DAILY MONSTER 63
Good morning! Would you look at that? Another week has come and gone. Where did this one go? Sheesh! I hope it was a good one for you, and that the weekend will bring you some high quality relaxation. Why not ease the transition from work to leisure by reading yesterday’s monster stories?
Monster 63 is stuck in tubular hell. Or is it a hermit crab monster? A lobster-snake with a fancy lobster-snake turtleneck? And what’s up with that? Is it a hypno-sweater? An indicator or gauge of some sort? Is 63 a wriggly sound engineer? The mystery is just too much for me. Will you please shed light on this creature? Please don’t keep us in suspense. Please…
Thank you for visiting the monsters this week. I hope you’ll have time
to check out the Saturday and Sunday monsters, too.
Until then, you know it ain’t no lie: 344 LOVES YOU
The most exciting fashion statement this season comes from icy Europa (that’s Jupiter for you, groundhogs). Following the growing trend of matching clothing with weather, designer Stefan created “Merry Sexatri”, a line of body gloves for Sexatri worms (the native Europeans) based on his “Merry Sox” collection in Earth. Made with a nano-fiber capable of keeping the heat out, which means no more warm summers for worms.
–extracted from Vogue Galaxy Edition
Monster 63 is not any normal monster. Monster 63 is also Inspector #128! Yes, the Prodigy that is inspector #128, the most revered and sought after sock and stocking inspector in the entire town! He’s virtually a celebrity. He can diagnose a bad sock or stocking from 100 yards. This gift, this blessing to all monster kind is not the only thing he can and does brag abou, though. He also has a championship winning mustache that he uses to spin plates with. Ah, Monster #62 (or 190, as his friends might call him), your exploits and talents will be sung of for days after your gone!
Aaaaaugh! It’s the tapeworm that’s been living in my GI tract! Cute lil’ bugger – stop eating my nutritious and delicious food!
(no really though…I have been unusually hungry for days on end; no sooner do I fill up my gut…two hours later I am famished! A growth spurt coming on maybe? Upwards not out? Too much information?)
Love the monster.
And the stories already today – great stuff! Nice way to start off my day. Thanks everyone.
This monster started life as an ordinary pipe in the kicthen of a small house in the suburbs. However, one day, the owners found that it had become clogged with the accumalated grime of many years hard dish-washing. Seeking a solution to their problem, they mixed up their own drain-de-clogging product. They made it from anything they could find-vinegar, shampoo, beer and so forth.
When they thought the ghastly mixture to finally be ready, they hesitantly poured it down the drain. There was a small ‘poof!’, and they peered down the draim. And thus they found to their dismay that the dreadful misture of bathroom-by products, combined with the sheer volum of clog, had given the blockage the gift of life.
Largely stunned, they removed the pipe from below the sink, but before they could kill it, it wriggled straight out of its former owner’s hands, and with its new found sentience it shot off across the garden and down into the sewers.
‘Grimey’ now lives in a large u-bend in the sewers of New York, and enjoys feasting on passing crocodiles.
For Wally it was a sad day.
For everyone else at Nelson’s Academic and Scientific Supply it was a
day of celebration. Everyone was busy getting ready for the big party
that afternoon. Decorations were hung in the employee break room. A
potluck had been arranged by Mr. Nelson’s administrative assistant and
was set up in the company auditorium. Wally was sure they had ordered a
cake. He hated cake, he was more of a pie guy, but no one had bothered
to ask him.
Co-workers came up to Wally all morning saying things like, “Hey, Wally,
way to go,” or “Congratulations, Wally, I’m sure you’ll have a great
time,” or “Wally, you lucky guy. I’ve got years to go.” They all smiled
and wiggled in his direction. Those with arms patted him on the back, or
where they approximated his back was. Wally tried to avoid these people,
but eventually someone or another would track him down, congratulate him, ask
him about “the old days”, or what his plans were for the future.
Ah, the future. That was the problem. Wally didn’t know what he was
going to do next year, next week, or even tomorrow. For after 42 years
as the “Official Inch Worm” at Nelson’s Academic and Scientific Supply
Wally was retiring.
Actually he didn’t want to do it, but his position was being eliminated.
Technology had finally won out. He was being replaced by lasers and
computers and plasma screen displays. “I’m sorry, Wally,” Mr. Nelson had
told him, “but this company has to keep up with the times. We have to
change, or we risk the entire company.” Wally could see Mr. Nelson
wasn’t happy about it. But he was right. Inch worms, and the measuring
they did, were a thing of the past. Machines could measure faster than
Wally, but not more accurate. He drew the line there.
Wally climbed up onto his chair in his office and closed his eyes. What
would tomorrow be like, he wondered.
A song came over the company loudspeakers. It was Wally’s favorite song.
In fact, Wally had been the inspiration for it. The songwriter had heard
about Wally’s work and came to the factory. He had spent two days
watching Wally measure and calibrate many of the scientific instruments
made there. Later he had sent Wally a copy of the recording. Wally was
very proud when it reached Number One on the local charts.
He hummed along with the melody. He listened to the lyrics. The words
seem to find a new place within him, a place he hadn’t had time for
before. Maybe, just maybe, it will all work out.
He wiggled down off of his chair. Everyone would be waiting for the
guest of honor to arrive.
As Wally headed to the auditorium he sang the words quietly to himself.
He would have smiled, if he had a mouth.
Measuring the marigolds
Seems to me you’d stop and see
How beautiful they are”
I lived in the apartment where this monster was born.
This was in Chicago and, like many apartments in that gray and gritty city, my place was heated with radiators. This particular radiator sat beneath the window, and its heat control knob was stuck, so it chuffed out sweaty heat all the time. I had to regulate the temperature by opening the window. Most days, even in winter, I had the window open.
This monster first appeared on a New Year’s Day, after a tremendous Eve I had enjoyed with friends, wine, margaritas, champagne, whiskey shots, and copious amounts of beer. I have no clear recollection of how I got home to my steamy apartment, but I do recall waking very early that New Year’s Day and being thoroughly convinced that I Was About To Die.
I raised my head, which I was sure had just begun its journey down that fateful final tunnel. Bleary-eyed, I beheld the monster that lived in my radiator, the creature responsible for clogging the works and keeping my heat from ever shutting itself off. Such was my condition that I was not even surprised to behold a monster in the flesh, in my very living room.
Now that I see it rendered again before me, I nod with recollection. Yes, I know that monster.
Three days had passed since Barton was callously tossed into what he could only consider to be some make-shift prison cell. Plucked effortlessly from his world to be wantonly thrown into a new, hellish life. What crime had he committed? What justice was this that would take an innocent nemertean and mercilessly imprison it. Several others shared Barton’s fate. Maybe a few dozen were trapped in the same moist, dirty, dark tomb. When he first arrived, several wouldn’t even talk to him, either out of fear or self-loathing. From time to time, the bright light of the outside would flood the chamber and blind all inside. It was short lived, so adjusting to the light was an impossibility. Another hostage. The same silent treatment would befall whatever newcomer arrived.
The torturous, enigmatic ritual continued for several more days. Bright light. More detainees. Barton’s stylish sweater was becoming more and more tattered. Unable to produce the seemingly hypnotic marquee effect it once had, though without the light, its beauty was invisible to those present. A few had already given up all hope and began fasting to speed their demise. Barton held strong, however, never giving in to the darkness surrounding him. He exercised every day. Talked to all who would listen to keep his mind sharp. Moved the dirt around to form unseen art to focus his senses. He had decided that the next time the chamber was opened, he would make a hearty attempt to escape. He didn’t need to see the exit to know where it would be, given the light pouring through.
And that day came. Many were sleeping, others were simply lifeless with somnolence. Not Barton. He wriggled and stretched towards the dazzling light. He would be free, no matter the cost. And he was freed.
“Woo-wee! Lookit that lil feller. Got some life in ‘im, that’n.”
“Dang! None t’others even movin’. Might haveta throw ’em out affer this.”
Barton’s body squirmed between fat fingers high above the tin can. His panic was disregarded as the hook was raised to his side. Horror struck him just as the point pierced his side and through his frail body. The pain made him thrash about which seemed to delight his captures more. His last moments existed under the surface of the lake, thinking about the countless other prisoners being poured out to freedom for their lack of liveliness.
This guy is one of the greatest unsolved X-files that never aired. The deadly Ringed Sock Worm of Bangor, Maine has terrorized the state for over two centuries.
Characterized by a unipodal body, thick stringy facial antennae, full protective body sock and large peepers, it’s fairly easy to pick out of a crowd.
Only attacking in the dead of night, the Ringed Sock Worm seduces its prey with hypnotic circular patterns created in its outer skin.
Once the victim is under its spell, the Sock Worm hugs its victim to death in a cozy strangle hold. Dinner is served.
To date, about 137 deaths have been confirmed, but 204 additional victims are currently unidentified. The Bangor police department is working hard to keep this creature at bay.
Merflin revved her engine and prepared to take 1st in the Worm Race 2095
Nice, Bill B.
Ein wenig beengend ist sie schon, seine neue Behausung. Wendelin der Einsiedlerkrebs hat den blockgestreiften, edlen Schrumpfschlauch von Wurm Wolfgang, der als Tontechniker bei einem staatlichen Radiosender arbeitet, als Hochzeitsgeschenk bekommen. Die sogar für die Kabelstränge zu starke Schrumpfung ist für einen Einsiedler, der sich mit dem Gedanken trägt, bald einmal ein Zweisiedler zu sein, schon eine arge Zumutung. Aber was soll’s einem geschenkten Gaul schaut man bekanntlich nicht ins Maul. Und ins Maul gibt es ab sofort auch nichts mehr. Null Diät bis der Schrumpfschlauch schön locker sitzt. Aber auch mit Diät, merkt Wendelin bald, zwei werden da nie reinpassen, auch keine Magersüchtigen. Und überhaupt, aus einem Einsiedlerkrebs wird eh nie ein Zweisiedlerkrebs.