A babysitter can teach you a lot of things about life (link), a babysitter can change the life of a retired Austrian U-boat ace (link) and a babysitter can also be quite fun (pornhub links not allowed). Alas, we are currently missing one. What a shame. May the best babysitter win!
Lumos:
Jacobhinds:
TheFlyingFishy:
BenKenobi:
Lumos:
My Apocalypse
~The thinner individual is pacing up and down.~
“Has she called back yet?”
”Nope, not yet.”
“If we’re late for the premiere again…”
”Mum! I don’t need a babysitter! What, are we in Scandinavia?”
“Yes!”
”Goddamn it!”
“Watch your language, mister! You can’t damn any gods until you turn 18.”
”Fair enough, mum.”
“Is she not picking up?”
”No. Apparently, her phone is still «Turned Off or Out Of Range».”
“But we really need to hurry!”
”I know.”
”You could always leave me alone, you know. What? Am I going to burn down the house?”
”Are you?”
”Of course not!”
”Good.”
“What did the babysitter say again?”
”She said she’s going to bed, and that nobody should wake her up, even if there’s meteors raining from the sky.”
“Well, they’re just small ones anyway. She probably turned off her phone too.”
”Can’t you take me with you?”
“Nope. They won’t let you inside, the movie is rated «16+».”
”Right. Y’know, instead of going to watch some apocalyptic film, you could just go out and look up…”
”Don’t be silly. The film will be much more exciting than these meteors. Lots of money thrown at the CGI, you know.”
”Besides, those in the sky are just small ones anyway.”
”You know I’ll pirate the movie anyway, a few months down the line.”
“Yep, and you know we’ll be joining you if it’s worth seeing again.”
”Yeah, yeah. Fine. What are we doing then? Right now, I mean.”
~The two larger ones look at each other, then one of them turns to the smaller one.~
”We could leave you alone if you promise to keep out of trouble.”
“And to stay inside. You still haven’t found your keys.”
”Yes, I promise! Yes, I’ll stay inside!”
“In that case, we should be going. Don’t want to be late, do we?”
”Nope. Let’s go.”
”Wait, can I at least invite my girlfriend over?”
~The two larger ones exchange looks yet again, then face the smaller one.~
“You have a girlfriend?”
”Yeah. Can I invite her over?”
“I thought you were afraid of the apocalypse.”
”Sure, but we’ll be less afraid together.”
”Okay, you can invite her over. But tell her to watch out for the meteors.”
“But only on the condition that she stays for dinner. We need to meet her.”
”Yes, mum. And she’ll be fine. The meteors are just small ones anyway.”
”Quite true indeed! We’ll be going now. Have fun!”
“And stay safe! And don’t make a mess!”
”Yes, mum.”
~The two large ones leave the premises.~
“You sure this is a good idea? There’re meteors raining down from the sky, after all.”
”But they’re just small ones, anyways.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
”I’m sure he’ll be fine. Now, on that babysitter.”
“Yeah, her. Do you even remember where she lives?”
”I think so. Perhaps we should go round and make sure she’s fine. Maybe warn her of the meteors, right?”
“Good idea, though they’re just small ones anyways. We’ve still got enough time ‘till the movie. If she really went to sleep and didn’t want to be woken up…”
”Actually, why’d she do that?”
“Dunno. Feeling exhausted, perhaps? What’s her day job, by the way?”
”I don’t remember. Something… outdoorsy, I think. A park warden?”
“Yeah, right. I don’t imagine a park warden sitting kids on her evenings.”
”I just don’t remember, okay?”
“Okay, okay. Watch the road.”
”Besides, I’m pretty sure she had taken time off work to do it. Otherwise what’d be the point?”
“No idea. But what’s the point now?”
”More stuff for her CV, I guess? A change of pace from park-wardening?”
“That’s not a word, and I’m telling you she’s not a park warden. Watch out for that meteor.”
”Relax, it’s just a small one anyways.”
“Yeah, yeah. Good. You think they’ll get larger?”
”I don’t see how they could.”
“Neither do I, really. There don’t seem to be any larger chunks left.”
”The moon looks so funny now.”
“Yeah. Poor moon. So many little meteors.”
”Y’know, they’re probably quite large initially. They do burn through the atmosphere before reaching the ground.”
“Indeed. Makes you wonder how many smaller ones burn up before reaching us.”
”Lots, probably.”
“Hey, I remember what she was. Wasn’t she a pilot?”
”A pilot? Of an aeroplane?”
“Yeah! I think she was a pilot.”
”Nonsense. She wasn’t a pilot. Besides, why would a pilot sit kids on her evenings?”
“Good point. What was she then?”
”Something outdoorsy, I told you. A street sweeper?”
“I very much doubt that. What about a binwoman? They always hang out of those trucks, right?”
”Er… I’m pretty sure she’s not a binwoman. Though that line of work is pretty outdoorsy indeed...”
“Besides, why would a binwoman sit kids on her evenings?”
”You know, you could really ask that question about anyone, no matter their profession.”
“True, I guess. We shouldn’t bother with it then. This her neighbourhood?”
”Yep. Pretty sure she lives round here…”
“Hey, what’s happened here?”
”Oh… that’s her house.”
“It is?! But there’s a massive meteor right on top of it!”
”Sorry, I meant to say «it was» her house.”
“Now’s a bad time to make jokes, you know. Look at the size of that rock!”
”Yeah… I don’t want to have been in that room when that thing came down.”
“Nor in any room, really…”
”I thought they were all just small ones, anyways…”
“Apparently not…”
”Is she here? HEY! ANYONE IN THERE?”
“I certainly hope not. Otherwise we’ll have to look for a new babysitter.”
”Yeah, that’s a chore. Look, we’re running late. Let’s come back after the movie, okay?”
“Good idea. Besides, if she was in there, the neighbours would’ve helped her.”
”Yep, and there’s no neighbours to be seen. At all.”
“Right. Let’s go.”
~Both entities leave without thoroughly inspecting the remains.~
~And so thus they’d never notice~
~The one reason why she’s missing:~
~On the entrance door attached is~
~A charred note that says
GONE FISHIN’ ~
~The thinner individual is pacing up and down.~
“Has she called back yet?”
”Nope, not yet.”
“If we’re late for the premiere again…”
”Mum! I don’t need a babysitter! What, are we in Scandinavia?”
“Yes!”
”Goddamn it!”
“Watch your language, mister! You can’t damn any gods until you turn 18.”
”Fair enough, mum.”
“Is she not picking up?”
”No. Apparently, her phone is still «Turned Off or Out Of Range».”
“But we really need to hurry!”
”I know.”
”You could always leave me alone, you know. What? Am I going to burn down the house?”
”Are you?”
”Of course not!”
”Good.”
“What did the babysitter say again?”
”She said she’s going to bed, and that nobody should wake her up, even if there’s meteors raining from the sky.”
“Well, they’re just small ones anyway. She probably turned off her phone too.”
”Can’t you take me with you?”
“Nope. They won’t let you inside, the movie is rated «16+».”
”Right. Y’know, instead of going to watch some apocalyptic film, you could just go out and look up…”
”Don’t be silly. The film will be much more exciting than these meteors. Lots of money thrown at the CGI, you know.”
”Besides, those in the sky are just small ones anyway.”
”You know I’ll pirate the movie anyway, a few months down the line.”
“Yep, and you know we’ll be joining you if it’s worth seeing again.”
”Yeah, yeah. Fine. What are we doing then? Right now, I mean.”
~The two larger ones look at each other, then one of them turns to the smaller one.~
”We could leave you alone if you promise to keep out of trouble.”
“And to stay inside. You still haven’t found your keys.”
”Yes, I promise! Yes, I’ll stay inside!”
“In that case, we should be going. Don’t want to be late, do we?”
”Nope. Let’s go.”
”Wait, can I at least invite my girlfriend over?”
~The two larger ones exchange looks yet again, then face the smaller one.~
“You have a girlfriend?”
”Yeah. Can I invite her over?”
“I thought you were afraid of the apocalypse.”
”Sure, but we’ll be less afraid together.”
”Okay, you can invite her over. But tell her to watch out for the meteors.”
“But only on the condition that she stays for dinner. We need to meet her.”
”Yes, mum. And she’ll be fine. The meteors are just small ones anyway.”
”Quite true indeed! We’ll be going now. Have fun!”
“And stay safe! And don’t make a mess!”
”Yes, mum.”
~The two large ones leave the premises.~
“You sure this is a good idea? There’re meteors raining down from the sky, after all.”
”But they’re just small ones, anyways.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
”I’m sure he’ll be fine. Now, on that babysitter.”
“Yeah, her. Do you even remember where she lives?”
”I think so. Perhaps we should go round and make sure she’s fine. Maybe warn her of the meteors, right?”
“Good idea, though they’re just small ones anyways. We’ve still got enough time ‘till the movie. If she really went to sleep and didn’t want to be woken up…”
”Actually, why’d she do that?”
“Dunno. Feeling exhausted, perhaps? What’s her day job, by the way?”
”I don’t remember. Something… outdoorsy, I think. A park warden?”
“Yeah, right. I don’t imagine a park warden sitting kids on her evenings.”
”I just don’t remember, okay?”
“Okay, okay. Watch the road.”
”Besides, I’m pretty sure she had taken time off work to do it. Otherwise what’d be the point?”
“No idea. But what’s the point now?”
”More stuff for her CV, I guess? A change of pace from park-wardening?”
“That’s not a word, and I’m telling you she’s not a park warden. Watch out for that meteor.”
”Relax, it’s just a small one anyways.”
“Yeah, yeah. Good. You think they’ll get larger?”
”I don’t see how they could.”
“Neither do I, really. There don’t seem to be any larger chunks left.”
”The moon looks so funny now.”
“Yeah. Poor moon. So many little meteors.”
”Y’know, they’re probably quite large initially. They do burn through the atmosphere before reaching the ground.”
“Indeed. Makes you wonder how many smaller ones burn up before reaching us.”
”Lots, probably.”
“Hey, I remember what she was. Wasn’t she a pilot?”
”A pilot? Of an aeroplane?”
“Yeah! I think she was a pilot.”
”Nonsense. She wasn’t a pilot. Besides, why would a pilot sit kids on her evenings?”
“Good point. What was she then?”
”Something outdoorsy, I told you. A street sweeper?”
“I very much doubt that. What about a binwoman? They always hang out of those trucks, right?”
”Er… I’m pretty sure she’s not a binwoman. Though that line of work is pretty outdoorsy indeed...”
“Besides, why would a binwoman sit kids on her evenings?”
”You know, you could really ask that question about anyone, no matter their profession.”
“True, I guess. We shouldn’t bother with it then. This her neighbourhood?”
”Yep. Pretty sure she lives round here…”
“Hey, what’s happened here?”
”Oh… that’s her house.”
“It is?! But there’s a massive meteor right on top of it!”
”Sorry, I meant to say «it was» her house.”
“Now’s a bad time to make jokes, you know. Look at the size of that rock!”
”Yeah… I don’t want to have been in that room when that thing came down.”
“Nor in any room, really…”
”I thought they were all just small ones, anyways…”
“Apparently not…”
”Is she here? HEY! ANYONE IN THERE?”
“I certainly hope not. Otherwise we’ll have to look for a new babysitter.”
”Yeah, that’s a chore. Look, we’re running late. Let’s come back after the movie, okay?”
“Good idea. Besides, if she was in there, the neighbours would’ve helped her.”
”Yep, and there’s no neighbours to be seen. At all.”
“Right. Let’s go.”
~Both entities leave without thoroughly inspecting the remains.~
~And so thus they’d never notice~
~The one reason why she’s missing:~
~On the entrance door attached is~
~A charred note that says
GONE FISHIN’ ~
Jacobhinds:
Within the incubation chamber there is one occupation which is equal parts useless and essential. Allow me to explain.
Babies are unpredictable mounds of flesh. Initial attempts to pacify their raw anarchy revolved around an infamous conveyor belt, the failure of which was a gruesome tragedy.
Imagine my surprise, then. This morning, in one of the rooms on my level, across from the deep dark gully in the middle of our complex, I watched gangs of unwashed bachelorettes clamber into the incubation chamber through its only hatch. They spent the day acting out the routine of the former conveyor belt, undressing and feeding and cleaning the babies one after the other, standing alongside this slowly advancing conveyor of stationary babies as they carried out the process. The ritual was bizarre enough--it is not often that (wo)man imitates machinery--but in the middle of the production line stood a single young woman linking the two main actions of the procedure, whose sole task it was to rotate the baby from a recumbent sprawl to an upright sitting position. From my office I had a good view of her through the giant glass window, and by the time I had completed five supervisory reports, she had deftly rotated well over ten thousand babies.
Our lunch breaks coincided. I followed her to the mess hall where machine supervisors and manual labourers congregated and down a flight of stairs into a small damp room filled with ranks of pool tables.
She was sitting alone in an abused chair made of some unidentifiable soft material, glaring upon my entry with barely a flicker of surprise. She twirled a cigarette in her fingers and waited for me to speak.
"I was just wondering about your job," I said. "I couldn't help but watch from where I work from. I'm a--"
"--Supervisory secretary," she interrupted, with an air of exasperation as if I had said this ten times in a row. "Your name is Graham Something. Pleased to meet you, My name is Ing."
She pointed across the room at a brutally scratched plastic stool.
"Take a seat. It's not often I get to do this."
She took a puff of her cigarette and threw it into a corner with its many fallen comrades, and shuffled awkwardly closer. There was a pool table between us. She slapped her hands on it.
"Do you know your history, Mister Something?"
"Enough," I said.
"Enough isn't enough," she said. "Otherwise you wouldn't be here."
I was visibly baffled so she slapped the pool table again.
"I bet you’re thinking, ‘oh, even a machine could do that’. That's not even a slightly true. It’s a primordial tradition, dating back thousands of years. Only the purest, toughest virgins of the ancient cults were accepted into this role, and we perform it with pride."
"What cult?"
"The Babysitters."
I had never heard of them before but kept my mouth shut, lest this was some common knowledge I was shamefully unaware of.
"Why are you telling me this?" I asked.
The girl picked up a pool cue and pointed it at me.
"Because nobody will ever listen to a labourer. Civil servants, on the other hand..."
"I don't understand. Do you want me to put an advert in the paper for you?"
"No," she said.
"Do you want extra funding?"
"No, Graham."
"Please, I'm a little lost here."
The girl prodded my hand with the pool cue.
"I want you to let your superiors know we exist. Let them know we're everywhere."
"And what do I get from this?" I said.
"Your life," she spat. "Babysitters are numerous and invisible.”
I instinctively shifted my weight to stand up and flee, but the babysitter anticipated this and pinned me by my throat with the pool cue.
"Okay," I said, admittedly quite terrified. "I'll file a report tomorrow and explain everything."
The babysitter prodded harder, expecting a more zealous answer.
"I promise," I whimpered. "I swear on my job!"
She released me and smiled, then reached under the pool table. The lights went off, leaving me in total darkness. When light returned, unsurprisingly the babysitter was gone.
I had filed the report by the evening, tapping furiously on my typewriter while I racked my brain for words to describe this so-called "babysitter". In the text I made her out to be a luddite or some similarly detestable ideologue, but I knew this probably wasn't true. She never once spoke of dismantling machinery in the time a real luddite would have mentioned it fifty times.
Within the hour a magistrate had reached my complex with an arrest warrant and a band of swordsmen clad in Kevlar. They posted themselves on the doors of every room on my level and ordered the inhabitants to evacuate. Almost a hundred people stumbled into the open in a variety of clothes. The babysitter was nowhere to be seen.
Suddenly a waste chute burst open and the babysitter appeared, producing a strange, deafening weapon, killing two of the swordsmen instantly without touching them. My window shattered. I cowered in fear, emerging only once the commotion had ceased. To my surprise, the surviving swordsmen were doing the same, and the babysitter had escaped.
The next day, when work once again began in the incubation chamber, I noticed a slight change in procedure. One of the women was tasked both with replacing the child's groin wrapping and with rotating it. She lacked any semblance of proficiency and many of the babies fell to their deaths on the floor. This continued for several days. Eventually I plucked up the courage to print several copies of what you are currently reading, and pin them to walls across the country. I hope I haven't been too verbose, and as you can see there is very little text remaining, so without further oral defecation I reach the bottom line:
Babysitter wanted. Please call central authority and ask for Graham Something.
Babies are unpredictable mounds of flesh. Initial attempts to pacify their raw anarchy revolved around an infamous conveyor belt, the failure of which was a gruesome tragedy.
Imagine my surprise, then. This morning, in one of the rooms on my level, across from the deep dark gully in the middle of our complex, I watched gangs of unwashed bachelorettes clamber into the incubation chamber through its only hatch. They spent the day acting out the routine of the former conveyor belt, undressing and feeding and cleaning the babies one after the other, standing alongside this slowly advancing conveyor of stationary babies as they carried out the process. The ritual was bizarre enough--it is not often that (wo)man imitates machinery--but in the middle of the production line stood a single young woman linking the two main actions of the procedure, whose sole task it was to rotate the baby from a recumbent sprawl to an upright sitting position. From my office I had a good view of her through the giant glass window, and by the time I had completed five supervisory reports, she had deftly rotated well over ten thousand babies.
Our lunch breaks coincided. I followed her to the mess hall where machine supervisors and manual labourers congregated and down a flight of stairs into a small damp room filled with ranks of pool tables.
She was sitting alone in an abused chair made of some unidentifiable soft material, glaring upon my entry with barely a flicker of surprise. She twirled a cigarette in her fingers and waited for me to speak.
"I was just wondering about your job," I said. "I couldn't help but watch from where I work from. I'm a--"
"--Supervisory secretary," she interrupted, with an air of exasperation as if I had said this ten times in a row. "Your name is Graham Something. Pleased to meet you, My name is Ing."
She pointed across the room at a brutally scratched plastic stool.
"Take a seat. It's not often I get to do this."
She took a puff of her cigarette and threw it into a corner with its many fallen comrades, and shuffled awkwardly closer. There was a pool table between us. She slapped her hands on it.
"Do you know your history, Mister Something?"
"Enough," I said.
"Enough isn't enough," she said. "Otherwise you wouldn't be here."
I was visibly baffled so she slapped the pool table again.
"I bet you’re thinking, ‘oh, even a machine could do that’. That's not even a slightly true. It’s a primordial tradition, dating back thousands of years. Only the purest, toughest virgins of the ancient cults were accepted into this role, and we perform it with pride."
"What cult?"
"The Babysitters."
I had never heard of them before but kept my mouth shut, lest this was some common knowledge I was shamefully unaware of.
"Why are you telling me this?" I asked.
The girl picked up a pool cue and pointed it at me.
"Because nobody will ever listen to a labourer. Civil servants, on the other hand..."
"I don't understand. Do you want me to put an advert in the paper for you?"
"No," she said.
"Do you want extra funding?"
"No, Graham."
"Please, I'm a little lost here."
The girl prodded my hand with the pool cue.
"I want you to let your superiors know we exist. Let them know we're everywhere."
"And what do I get from this?" I said.
"Your life," she spat. "Babysitters are numerous and invisible.”
I instinctively shifted my weight to stand up and flee, but the babysitter anticipated this and pinned me by my throat with the pool cue.
"Okay," I said, admittedly quite terrified. "I'll file a report tomorrow and explain everything."
The babysitter prodded harder, expecting a more zealous answer.
"I promise," I whimpered. "I swear on my job!"
She released me and smiled, then reached under the pool table. The lights went off, leaving me in total darkness. When light returned, unsurprisingly the babysitter was gone.
I had filed the report by the evening, tapping furiously on my typewriter while I racked my brain for words to describe this so-called "babysitter". In the text I made her out to be a luddite or some similarly detestable ideologue, but I knew this probably wasn't true. She never once spoke of dismantling machinery in the time a real luddite would have mentioned it fifty times.
Within the hour a magistrate had reached my complex with an arrest warrant and a band of swordsmen clad in Kevlar. They posted themselves on the doors of every room on my level and ordered the inhabitants to evacuate. Almost a hundred people stumbled into the open in a variety of clothes. The babysitter was nowhere to be seen.
Suddenly a waste chute burst open and the babysitter appeared, producing a strange, deafening weapon, killing two of the swordsmen instantly without touching them. My window shattered. I cowered in fear, emerging only once the commotion had ceased. To my surprise, the surviving swordsmen were doing the same, and the babysitter had escaped.
The next day, when work once again began in the incubation chamber, I noticed a slight change in procedure. One of the women was tasked both with replacing the child's groin wrapping and with rotating it. She lacked any semblance of proficiency and many of the babies fell to their deaths on the floor. This continued for several days. Eventually I plucked up the courage to print several copies of what you are currently reading, and pin them to walls across the country. I hope I haven't been too verbose, and as you can see there is very little text remaining, so without further oral defecation I reach the bottom line:
Babysitter wanted. Please call central authority and ask for Graham Something.
TheFlyingFishy:
Mr. and Mrs. Kroll hadn't had a night to themselves since little Hank had been born. They were affectionate and devoted parents, but six months of self-sacrifice at the expense of all pleasure and leisurely bonding had begun to take its toll. Finally, one afternoon Mr. Kroll suggested that the two of them decide on a nice restaurant in town, see what was playing in the theatre that weekend, and hire a babysitter to watch little Hank for the night. Mrs. Kroll happily jumped at the chance to be out of the house and away from the ceaseless crying and stress of caring for new life, if only for a few hours. So, that evening they called up Mr. Kroll's boss and asked if his teenage daughter wouldn't mind earning a few dollars for some wholesome and simple labor. She'd been in to the store a few times and didn't exactly strike Mr. Kroll as a studious worker, usually only dropping by to bum a few bucks off of her father, but it was an exceedingly simple job and he figured he could endear himself to his employer with the gesture. His boss was all too happy to have the opportunity to hammer some work ethic into his daughter, and gladly accepted on her behalf. So, all being set, the couple donned their formal attire for the first time in half-a-year and waited for the girl to show up. As the clock edged nearer and neaer to eight, they began to get nervous, lest they miss their dinner reservation. At last, at seven-thirty, the doorbell rang.
They opened the door to see a very unimpressive-looking young lady popping a sickeningly-pink bubble and then peeling the resultant splatter off of her face and stuffing it back into her mouth. She had far more piercings and had them in far stranger places than could be considered attractive or desirable and she applied her makeup so heavily that she would not have been out of place amongst a special forces night operations raiding party. If she had been on time, they likely would have stopped to reconsider just who they were leaving their baby in the care of, but they had already paid for their seats and become ravenous at the prospect of brief freedom.
“Hi, Lucy,” Mr. Kroll hurriedly sputtered as Mrs. Kroll stepped back into the living room to fetch her purse and kiss little Hank goodbye.
“So, like, my dad is being a total buzz kill and says I have to watch your kid tonight,” she sighed heavily.
“And we thank you very much for it,” he replied impatiently.
Suddenly a shriek came from the living room. “OwwwwWWWWwww! He bit my nose!”
“What,” Mr. Kroll shouted back. “Honey, come on, we have to go right now if we want to have any chance of being seated.”
“I'm coming, I'm coming,” she said as she stepped back into the entry hall of the house. “Am I bleeding?”
“What? No, of course no- a little, yes, but come on,” her husband answered distractedly.
As they shuffled past Lucy, Mrs. Kroll stopped very quickly and stressed very clearly how her little angel hadn't had supper yet. “All he needs is a quick bite. I've left his supper on the kitchen counter. All you need to do is feed him, then put him to bed in the cradle. I've left it in the living room so you can watch T.V. Just make sure to feed him.” With that, they hustled to their car and sped off.
Lucy watched them go with a sigh to revile the exhaust pipe of the peeling car, and stepped into the house, slamming the door behind her. She walked into the living room and took a look at Hank.
“Wow, you're, like, really F'ing ugly, you know that? Whatever, I'm getting, like, $20 for this, so just lay down and be quiet so I don't have to shake you.” Hank burbled contentedly, but seemed to get irritated as she walked not to the kitchen, but to the couch beside him, where she promptly plopped down. He cocked his head towards the kitchen and gurgled a little questioning spit bubble at her.
“Ga-rose, you little troll,” Lucy rolled her eyes. “I'll feed you after my show. I've got to find out which of these sluts the Bachelor shacks up with.” Hank wasn't pleased at this and gripped the edge of his crib and began to bounce noiselessly. “If you don't sit down, I'm going to smack you, like, so freaking hard,” she said, pointing to the comically large deep-blue ring on her finger. Hank looked at her almost stoically for a brief moment, as if he understood, then sat down, crossed his arms, and glared at her. She didn't notice, and turned her head to the T.V. once more.
Several hours later, a very relaxed and rejuvenated Mr. and Mrs. Kroll stepped through the door to their home and called out for the babysitter. When there was no answer, they looked at each other worriedly. A quick check on little Hank found him sleeping peacefully. When he heard them enter, his eyes fluttered open and he instantly began to cry and shout.
“Oh, honey,” Mr. Kroll said, rushing to him. “I think somebody made a mess, didn't they?”
“I don't see how,” Mrs. Kroll said, coming out of the kitchen holding the tray of baby food she had set out.
Mr. Kroll glanced over his shoulder as he undid Hank's diaper. “I'll have a serious chat with Mr. Bell tomorrow. I don't get how such a hard-working man can have a daughter who would sneak out of such a simple job. It just complet- honey...did you leave your jewelry laying out? Hank's swallowed one of your rings!”
“Oh, no,” his shocked wife gasped. “Which one?”
“The gaudy dark-blue one,” he said, lifting it up for her to see.
They opened the door to see a very unimpressive-looking young lady popping a sickeningly-pink bubble and then peeling the resultant splatter off of her face and stuffing it back into her mouth. She had far more piercings and had them in far stranger places than could be considered attractive or desirable and she applied her makeup so heavily that she would not have been out of place amongst a special forces night operations raiding party. If she had been on time, they likely would have stopped to reconsider just who they were leaving their baby in the care of, but they had already paid for their seats and become ravenous at the prospect of brief freedom.
“Hi, Lucy,” Mr. Kroll hurriedly sputtered as Mrs. Kroll stepped back into the living room to fetch her purse and kiss little Hank goodbye.
“So, like, my dad is being a total buzz kill and says I have to watch your kid tonight,” she sighed heavily.
“And we thank you very much for it,” he replied impatiently.
Suddenly a shriek came from the living room. “OwwwwWWWWwww! He bit my nose!”
“What,” Mr. Kroll shouted back. “Honey, come on, we have to go right now if we want to have any chance of being seated.”
“I'm coming, I'm coming,” she said as she stepped back into the entry hall of the house. “Am I bleeding?”
“What? No, of course no- a little, yes, but come on,” her husband answered distractedly.
As they shuffled past Lucy, Mrs. Kroll stopped very quickly and stressed very clearly how her little angel hadn't had supper yet. “All he needs is a quick bite. I've left his supper on the kitchen counter. All you need to do is feed him, then put him to bed in the cradle. I've left it in the living room so you can watch T.V. Just make sure to feed him.” With that, they hustled to their car and sped off.
Lucy watched them go with a sigh to revile the exhaust pipe of the peeling car, and stepped into the house, slamming the door behind her. She walked into the living room and took a look at Hank.
“Wow, you're, like, really F'ing ugly, you know that? Whatever, I'm getting, like, $20 for this, so just lay down and be quiet so I don't have to shake you.” Hank burbled contentedly, but seemed to get irritated as she walked not to the kitchen, but to the couch beside him, where she promptly plopped down. He cocked his head towards the kitchen and gurgled a little questioning spit bubble at her.
“Ga-rose, you little troll,” Lucy rolled her eyes. “I'll feed you after my show. I've got to find out which of these sluts the Bachelor shacks up with.” Hank wasn't pleased at this and gripped the edge of his crib and began to bounce noiselessly. “If you don't sit down, I'm going to smack you, like, so freaking hard,” she said, pointing to the comically large deep-blue ring on her finger. Hank looked at her almost stoically for a brief moment, as if he understood, then sat down, crossed his arms, and glared at her. She didn't notice, and turned her head to the T.V. once more.
Several hours later, a very relaxed and rejuvenated Mr. and Mrs. Kroll stepped through the door to their home and called out for the babysitter. When there was no answer, they looked at each other worriedly. A quick check on little Hank found him sleeping peacefully. When he heard them enter, his eyes fluttered open and he instantly began to cry and shout.
“Oh, honey,” Mr. Kroll said, rushing to him. “I think somebody made a mess, didn't they?”
“I don't see how,” Mrs. Kroll said, coming out of the kitchen holding the tray of baby food she had set out.
Mr. Kroll glanced over his shoulder as he undid Hank's diaper. “I'll have a serious chat with Mr. Bell tomorrow. I don't get how such a hard-working man can have a daughter who would sneak out of such a simple job. It just complet- honey...did you leave your jewelry laying out? Hank's swallowed one of your rings!”
“Oh, no,” his shocked wife gasped. “Which one?”
“The gaudy dark-blue one,” he said, lifting it up for her to see.
BenKenobi:
„Riflemen squad, front and center!“
A group of American soldiers was finally issued an order from the high command. The six men left their green cover and started running north, towards the frontline. They passed a half-destroyed church that was being viciously pounded by those goddamn expensive one-o-fives not even two minutes ago and arrived at a secluded garden, surrounded by tall buildings and stone fences around four feet high; with a large pole in the middle – a German flag flying on the top of it.
“Oh, we'll take it, alright.“ The squad leader, being issued the same order around twenty ****ing times shouldered his M1 Carabine and searched his backpack for a nice and clean star-sprangled banner. Johnson, one of the squad’s BAR men, started to rotate the flag pole’s winch and once-proud German flag began its descend; to be replaced by a flag of the great US of A. Hell yeah!
“Ein Schuß, eine Tötung,” whispered the sniper as he sent a round through poor Johnson’s head. Needless to say, poor Johnson dropped dead instantly.
“Contact, Kraut infantry!”
American rifles, having seen the sniper for only a brief moment, started shooting in his general direction. The squad leader would love to start chasing the goddamn Kraut ****er, but the high command told him about ten times that the bloody flag is of greater importance than his – admittedly quite cheap – squadmembers.
The sniper, just a few moments after our poor Johnson died, was issued thirty one orders by the German high command. Go there, by the destroyed car, by the piano, through the ditch, around the fence, through the graveyard (with all the sweet green cover provided by the tombstones), past the burnt halftrack until he was finally out of the rifle squad’s line of sight.
“All this moving is tiring my trigger finger,” sighed the sniper.
“This territory's Uncle Sams!” cried the rifle squad and started executing their orders. To the dismay of the troops, the high command’s actions per minute were quite high so they had no choice - by the destroyed car, by the piano, through the ditch, around the fence, through the graveyard (with all the sweet green cover provided by the tombstones), past the burnt halftrack… And then – BOOM! Sausage meat! It was everywhere. ****ing Mendoza stepped on a mine that was planted behind the halftrack, taking two men with him. Goddamn him!
The squad leader was now alone with one of his BAR men (not Johnson). The sniper, being in a cover not even 15 meters away, had a pretty clear picture of them two. He rested his G43 on a picket fence and took aim at the poor fella with a Browning automatic rifle.
“Like hunting on the countryside...”
The squad leader saw the muzzle flash. He knew exactly where the sniper was hiding. Yet, no order from the high command came.
The sniper ran from his cover and took a refuge behind a pile of destroyed crates. He had the lone US officer in his sights. All he needed to do was to pull the trigger. To do so, however, an order was required as he was expressly told not to shoot on his own some five minutes before. Yet, no order from the high command came.
To shine some light into this rather strange situation - unbeknownst to both soldiers (who will be hereafter referred to as Hans and Joe), both their high commands were made unavailable by their superiors almost simultaneously. The German Hauptmann had the unfortunate pleasure of having a family meeting; and everyone knows that you really have to be present on those. Even when the war cannot be paused. The American Lieutenant Colonel, having much less interesting (but nevertheless unavoidable) obstacle, was only reminded of his obligation to wash the dishes, which he forgot to do before his regiment got stuck in this pointless skirmish.
Joe was staring at the pile of crates. He was there! He knew it. He had the munitions, he could just lob a grenade there. And the Kraut ****er would be gone instantly.
Hans, hiding behind the crates, thought the same. One shot and the guy would be dead for sure. Hell, surely a squadwipe. Alas, the order never came.
And the time dragged on and on. So much time passed that the Germans would had been able to build two Panthers and still have enough resources to train their weapon teams properly. The Americans would had been able to call six artillery strikes and still issue Thompsons to all their Rangers. In other words, nothing was happening for a really, really long time. Like, I mean, a really long time.
„Well, this is rather awkward,“ shouted Joe towards the crates.
„Ja!“ replied the crates. „Quite embarrassing.“
„...don’t you want to come over? We can have, you know, a talk. Maybe a beer or something,“ continued Joe.
„Would love to,“ Hans said. „But I can’t. I need to stay in here. But we can talk! I can hear you just fine from here.“
„So…uhm…how do you feel about the war?“
„Oh, well. You know how things are. The command gives you order for every ****ing centimeter of your path, but forgets to bring in a Pak more often than not. I am running around like a wet hen. Who would like it? I could have been a Luftwaffe ace, you know? Instead, I am running around. What a ****ing wanker!“
„Oh, you tell me! Our guy is an absolute tosspot too. Like, me and my squad was being fired at by two Panzers not even fifteen minutes ago. I mean, they were pounding us to hell, man! And guess what! Instead of Wolverines, the retard called in a Crocodile.“
A burst of laugh was heard from behind the crates. „A Crocodile?“
„Yeah, what an idiot.“
„They are all imbeciles. Ours also.“
„Dickheads.“
„Arschgesichts!“
„Bastards!“
„Scheisskopfs!“
„****ing retards!“
„Flachwichsers!“
„It was nice meeting you.“
„You too, mein freund.“
A group of American soldiers was finally issued an order from the high command. The six men left their green cover and started running north, towards the frontline. They passed a half-destroyed church that was being viciously pounded by those goddamn expensive one-o-fives not even two minutes ago and arrived at a secluded garden, surrounded by tall buildings and stone fences around four feet high; with a large pole in the middle – a German flag flying on the top of it.
“Oh, we'll take it, alright.“ The squad leader, being issued the same order around twenty ****ing times shouldered his M1 Carabine and searched his backpack for a nice and clean star-sprangled banner. Johnson, one of the squad’s BAR men, started to rotate the flag pole’s winch and once-proud German flag began its descend; to be replaced by a flag of the great US of A. Hell yeah!
“Ein Schuß, eine Tötung,” whispered the sniper as he sent a round through poor Johnson’s head. Needless to say, poor Johnson dropped dead instantly.
“Contact, Kraut infantry!”
American rifles, having seen the sniper for only a brief moment, started shooting in his general direction. The squad leader would love to start chasing the goddamn Kraut ****er, but the high command told him about ten times that the bloody flag is of greater importance than his – admittedly quite cheap – squadmembers.
The sniper, just a few moments after our poor Johnson died, was issued thirty one orders by the German high command. Go there, by the destroyed car, by the piano, through the ditch, around the fence, through the graveyard (with all the sweet green cover provided by the tombstones), past the burnt halftrack until he was finally out of the rifle squad’s line of sight.
“All this moving is tiring my trigger finger,” sighed the sniper.
“This territory's Uncle Sams!” cried the rifle squad and started executing their orders. To the dismay of the troops, the high command’s actions per minute were quite high so they had no choice - by the destroyed car, by the piano, through the ditch, around the fence, through the graveyard (with all the sweet green cover provided by the tombstones), past the burnt halftrack… And then – BOOM! Sausage meat! It was everywhere. ****ing Mendoza stepped on a mine that was planted behind the halftrack, taking two men with him. Goddamn him!
The squad leader was now alone with one of his BAR men (not Johnson). The sniper, being in a cover not even 15 meters away, had a pretty clear picture of them two. He rested his G43 on a picket fence and took aim at the poor fella with a Browning automatic rifle.
“Like hunting on the countryside...”
The squad leader saw the muzzle flash. He knew exactly where the sniper was hiding. Yet, no order from the high command came.
The sniper ran from his cover and took a refuge behind a pile of destroyed crates. He had the lone US officer in his sights. All he needed to do was to pull the trigger. To do so, however, an order was required as he was expressly told not to shoot on his own some five minutes before. Yet, no order from the high command came.
To shine some light into this rather strange situation - unbeknownst to both soldiers (who will be hereafter referred to as Hans and Joe), both their high commands were made unavailable by their superiors almost simultaneously. The German Hauptmann had the unfortunate pleasure of having a family meeting; and everyone knows that you really have to be present on those. Even when the war cannot be paused. The American Lieutenant Colonel, having much less interesting (but nevertheless unavoidable) obstacle, was only reminded of his obligation to wash the dishes, which he forgot to do before his regiment got stuck in this pointless skirmish.
Joe was staring at the pile of crates. He was there! He knew it. He had the munitions, he could just lob a grenade there. And the Kraut ****er would be gone instantly.
Hans, hiding behind the crates, thought the same. One shot and the guy would be dead for sure. Hell, surely a squadwipe. Alas, the order never came.
And the time dragged on and on. So much time passed that the Germans would had been able to build two Panthers and still have enough resources to train their weapon teams properly. The Americans would had been able to call six artillery strikes and still issue Thompsons to all their Rangers. In other words, nothing was happening for a really, really long time. Like, I mean, a really long time.
„Well, this is rather awkward,“ shouted Joe towards the crates.
„Ja!“ replied the crates. „Quite embarrassing.“
„...don’t you want to come over? We can have, you know, a talk. Maybe a beer or something,“ continued Joe.
„Would love to,“ Hans said. „But I can’t. I need to stay in here. But we can talk! I can hear you just fine from here.“
„So…uhm…how do you feel about the war?“
„Oh, well. You know how things are. The command gives you order for every ****ing centimeter of your path, but forgets to bring in a Pak more often than not. I am running around like a wet hen. Who would like it? I could have been a Luftwaffe ace, you know? Instead, I am running around. What a ****ing wanker!“
„Oh, you tell me! Our guy is an absolute tosspot too. Like, me and my squad was being fired at by two Panzers not even fifteen minutes ago. I mean, they were pounding us to hell, man! And guess what! Instead of Wolverines, the retard called in a Crocodile.“
A burst of laugh was heard from behind the crates. „A Crocodile?“
„Yeah, what an idiot.“
„They are all imbeciles. Ours also.“
„Dickheads.“
„Arschgesichts!“
„Bastards!“
„Scheisskopfs!“
„****ing retards!“
„Flachwichsers!“
„It was nice meeting you.“
„You too, mein freund.“
