Harry stood on the ledge. He dared to ask the winds of Destiny for advice. They acted forcefully and effectively. No more Harry on the ledge.
This time the Martians did their research, got the jabs, took the pills. The Earth fell to their onslaught in three short weeks.
Slowly the would-be lovers leaned in. Contact brought sparks. She jerked back, hurt. “Sorry,” he said, removing the crushed cigarette butt.
He grew weary of the constant wars, the killing, the screams of the dying filling his ears. He finally had to delete his Warcraft account.
“Butler,” I said. “Do my taxes.” I gave him the info. Now the IRS took my house and car. It’s because the butler didn’t do it.
Hot damn! A mail-order bride! Harris placed his order. She arrived a fortnight later, but it didn’t work out. They’d forgotten air-holes.