Jam

The most I can hope for is to die in a pose that confuses future archaeologists.

This was how I would die. Strangled by an attractive, seminaked woman inside a fridge with a giant tarantula in the middle of a sea of carnivorous jam. As I blacked out, all I could think of was a fortune teller I'd spoken to a few years ago, and how full of shit she'd turned out to be.

It could have been a thief or a murderer. I considered crying out. A thief would run away, but a murderer would murder me. On the other hand, the murderer would probably murder me if I didn't too. That was his whole thing.

I could think of no better place to secretly murder someone than inside a fridge. Well, actually there were probably several better ones, but none came to mind at the time.

Last night we were noting, a freelance musician and an unemployed. But you know what we are now? ... Both unemployed?

I woke up one morning to find that the entire city had been covered in a three-foot layer of man-eating jam.

Do you think you people will get it on the six or seventh hundredth time? We’re being ironically evil.” “But he’s actually dead!” pressed Tim. “Ugh,” the priest waved a hand dismissively. “I wouldn’t expect your generation to understand sophisticated humor. Now, if no one has any other business to raise . . .

The man in the headdress nodded. “On that note, I’d like to quickly ask David if there’s been any headway in getting the air conditioning back online.” A slight murmur of discontent indicated the importance of this matter, directed at a blond young man with a tanning-bed complexion. “Well, Gary,” he sighed. “There isn’t much we can do without electricity, but my team has been researching alternatives. One of my engineers proposed a system of fans powered by dogs in giant hamster wheels, but the major issue there is our limited dog inventory. We’ll keep looking into it.

And I hate to be a stickler for the rules but the Hibatsu Survival Settlement Charter clearly states that any individual who cannot reimburse the company in liquid assets must make it up with voluntary existence suspension.

Nothing says ‘I come in peace’ like a good incendiary device

There was an Iron Man–shaped ache in my face.

The geek shall inherit the earth.

He hastily pulled off his dressing gown—revealing austere black boxer shorts and a threadbare T-shirt for something called Mogworld—and began twirling it frantically around his head.

fifty-story skyscrapers stood side by side with older ten-story buildings like fathers and sons at the urinal together.

The jam had filled the courtyard and foyer and pushed the water out of the swimming pool. Where it touched the walls, little tendrils snaked their way upwards like searching fingers. There was an overpowering stench of strawberries.