QB
Staff of QB
Law and Order: Violent Mimes Unit
BEN DAGGERS
The last thing Laurent Laureaux remembered from the annual Mime Association Gala was a chalky taste in his virgin piña colada. He awoke from the blackout in full costume and makeup with a pounding headache, a sweat-soaked pillow, and a dead stripper in his hotel room.
Now, an hour later, a homicide detective towered above him in the interrogation room.
“You killed her, didn’t you?”
Laurent shook his head.
“Not much of a talker, eh?” The cop glared at the outline of a teardrop on Laurent’s cheek. “And that sob story isn’t fooling anyone, sicko. Tell me what happened.”
Pierre Petit was behind this, no doubt. Laurent would’ve gladly grassed up his jealous mime nemesis, but artistic integrity wouldn’t allow him to make so much as a peep. Trapped, Laurent instinctively pushed his palms against the side of the invisible box.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” The detective cracked his knuckles on the desk. “Are you saying you were trying to cop a feel?”
Laurent leaned against an imaginary pillar while he considered his next move. This Philistine was clearly ignorant of the subtleties of the Decroux school of miming. Laurent descended a non-existent staircase as he prepared to stoop to a more literal level.
The policeman pounced on him. “Trying to make a run for it, are we? This looks like an open and shut case. You’re under arrest for murder.”
The cop paused for dramatic effect. “You have the right to remain silent.”
Elaine.
SOPHIA JANE HAYDEN
Fifty-three-year-old Elaine decided she was done
with dating. Doug’s online profile stated he was a
psychoneuroimmunologist. As they walked to the
restaurant, he said he was intrigued by the Maple
tree’s marcescence. As they dined, he explained
he recently had laryngotracheobronchitis and was
reading a book about the deinstitutionalizing of 18th
century counterrevolutionaries. He expressed a
dislike of felines because they were Zuigerphobics.
Before dessert, Elaine realized she suffered from
hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia—-
(a fear of big words,) and had to leave the cafe.
Red thumb
MEGAN DIEDERICKS
I can grow grass in the middle of a drought and, as my father liked to joke, sell said grass to people with allergic rhinitis (which was just a fancy way to say ‘hay fever’.)
It started when I was ten; it was an accidental discovery. Inside a pot she had me and my younger brother decorate with sloppy strokes of stiff paintbrushes, my mother planted white roses she bought from the local nursery.
My parents struggled with our lawn that year, but at least the roses made the drab, dusty brown terrain look less like a graveyard—or perhaps more like one (I suppose that is a matter of perspective.)
I was outside one day, buzzing with bees and literally stopping to smell the roses, when a thorn pricked me. My blood fell like a raindrop into the dirt, and naturally—being an over-dramatic child—I ran to my mother, sobbing.
The following day there was a patch of the thickest, greenest grass you could ever imagine. I do not suppose I need to spell out the reason.
I am an adult now, and I have moved into my parents’ old place. I forgot how it was. I forgot how I hung up missing posters for our dog as a teenager, knowing very well where I had bled old Spot dry. The garden keeps demanding more. My brother is visiting tomorrow, and I doubt he will see the likes of his own backyard again.
Your body a garden
LENA NG
The gardeners opened his torso and emptied it of organs. In its centre, they planted tulip bulbs. On his skull, green chia grass grew. His mouth spilled vines like vegetative tentacles. Where his eyes were, daisies sprouted. His legs grew roots and insects squirmed over the skin. Worms crawled in moist ear canals. Friends came for afternoon tea and to admire the blossoming garden.
Tax write-offs for a goblin bounty hunter
EMMIE CHRISTIE
Date: 3/Dying Dusk/10,490
Amount Billed: 130 hexes
Description: Trench coat with flame decals
Category: Intimidation
Date: 18/Dying Dusk/10,490
Amount Billed: 16.4 hexes
Description: squeal-meal box
Category: Business lunch
Date: 9/Dead of Midnight/10,490
Amount Billed: 60.9 hexes
Description: Trench coat alterations, shortened hem by 3 feet
Category: Intimidation
Date: 5/Graven Dawn/10,490
Amount Billed: 4.1 hexes
Description: Cream for ego-burn from 8th grade elves
Category: Miscellaneous
Date: 11/Graven Dawn/10,490
Amount Billed: 3.1 hexes
Description: Drought of motivation to care about anything
Category: Business Supplies
Date: 14/Mist and Misery/10,490
Amount Billed: 30.2 hexes
Description: Fake Scythe
Category: Intimidation
Date: 9/Three Suns' Hot/10,490
Amount Billed: 108 hexes
Description: Paralyzing blow darts
Category: Business Supplies
Date: 17/Three Suns' Hot/10,490
Amount Billed: 30 hexes
Description: Full body ego-burn care
Category: Miscellaneous
Date: 17/Three Suns' Hot/10,490
Amount Billed: 208 hexes
Description: Application to leave region
Category: Management fees
Don't mind her
NICHOLAS DE MARINO
<<Hey!>>
This won't be like the last job. You're going to make a difference.
<<I know you can hear me!>>
And money. You need to make money.
<<You can't ignore me forever!>>
There's no helping her. She's long gone.
BBRRRING-BBRRRING!
Thank Allah-Buddha-Christ.
“9-1-1, what's the address of the emergency?”
That might've been too chipper.
“Uh, yeah, well,” the caller stammers, “my dog got loose.”
“Sir, this is an emergency line. You — <<He sounds cute! Get his number!>> — Animal control.”
“Well, thing is,” the caller stutters. “She's kinda aggro.”
“You think she's a danger to the community?”
“Yeah,” the caller says. “She's a pit bull.”
<<A pit bull!>>
Concentrate.
“Sir, where did the dog get loose?”
<<Like Michael Vick!>>
Deep breath. Hold it. Release.
“500 block — <<It's a dog fighting ring!>> — Street,” the caller says. “Up by Green.”
“You said the 500 block of Green Street?”
<<Send the SWAT team!>>
“No, Birch Street, by Green Street,” the caller says. “Look, I don't —”
Stick to the script.
“Sir — <<Let's get this fucker!>> — I, um, what's your name?”
CLICK.
<<What a jerk!>>
Enough.
“Look, if you shut up at work, you can talk as much as you want at home.”
“Who are you talking to?” asks the dispatcher at the next desk.
“Myself.”
<<Hey, he's kinda cute!>>
Why's it so hard to make a living?
Hose-hand twins
CHRISTY HARTMAN
Sandy shuffled to his parents’ trashcan after work, releasing the day’s sawdust collection from his hose-hand.
“Hey Suck-O-Matic 3000! Finished cleaning Home Depot’s bathrooms?” his twin, Ash, taunted from the stove, filling the pasta pot with his hose-hand.
Sandy dreaded family dinners, his parents beaming over Ash’s talents. As a child, he’d doused the neighbourhood kids on hot days, while Sandy vacuumed the stairs. Ash was destined for firefighting greatness, extinguishing blazes with his 300-psi arm.
Dad popped a meatball into his mouth mid-snicker, tickled by Ash’s taunts. Dustbin Bieber, Lightning McClean, Meryl Sweep—each drawing a bigger laugh.
Dad flailed, eyes bulging. Ash prattled on about puppies and old ladies, oblivious to the distress. Sandy deftly placed his suction-cuff over his dad’s mouth—activating the highest setting. The meatball dislodged, dad gulped air, grateful.
Sandy slapped his dad’s back. “I guess it’s better to suck than be a blow hard.”
Table Talk
MIKE MURPHY
I was sitting at Nicole’s kitchen table when I heard the first of the voices. Male. Definitely not her. “Fuck you!” it said angrily. My old ears perked up. Before my good friend returned to the table with the kettle, two other guys uttered “Screw you” and “Up yours.” I glanced out the open window, expecting to see some foul-mouthed gents passing by.
No one.
Nicole must have noticed my surprise. She spoke as she poured the boiling water into my teacup. “Sorry, Helen,” she began, gesturing at the full sink behind her. “It’s the dishes,” she explained. “They’re dirty.”