Tough It

"Look, Mister 'Smith,' we can do this easy, or we can do this hard," Sergeant Moffitt growled, leaning in.

"You'll be sorry," the thin man tittered, "when the Spider arrives. He knows. He's coming."

Moffitt sat down heavily. "Buddy, I'm offering you a deal, but it won't last forever. Now are you gonna play ball?"

The perp didn't answer. Just stared up at the ceiling, giggling. Moffitt scooped up his diet-allotted container of cottage cheese. Not staring at the ceiling, he realized, as he swallowed the bland foodstuff. Something closer. Something right over Moffitt's head. Moffitt turned, craning his neck...

Four and Twenty

The Pieman blinked his eyes, rheumy cherries in a flaky crust. Hot red juice dripped down his foil tin as he grinned welcome at his supplicant. His mouth was a crimson gash. He was fresh from the oven.

"Speak," he said, his voice the high-pitched piping of steam forced through a crack. "We are listening."

"Please, sir," said the groveling peasant. "The money... I've been working the mulberry bush, sir, but..."

"We can," the Pieman interrupted, "perhaps make alternate arrangements. Money is not necessary. We will also accept... thumbs."

With a Carving Knife

It was a punishment. Retribution. The three mice, you see, had transgressed. They had sinned. And as sinners they deserved the severance of a part of themselves. A sacrifice.

Blind? Yes, they were. It's the title of the song. Your point?

You're not following, I see. What simpleton could be so deluded as to intend defiance of the Divine? No, they were sinful in themselves, as part of their very nature. That is the secret.

Well, there's metaphorical and then there's metaphorical, if you see my point. Now hold still, or this will hurt far more than it already would.