LITTLE HITLERS

I took a job selling little Hitlers on the street. They were two inches tall and perfectly articulated. I had a good corner outside a Starbucks, and I would let the Hitlers wander around the table and wait for customers. Most people just stopped to gawk or listen to them orate in their weird squeaky voices. People always asked what they were saying. I told them, I don’t know, I don’t speak German. But the truth is, I do. My parents are from Frankfurt. But I have kids to feed, and I knew that a translation would blow the sale.

JOURNEY INTO MYSTERY

Imagine the bathroom at Comicon, after three days of servicing doughy, frantic men wearing latex costumes and fed nothing but pizza and chicken fingers and burritos. Inside I found a Ghostbuster and a fat Wolverine leaning against a stall door, listening to their friend who sat inside. Eight more seconds, said the Ghostbuster, and I win. Wolverine cracked his knuckles and chided, Pride before the fall, bub. For some reason I asked them, What are you guys doing? They sized me up. Winning a bet, the Ghostbuster sneered. From inside the stall a voice called out, No, you’re not.

ONE FOR THE ROAD

I cleared the snow off my car, and inside I discovered a body. He didn’t look like he was sleeping, he looked dead. It’s hard to explain the difference. The police and the paramedics came and loaded him into an ambulance. A policeman told me, Sometimes they break into cars for shelter overnight. Looks like he froze to death. Make sure to always lock your doors. I said I would, then, I think he took the change out of my ashtray. I need that money for tolls. The policeman blinked. I blinked. Somehow, he knew I was lying.

EGO

Scientists discovered an alternate universe where everything was the same, with one difference: in 1966, Burt Ward did not win the role of Robin in Batman. Instead, the part went to Charles Manson, in this world an actor, not a messianic murderer. Upon hearing the news, Burt Ward was furious. Manson’s too old to play Robin, he said. He would have been thirty-two in 1966! Robin is supposed to be youthful! Ward’s grandchildren shook their heads. Granddad, they said, Relax. You’re still the Robin of this world. Ward cried, That’s not enough! I should be Robin enough for the Universe!

BOARD OF DIRECTORS

Miles hired a board of directors. He wanted their help—what to wear, where to shop, what to eat—thought they might help him get a girlfriend. They sat at a long wooden table that he moved into his apartment and voted all day long. One week in, during a budget meeting, he realized that his CFO was familiar, was in fact James Toblowsky, who he’d known, vaguely, in High School. James, he said, don’t you remember me? James cleaned his glasses with his necktie. Miles, he said, Nostalgia is counterproductive. Miles nodded. He knew he was in good hands.

BOARD OF DIRECTORS

Miles hired a board of directors. He wanted their help—what to wear, where to shop, what to eat—thought they might help him get a girlfriend. They sat at a long wooden table that he moved into his apartment and voted all day long. One week in, during a budget meeting, he realized that his CFO was familiar, was in fact James Toblowsky, who he’d known, vaguely, in High School. James, he said, don’t you remember me? James cleaned his glasses with his necktie. Miles, he said, Nostalgia is counterproductive. Miles nodded. He knew he was in good hands.

WHATEVER HAPPENED TO DB COOPER?

He ended up in Berkley, where he used the money to fund a production of Hamlet with an all-dog cast. They wandered the stage and literally chewed the scenery. Voice actors stood behind the curtains and read the dialogue into microphones, and the dogs were fitted with electrodes, so they’d jump a little when it was their line. That was to make it easier on the audience. When the run ended, he released the dogs in a supermarket parking lot at night. He’d used all the money he’d stolen, he didn’t know what to do next. Neither did the dogs.