered -- to call it was over. If it had been any normal short-short story, that story -- and this story -- would have ended right there. (And here.) But this and that was/is not a story. He was slowly realizing it. This was Life -- and he didn't like it.

The digital clock over the bank flashed: "12:25." He always made a bald statement at 12:25; it saved time.

He rallied.

"My life is just as meaningless as anyone else's," said Squib, "not to be a conformist."

As if in answer, a finger came out of the sky? "Man or mouse?" asked a voice behind the finger.

"Yes or no," answered Squib.

And so, through a series of actions too heart-warming and meaningful to be detailed here, he was elected President. (Think of humanity as God's VCR Library. Plenty of variety is needed —— comedy, black comedy, drama, a little Rambo. The time, of course, was Now (although, when necessary, it could also be Then). The grass was sweet when it was wet ... although there had been a drought. Luckily, there were sprinkler systems. Ah, yes, the carpets were sweetish when they were wet! All day long, before becoming the hemisphere's moral leader, only part-time now, Squib installed sprinkler systems. Office jobs. Secretaries. They wouldn't answer him, or they would walk  away. Most of them were fat —— no, thin, like cadavers. As President, it was not his responsibility to remember body types, or even names. It was only at Christmas that he would make his human stand, the Christmas card:
 

My Dear (insert name here_________________):

But for the moment, it was business as usual. Business was gray tap-water sprinkling down out of rusty ceilings every day. It would prevent rioting, said advisors. People had stopped wearing suits, ties and shoes. Bankers wore simple rayon shirts with parrots on them; Wall Street had its Bermuda shorts, the Rotary, their lemon thongs. Even nuns wore bikinis, although they were of course made of black bulletproofed plastic.

Anyway, they always had said, as President you get a little distanced, although "they," whoever "they" were, would never get too specific. Here he was, in another broiling business office, his advisor, Chip Pod, handing him vital papers as he stood there on the ladder with a corroded wrench. The arm extended upward -- but Chip seemed at least thirty-five yards away. "The reports, Mr. President."

"Thank you, Chip. -- Oh, by the way, Chip, I'm thinking of betraying you, even having you executed. Might break up the day, you know?"

"Thank you, Mr. President."

He flipped through the reports:

 "... the Earth continues to spin -- at least, those are our findings. Very slowly though. That's why it's been daytime for so long. But pretty soon, ten years at most, the Ruskies will be out of the shade. As
for the Sun: there have been explosions on its surface. They have made us all (even -- no offense -- you, Mr. President) a bit wobbly and irrational. Luckily, we feel it is safe to say that it matters to all of us not a whit. Professor Briggs, who is less incoherent than others of us here in Projecto P., is making a study of irrationality and disorientation, to be conducted at odd hours ..."

Chip had moved off respectfully —— and also to get under a sprinkler. Although he was only across the room, he seemed to be thirty-five miles away. Someone dropped a bag of tools. Squib looked down at him, at the little itty bitty little people, like ants, down there at the bottom of the ladder. Yes. Like looking down a well.
 

 
 

FRONT COVER

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CONTRIBUTOR'S BIOS