Wild-Ass Recipe

This week’s language prompt at Mutant 750 is alliteration: when a number of words with the same beginning consonant sound occur consecutively, or close together, in a series (e.g., The wicked witch went wild with whimsy.) The visual prompt is the video below; Natalie Merchant’s Carnival.


Birds were chirping, bees were buzzing and flowers blooming. In other words, it was a typical summer afternoon in Normal, IL—(oxymoronic) home of the Wild-Ass Limbourg brothers, Sebastian and Françoise. One would expect that such a gorgeous day would have goosed the boys’ imaginations beyond all limitation, but they were having none of it. Instead, Sebo and Frankie preferred to remain holed-up in their shared bedroom, moping.

“I miss Pendragon.” Sebo sighed, flinging his ParasiteMan comic book across the room. “It’s freakin’ boring around here without him.”

“I hear ya barkin,’ big dog,” Frankie said. “That little dude was one of a kind…literally.”

Sebo grinned. “Yeah, he sure was.” He picked up Pendragon’s old stuffed tarantula and began tossing it gently in the air and catching it. “Wonder how he’s doing at that stupid circus.”

“We can only hope he’s happy.” Frankie shrugged. “Hey, why don’t you ask Gram to send you another Homunculus Hero kit? It wouldn’t be the same as Pendragon, but we could…”

“Naah,” Sebo interrupted. “I already asked her. They’ve been banned.”

Banned? You’re kidding me!”

“Nope! Sucks, doesn’t it?”

“But, why?

“I’m not for sure, but I think because of the de Berry twins.” Sebo explained. “They didn’t follow the directions.”

“Sounds about right for Razz & Dingle. So, what’d they do?”

“Injected a synthesis of Hello Kitty! an’ Stretch Armstrong DNA. Ended up with a muscle-bound homunculus that coughed-up three-foot-long, radioactive hairballs.

“No shit? Did Hazmat come?”

“Hell yeah, they came.”

“Man, I miss everything!”

“Take those earbuds out once in awhile, Dude.”


“Dude, c’mere!” Frankie hollered from the computer room. “You’re not gonna believe this!”

Sebo slowly sauntered in, slurping a strawberry smoothie. “What’s up?”

“Lookit! I found this Theophrastus Paracelsus guy who knows how to make a homunculus from scratch!

“Nuh-uhhh…” The Doubting Sebo replied. “Lemme see that.”

“It gives you the whole recipe!” Frankie scooted a cheek to make room for his brother.

Sebo’s lips moved silently as he read Paracelsus’ instructions. “Aw, man. This can’t be right.”

“Whoa. What the…?”


“Is this guy serious?”

“Wanna try it?” Sebo asked with a wild grin.

To be continued…

In Pursuit



This week’s language prompt at Mutant 750 is the idiom, leave no stone unturned. The visual prompt is the image above.

Dagmar Bezymyanka was a woman on a mission. She would flush-out true love from its hiding place.

She’d exhausted the traditional methods: blind dates, fix-ups, singles’ bars, even hanging out in the produce section of the Jewel-Osco on Sunday mornings in hopes of snagging Mr. Right. No luck. Men in Chicago were more sophisticated than the dim bulbs back home in Lower Slobovia. These Rico Suave brainiacs already knew how to select a ripe cantaloupe and didn’t need her to explain the difference between jicamas and turnips.

As the years passed and technology progressed, Dagmar joined online dating sites such as e-Harmonica, Bag-A-Bubba, and HookMeUp. When those failed her she tried speed dating, which only served to befuddle the poor woman—who was clearly not the sharpest knife in the drawer.

Disappointment, be damned! Dagmar resolved to leave no stone unturned in her quest for her elusive love. Hell, at this point, she would’ve gladly settled for Mr. Close Enough, Mr. Mediocre, or even Mr. Long Shot.

As desperation  set-in,Dagmar logged-on to LoveAPrisoner.com.

She knew she was taking a chance and that things could go terribly wrong.

But what if they didn’t? What if… things went terribly right?

Her Papa used to say, “No guts, no glory;” and with that, she signed-up for the VIP membership and began perusing inmates’ profiles.

She wrote to roughly 55 men. Some replied; some didn’t, but no matter; each new day brought with it new possibilities.

The mail carrier became her best friend.

Soon, much sooner than Dagmar expected, it happened. A letter arrived that swept her off her flat feet.

Its sender’s name was Stanley Marek, a swarthy man with a reckless grin and thick, black hair. What really did it for Dagmar was Stanley’s searing, coffee-brown eyes—eyes that could stop a clock at midnight. She wondered how it might feel if those eyes looked at her.

Stanley, in turn, claimed Dagmar as the woman of his dreams: Rubenesque (she had to consult the dictionary), captivatingly handsome, and all woman.

His making reference to her femininity and sexuality caused Dagmar’s stomach to flip. As far as she knew, no one had ever regarded her in such a way.

It turned out that Stanley was doing life without parole for the murder of his wife, whom he’d stabbed 27 times in the face and neck with a salad fork.

Stanley hates Bleu Cheese—Dagmar made a mental note.

She was taken aback at the gruesomeness of the crime, and even more so at the insane reasoning behind it.  Stanley however, convinced her that he’d since found the Lord, repented, and thus, was worthy of a good woman’s love.

An atheist since birth, Dagmar was tempted to inquire as to where he’d ‘found’ this Lord, and why He’d been hiding in the first place. But, who was she to poke fun at a repentant murderer’s belief system? Dagmar kept quiet.

A flurry letters were exchanged, and then came the phone calls. Dagmar found his voice to be as smooth and velvety as warm scotch. It wasn’t long before they just had to meet, and arrangements were made for her to visit the Joliet Correctional Center.

The agreed-upon date was three Saturdays away. Dagmar would be able visit “Her Stanley” for 15 minutes with nothing between them but a window of bulletproof Plexiglas.

Finally, the big day came and Dagmar was on her way to Joliet. It was an hour’s drive and she was worried. What if the humidity frizzed her Brazilian blowout, sweated-off her make-up, or turned her brand new lettuce-green (Stanley’s favorite color) dress into a rumpled rag?

Fortunately, none of the above befell Dagmar, and she was ushered in to the visitor’s area amid a cacophony of wailing chatter. The air was stale and thick with body heat.

Dagmar felt a twinge of panic, but then a guard led her to a booth and chair opposite Stanley. He looked exactly like his picture. Even through filthy Plexiglas, his penetrating gaze felt just as she imagined (feared) it would, leaving her weak and pliable as Silly Putty.

Stanley picked up the receiver and Dagmar picked up hers.

“You’re here.” His lips relaxed into a jagged grin, his eyes glowing in amused curiosity. “Dagmar.”

“Stanley, I…”

“Have you any idea how long it’s been since anyone’s called me by my name?”

Dagmar’s eyes welled-up. “Thank you for liking me.”