I have a really good prize for this week's writing contest: THE GHOSTS OF BELFAST and! and!! and!!! COLLUSION by Stuart Neville.
These books are on my sox knocker list. Stuart Neville is as talented a writer as any reader can hope for, and he's published by my beloved Soho Press.
So, here's the contest: Write a story, using 100 or fewer words. Post in the comment column of this blog post. Contest closes at midnight Saturday (ie 36 hours from the date stamp of this post)
Use these words in your story AND receive bonus points if you correctly identify the theme of the word list:
Bacon
Resistance
Simpson
Fenske
Reed
64 comments:
Dr. Jack Simpson exploded into the board room meeting, cradling the flask. "I've done it!" he shrieked. "I've developed a resistance... to BACON!"
Counsel Clarissa Fenske drummed her fingers on the polished reed conference table. "You fool. You're too late. The Bacolax has already shipped."
CEO Laurent Yves laced his fingers together. "Soon, the world will be sizzling and crispy in our pans."
Janet
Love your blog.
Here is a 99-word stab at the contest. I think you will see from the text that I have identified the source (but taken some poetic liberties with it).
***
”I have to close the shop now,” blind old Mrs Reed said.
Eight-year old Allison Simpson sighed and turned to her friend Jennifer Fenske. It was the end of the National 4-H Week and their window display at the Walker Flower Shop was as wilted as her spirits.
For every customer who mentioned the display, their club would have received 15% of the bacon the customer generated. But no one at all had come into the shop all week. Even Mrs. Reed could not explain the resistance.
The girls shrugged and started removing the dead kittens from the window.
***
Best regards
Carl
My name is Simpson. Some would call me the leader of the Bacon Resistance. I'm not sure why the name stuck, but it did.
It's all Fenske's fault. We were supposed to have a one-on-one at IHOP, but he had to go and invite Reed as well. I've never liked Reed. He's got that squinty pinched face look and always wears glasses that don't fit well. It would fit if he could be classified as a geek or nerd, but he's a damn auto mechanic.
It was the breakfast that started it all. And I ordered bacon.
Simpson hated dark-alley stakeouts, especially on a hot Friday night. It was all she could do not to sweat through her Kevlar. Plus, she was tired. This crumbling brick wall provided little resistance at her back.
She checked her Glock and her options. To her right was the last sliver of daylight; to her left, the back door of Fenske’s Diner. The smell of bacon was doing something to her reed-thin body that was illegal in six southern states.
Suddenly, the grease-streaked door opened. Simpson flattened her body against the wall.
“Janet?” The voice was low and sexy. “It’s Reacher.”
I don't know about the rest of those words, but "bacon" and "Simpson" immediately make me think of wonderful, magical animals. (See reference here.)
“Simpson, your resistance to bacon is remarkable,” Fenske said, smiling and cleaning his oboe reed at the Knoxville orchestra’s annual fundraising breakfast. Simpson grimaced as he watched Fenske snap off a fresh piece between his front teeth. He studied the newspaper spread before him on the picnic table, open to the help wanted section. Fenske greasily burbled on about the flaws in the 5th movement of Mahler’s 10th symphony, but all Simpson could heard were his doctor’s words from yesterday: “coronary disease,” and “no strenuous breathing.” Simpson softly closed his trumpet case, laid it on the table, and walked home.
“Fenske!”
It was a new word, but I understood from context that she was pissed off. The Resistance had failed. Eighteen months of planning. Twelve arrests. Four deaths.
The wounded were at Walter Reed, which didn’t even take good care of its own soldiers. Dissidents would be lucky to get out alive.
“Falut al kamin Simpson ojoro?”
I tapped my ear and shook my head. The translator had been fried by the electro-magnetic pulse, but I knew what she was asking. He was among the dead. We, the Francis Bacon Society, had finally been defeated by the Shakespeare Loyalists.
Doug lumbered in. “Time for Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon!”
Like any Star Trek captain encountering the Borg, Barry realized, ‘Resistance is futile.’
“Jessica Simpson,” Doug spewed while plopping down on the old couch salvaged from the neighbor’s trash.
“Lame,” groaned Barry.
“But hot!”
“Simpson was in Major Movie Star with Gary Grubbs who was in JFK with Kevin.” Doug seemed oblivious to the disdain in his roommate’s voice.
“Your turn!”
Why was Barry stuck with boorish Doug and not at Princeton discussing the Fenske equation with his intellectual peers? Oh, right. He killed them.
Resistance was futile.
“Robert Reed.”
Reed poked his head inside the dimly lit room. Simpson and Fenske sat on the only piece of furniture, a sagging couch. Cigarettes dangled from their fingers, smoke swirling around.
"Uh, hey," Reed said. "Did I... did I come to the right place?"
Without looking up from his ashtray, Simpson said quietly, "Close the door and sit down next to us, and don't make a sound."
Reed gingerly shut the door and scurried over to sit next to them.
"Boy," Fenske growled, "Welcome to the Resistance. Fighting bacon company monopolies since 2010."
Eeek ... sounds like Oregonian themed to me! Can't resist playing!
Here's my entry:
My little brother looked up from the flickering Fox Network on my mom’s widescreen TV and whined, “I graduated from Reed College with a MALS, and all I got was a low resistance to bacon – that’s from Twittering with @bcmystery – and a life-time addiction to watching Homer Simpson on the tube, but no job skills.”
“Oh, good grief, get over yourself,” I told him. “Guess you’ll be camping out on Tawna Fenske’s couch until Pythagoras uses the shop-vac to remove your sorry carcass!”
He brightened. “Hey, so can I bum up gas money to get out of Portland?”
Wow...this is my "I have arrived" moment! Getting to be one of the words in a Janet Reid contest is a lifelong dream of mine.
Well, that and world peace. Pretty much on the same level.
Can't wait to read all the entries!
Tawna Fenske
Bacon Resistance Disappears.
by Chip Reed
Dr. John Frink, brilliant scientist from The Simpson’s television program and Dr. Merrell Fenske author of the Fenske Equation have disappeared. The pair comprised The Bacon Resistance formed two months ago on a hog farm outside of Galveston, Texas. Utilizing Dr. Fenske’s extensive experience in the separation processes of chemical compounds the pair had hoped to permanently dilute all of British Petroleum’s oil reserves thereby destroying the company and breaking it’s stranglehold on the global economy. It’s believed BP discovered the plot and the scientists fled back in time to escape the company’s wrath.
William White
http://williamwhitebooks.blogspot.com/
Reed Simpson sat on the lanai of her favorite coffee shop. As she sipped her latte, Fenske spotted the literary agent and dashed over.
“Resistance….my novel is about resistance.”
Annoyed but always willing to hear a good story, she said “Tell me more.”
“It’s about vampires…..”
“Uh huh.”
“Fighting against a werewolf….”
The agent nodded.
“For the love of a human.”
“Sir, that story has already been done.” She rose. “It’s called Twilight.” She walked away and he trailed behind. “What if I add bacon?” He stopped but yelled after her, “Instead of drinking blood they thirst for bacon!”
The flute was never my calling. Quite frankly, I despised the vile creation the moment my Auntie Cynthia made me pick it up. My resistance was linked to my noticeable dislike of the elderly teacher, Mrs. Fenske. The way she lounged around observing me with her belly jutting out like Homer Simpson repulsed me, as my instrument would screech in protest.
One morning, we were late for my lesson. In one last attempt to avoid the atrocity altogether, I shoved my uneaten bacon into the instrument’s reed, until it was lodged so deep that even my screeching wouldn’t be heard.
The table rocked under Anton Fenske’s elbows as he sat down.
“You’re a little large for this role,” said the man opposite him.
Another weasel-faced, reed-thin casting director, Anton thought. Great. “For now,” he shrugged. “I can lose weight.”
“You’re working out?” the man asked.
“Some resistance training,” Anton said. “No running.”
“The movie’s a bio piece, called Six Degrees of Separation,” the man said.
“Yeah,” said Anton. “I know. I want to play him. Kevin Bacon.”
He didn’t want to mention his last biographical role—Homer Simpson. No need to spill those beans, not right now.
By Gabriela Lessa
It was Sunday morning and I was having breakfast at my favorite diner. The owner, Mr. Fenske, was out of town, and John Reed, the best waiter there, was filling in as a manager.
I was halfway through my eggs and bacon when the chatter suddenly stopped and Reed stomped across the room. There, at the door, was O.J. Simpson. Reed muttered a few words to him and, slowly, the man turned away and left.
The chatter was reinstated and, as he returned to his position behind the counter, Reed said to me: “Welcome to the Diner Resistance”.
Calvin pushed his way through the reeds, his camouflage wading boots sucking against the resistance of the mud. Simpson followed close behind, embarrassed by his inferior Walmart gear.
“This is the spot.” Calvin patted his fishing vest, plucking off a tiny hook, bristling with coarse hair.
“That isn’t…” Simpson stared, awestruck.
“Yup.“ Calvin’s voice was as proud as his profile “A Fenske Firecracker.”
Simpson flushed with jealousy as Calvin expertly flicked his wrist, laying a straight line in the water.
As the great trout rose and struck Calvin said “We’re not going to need that bacon.”
Oh, I just love these contests. Here's my entry:
I arrived home to find Mrs. Fenske in the pool, totally submerged beneath the water, laboriously breathing through a reed she'd stuck out just above the surface.
"What on earth are you doing, Margaret?" I yelled loudly.
She slowly rose to the surface, a frustrated look upon her face.
"Obviously Mr. Simpson, you haven't heard of the latest in underwater resistance to ultraviolet light."
She strutted out of the water, proud of her latest sun evasion technology. I stifled a laugh as she sashayed up the pool stairs.
"So, is that why your skin looks like bacon?"
When he heard the apartment door unlock, Evan Simpson stacked his lab notes and got up from the couch to stretch. His partying roommate was finally home. For someone so smart, Randy put up quite a resistance to studying. Oh, well – Evan needed a break from fractional distillations and the Fenske equation, anyway.
Randy stumbled through the door and groaned as he sniffed the air: “Dude, you made breakfast? Thanks, man.”
Evan wrinkled his nose and took a whiff. “No, Randy,” he laughed. “It’s just a reed diffuser that smells like bacon. Have a seat; I’ll make you a sandwich.”
The dog whuffed in his sleep. Something was tickling his senses. He opened one soulful eye and gave a sniff. He jumped up and nudged Simpson, the cat.
Simpson lazily opened one baleful yellow eye.
"Simpson! There's bacon!”
The cat rose and stretched. He sank his claws into the sofa against the resistance of the nubby fabric. He sauntered to the kitchen and canted one ear.
A voice came from upstairs, “Matthew Reed Fenske, get up! Breakfast is getting cold!”
Simpson leapt to the counter and sent the bacon to the floor. He looked at the dog, “You owe me.”
I love these contests. Unfortunately not in the kind of mood that makes humor writing easy, sorry. Attempt follows:
Cherry Fenske felt like she’d slept with nettles over her eyes. Squinting, she plated bacon and moved to the table. Disturbed envelopes slid to the floor, her past-due utilities. She retrieved them, hands trembling. Looking left, she saw a feather-tipped reed beneath a chair. Now her throat felt sore as her eyes.
The top bill was from Dr. Simpson. She glanced at the reed, at a frayed collar atop her cooling pet bed. She shredded the envelope. The contents said her vet forgave her balance. It also held a picture of her kitty.
Resistance gone, Cherry cried.
A howl in the air, resistance of wind as split by marsh’s shrieking reed,
enough to deafen skeptic ear and cause the cynic to believe.
Crashing cymbals of tombac on, on and after ozone flash
that lights the dance of evil’s imps on barrow that is home and cache.
For my soul, I had never gone, forgotten object to retrieve
the night that reason itself died, and Pan renewed his ancient creed.
I have no idea what the theme is, but I shall enter anyway. Onward, but not upward.
-----------
"The Fiendish Enterprising Nerds Singing Karaoke in English (F.E.N.S.K.E.) meeting shall come to order. F.E.N.S.K.F. meets next week."
"Merde!" muttered someone in the back.
“Reed,” I continued, “sing last meeting’s minutes.” Lovely vibrato, that Reed.
Our resident math genius, tenor, and baconwine-maker struck a dashing Pavarotti-esque pose. “The 'Resistance is Futile -- Support F.E.N.S.K.E.' bake sale and Borg celebration was an uproarious success. Guest Maude Simpson, who played 8 of 6734527862 on unaired TNG episode 223 (the so-called 'Picard and Data in a hot tub' debacle) signed over ten autographs.”
“Excellent!” Finally, step one of my malevolent plan was complete.
"Simpson! You must resist!"
"I can't. I.Love.Bacon!"
"I've warned you. Fenske, Smith, take him to the machine."
"No!" Simpson shouted.
"Yes. The ketchup dunking machine will help you build up your resistance."
"Boss, isn't that a little extreme?" Fenske asked.
"I'm only doing this for his own good."
"But you could barbeque him!"
"I'm hoping to smoke him, Smith, just smoke him."
He was still toying with a strip of bacon. Given how little attention he was paying to me, the damned meat was apparently more interesting than a woman who had risked her life to save him.
I wanted to throw a glass of orange juice in his face and ask him how he felt about it. He had been such a rude bastard.
“I’m not with the Resistance. I only helped you because no one should die like that. Even you, whoever the hell you are.”
He smirked at me. “Reed Fenske Simpson.”
I knew then I was truly screwed.
“Where’s Simpson?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Oh, God, don’t tell me. Oh, no. Is it summer already?”
“You can't tell?”
“I don’t sweat, you stinkin’ horse!”
“Humph”
“Ooohhh, Simpson! I told him not to plump up. He spent too much time at the trough. Heavens, where is my exercise band?”
“This rubbish?”
“I need it for resistance. I couldn’t find latex so I used reeds from the barn.”
“Calm down. Fenske heard on the human’s radio that veganism is on the rise.”
“It’s summer! Season of the BBQ, everyone wants bacon on their burger. We should alert the cows!”
Rex Reed loved a good Kevin Bacon film. He had gone to see "The River Wild," and when he returned home and put on the news he was shocked to see that O.J. Simpson had offered little resistance when he was arrested for murder.
Rex was exhausted. He decided on some light tv. He switched to "The Ren & Stimpy Show" and called his annoying sycophantic assistant, Fenske.
"Schmuck? Do you have Court TV? Get ready. This is going to be huge."
The theme is murder.
“E.”
This is the sixth corpse this week with a letter carved on it. FENSKE. The bathroom is tiny, and Reed and I play twister to study the body: a blood soaked Bart Simpson towel is draped across the man’s genitals, and his eyes are missing.
Reed’s breasts press against my chest after we untangle ourselves and stand up. Her pubic bone warms my thigh, and when she asks, “Boss, do you want to get a bacon burger for breakfast?” her breath teases my lips.
‘Resistance is futile’ is written in blood on the mirror, and that’s what I’m thinking.
Fenske barked at the bacon on the counter. Too bad, he wasn’t getting any. This was my sandwich.
I turned on the TV. Bart Simpson was telling somebody to go to hell, perfect.
“Move Fenske, you already had yours!” I complained. He didn’t appreciate the resistance. “Reed! Come get your dog!” I hollered to my husband. He was taking a nap in the bedroom, totally unconscious.
“Fenske, you’ve got two seconds…” I warned.
“Go to hell.” Said a scruffy voice. I peered at the dog.
“Oh my god! Did you just-”
“Straight to hell!” He barked before loafing off.
I pedaled my fixie through the rainy streets of Bridgetown. A blue Volvo cut me off and I back-pedaled hard, the resistance slowing me just enough to avoid getting creamed.
“Brakes are for pussies!” I shouted, into the blinding spray. “No offense, Simpson.”
A tiny meow rose from the basket on my handlebars. Bart and I were cool.
On the corner of Fenske and Reed, I secured my ride and tucked the kitten into my Columbia jacket. “Time for breakfast Oregon-style,” I told my square-headed little friend. We stepped into the Tempeh Table – home of the world’s finest fakin’ bacon.
“Hey mom,” Reed said, “look what I found.”
Within the family Bible the yellowed piece of paper had been hidden for over a 150 years.
“What is it?”
“It looks like a note someone put in the bible for safe keeping, a prayer maybe.”
The boy began to read.
“Dear Lord, with little resistance may these souls who have departed life on this God-awful oregon trail gain entrance into Heaven.
John Bacon
T. Fenske
Simpson, family of four
“It is a prayer,” she said, “your great, great grandfather was a preacher who came west on a wagon train.
"Did you tell Bart you were in the French Resistance?"
"No Marge, I said Fenske Resisitance."
"What the heck is that?"
"I don't know. It was something I read."
"But you never read...Read where?"
Homer starts to sob. "It was this woman,Reed,on her blog...she promised me things."
Marge growls.
"Like what?"
"She promised me a bacon sandwich!"
"You mean Reid,Homie.At least get the conniving woman's name right."
Marge reaches for the phone.
"Janet? Mrs Simpson here..."
This is my second entry because you did not say only one entry, and I love love love contests:
"You suggest bacon?" screamed Esther. "Of course I have resistance. I don't keep kosher, but it's a pre-shabbat dinner!"
"You're fired!" she screamed at her party planner. "You will be hearing from Simpson and Fenske, my lawyers."
The party planner, Jeeves Reed, snickered. "Jill Zarin had no problem with me." And he realized this little episode could go straight to his mouth-watering tell-all.
The theme in the listed words: science
Dear Agent Reed, the first query began. Janet sighed. Delete.
It’s a fictional novel about an unassuming genius: think Homer Simpson meets Merrell Fenske, said the next one. But you’ll have to buy my book to hear more. Delete.
Janet reached for her bacon cheeseburger. When she realized it wasn’t there, she screamed. It was a bad day to go vegan.
Resistance is futile! began the next.
Not as futile as your writing career, Janet thought. Exclamation marks! equal reject!
Janet thought about Jessica basking at the pool.
Closing queries for the summer, she typed.
And then she finally smiled.
The bacon was still warm. Just like the body. Reed looked around for clues. No sign of resistance. No blood on Fenske’s body. Nothing amiss behind the plastic walls. Except, of course, Fenske. Simpson was in the corner cleaning his whiskers. Reed sniffed the cat. Bacon grease.
“ANNA!” he screamed, “Simpson killed Fenske. I hate your stupid, evil, bacon stealing cat.”
Anna stomped into the room in a huff and surveyed the scene “It wasn’t Simpson,” she concluded, “The lid is still on the habitrail. And I told you bacon is bad for hamsters; they’re very prone to heart disease.”
“Fenske! Reed! Get over here!” Sergeant Simpson bellowed. He always bellowed. Private Reed knew better than to argue. Resistance was futile. When Sergeant Simpson bellowed, you ran – double time or it was your bacon.
Well, unless you were Fenske. Fenske didn’t care. Halting at attention, Reed couldn’t help but notice Fenske strolling – Strolling! – toward them. Time crawled. “C’mon, man. You may be a short-timer, but I’m not.”
Sergeant Simpson grinned, “Nice boots, Fenske.”
Reed’s eyes flicked down and he groaned inwardly, “Not even a ten second polish, c’mon!”
“Follow me boys, we’re gonna have fun.” Reed followed, smartly. Fenske strolled.
Laura Simpson glanced up at the neon sign over the dark doorway.
Reed and Fenske. Yep, this was the place.
Alien Resistance headquarters wasn't much from the outside but the intel Reeves and her would steal from behind the glass doors would be priceless.
She pulled her laser, itching to be first in.
Damn it. Where was Reeves? Her alien partner was never on time.
"Man, they got the best bacon an . . ."
The laser hissed as she sliced the man in two, perfect fate for a double agent if you asked her.
"Aliens don't eat bacon, you idiot."
Millie Simpson slammed the front door. She tossed her keys at the kitchen table and flopped onto the sofa.
“A world without men” she grumbled.
Jen Fenske, Millie’s roommate, hit the pause button. “What?”
“What would the world be like if there were no men. None, nada, zilch.”
“No wars” offered Jen. “No moon landing. No high rises. No bacon. Why?”
“Michael got the promotion. I landed the Reed account. It should’ve been mine.”
“So did you offer any resistance?”
“Yep.”
“And?”
“And now Michael has a black eye, and my fist hurts.”
“We’re being followed,” said Bill Cameron.
“You’re paranoid. Keep driving,” said Tawna Fenske.
“Oh yeah? I’m getting pulled over.” Bill put the car into park and turned “What’s Good” by Lou Reed off. “Cops and Homer Simpson. They know.”
“Zero resistance,” whispered Tawna. “Maybe we’ll get to keep a few.”
“What’s in the back?” asked the officer.
“Just stuff for a book launch party,” said Tawna.
“Pop the trunk.”
Bill felt a shift in the weight of the car. A tear slid down his cheek when the officer and the Maple Bacon Bars drove away.
“That killed me,” said Bill.
“Six degrees of Kevin Bacon?” Margo fished the olive from her martini. “We just played that last week.”
Leroy held up two fingers for another round.
“Jessica Simpson,” Margo sighed.
“You’re not even trying.”
“Mr. Fenske, my 8th grade algebra teacher.”
“Better,” said Leroy. “So make the connection.”
“Too hard,” Margo said. “Oh goody, our drinks are here.”
“Janet Reed.” Leroy sat back wearing a triumphant grin.
Margo spit vodka and vermouth across the tablecloth. “OMG, that bar in Toledo!”
“There weren’t no resistance there,” laughed Leroy.
“Truth that,” said Margo as they clinked glasses.
“That’s your idea for a best seller; re-write the Three Little Pigs?
“Gregory Maguire, Wicked… Oz. Ring a bell?”
“Wicked wasn’t a re-write.”
“The Bacon Resistance! Everyone loves bacon. I’m thinking Fenske for the first little porker. He’ll build a yurt out of reed”
“Fenske? Who names a pig Fenske?”
“Colin Farrell will be perfect for the role of Gerard. ”
“Gerard?”
Fingers snapped in triumph. "The second pig. He can erect a pavilion for his harem of …”
“Sows?”
“Call Simpson, now.”
“Your agent? It’s 2 am.”
“This, will make his dreams come true.”
Last year at this time he had taken her to Fenske Lake cabins, and there in the isolation of the deep woods of Minnesota he told her he was filing for divorce.
"So, when a certified letter comes from my attorneys,Bacon and Reed,you better sign for it."
That night she offered no resistance to the man who had broken her nose and blackened her eyes,the sex more violent than ever.
But now, in California at Simpson Grove, she tries to put her arms around a giant sequoia,her husband still missing in the back woods of Minnesota.
100 w/c
I figured with all those proper nouns it had to include attorneys or accountants.
This was my second attempt at your writing challenge. Last time though I didn't realize the deadline...
This was fun.thank you
Paul Reed, principal of Francis Bacon Middle School, entered the science teacher's room on a hot day in June and asked, "Miss Fenske, why the resistance to using Ms.?"
Miss Fenske replied, "Because I am an out of the closet leather spinster. Look it up. And please, bite me."
Mr. Reed turned on his heels and exited the classroom. Miss Fenske thought, "What a tool. I would have a better degree of success teaching Bart Simpson Riemann's metric tensor than I would have educating that idiot about title choice. How many days to summer? Provincetown, sweet Provincetown."
Theme of the word list: science
William could barely see the table of steaming seafood. His resistance was waning as he began to stand with plate in hand, yet his movements were sluggish. “Fenske!” pulled William’s head from the table and into the gaze of a fiery redhead.
“Sorry, Mrs. Simpson. I just can’t get into this Bacon essay and I’m hungry and I’m broke.”
“Earn some money and pay like my other customers. You look more like a bum than a student.”
“But I can’t play, I broke my reed.”
“Here’s ten bucks. Buy a reed and play that sax - for me.”
Fenske, the Royal Chef stood idly by, eyeing the reed thin woman hovering around the King’s Barbeque. “Is he really abdicating for her?”
Princess Margaret nodded, dumbfounded, “What does an American divorcee have to drive a king to such madness?”
The socialite in question, Wallis Simpson, overheard the exchange and responded, “Something far greater than any royal hullabaloo!”
“TMI, dear, madam,” Fenske replied, blushing.
“Not that silly, this-” She served up two patties, “Baltimore’s secret recipe for bacon cheddar mushroom burgers with horseradish.”
Marge bit the bait, ketchup dribbled down her chin. She murmured, “I dare say, resistance is futile.”
“So much for ‘Loving-Resistance’.” Simpson thought.
What remained of activist Tricia Fenske was curled on the woven reed-rug like a scorched twist of bacon. Her beach-house on Manigottapee Island had clearly taken a hit from a beamed-energy weapon. Something the Neo-Nobility had developed to discretely incinerate troublesome peasants while sparing nifty real estate.
Simpson felt rubbed raw. He’d been fed-up with Tricia’s endless yammering about her naive strategy for rehabilitating the super-rich psychopaths and their rat-bastard political minions instituting world feudalism. He’d also had it with her sandy beach-sex.
But she hadn’t deserved this.
“Adios, Trish.” He murmured. “Serf’s up.”
Fenske had little resistance to men in wetsuits and this number eight was no reed-thin slice of bacon, nor was he a Simpson.
She saw only his rear view emerging from the icy water. Struggling for control, she watched him peel off the suit to reveal his - gasp - bicycle shorts and the black number penned on his - gulp - toned thigh.
One more layer and he's mine, she thought.
He pedaled out of sight, ass up, head down.
When the helmet came off for the final leg, she gripped the railing hard and grinned.
Ohmigod! It's Pythagoras!
"Okay, girls," Amanda said. "Now that we're done for the summer, how about some R&R at Lake Fenske?"
"DONE?!" Janet yelped. "Who the hell's DONE?!"
"Ignore her. She'll get over it," Barbara said. "I'll bring tofu, turkey bacon, Eggbeaters..."
"Who ARE you? Donna freaking Reed?" Janet interrupted. "Where's the beef? The booze? Good God, the cupcakes??"
"Who are YOU? Homer stupid Simpson?" Jennifer retorted. "I'll bring the chocolate. Lots and lots of chocolate."
"Chocolate?" Janet whimpered.
"Resistance is futile," Barbara said.
"You're right. I'm in," Janet conceded with a sigh. "Work, schmork. The shit's highly overratedd."
“Onward!” Fenske shouted above the staccato rhythm of machine gun fire. Simpson tossed the last piece of bacon in his mouth and chewed its rubbery salt. The resistance’s last rations dwindled. The last of the meat rotted in abandoned cellars beyond Reed bluff.
He pulled his blistered feet under him and started forward, lurching amidst his comrades. Only he and 37 other zombies had survived. Yet still they fought. Bullets pummeled his chest, but he launched forward, his machete cleaving in two the human’s skull. Simpson’s mouth fell wide as warm brains coated on his tongue.
Here's my 98 word entry. Thanks for the opportunity...
“This sucks! Blow on that reed. Make the ghost come back.”
“I can’t. There’s too much resistance. I need bacon, just like last time.”
“Last time I threw a boomerang at the ghost. I knew it would come back to haunt me.”
“What would Bill Cameron do? Or Tawna Fenske? They’re famous authors. Or better yet, why not act like Jessica Simpson and sing the ghost out?”
“Look, we’re a charity, so we have to flood this ghost out.”
“You’re right. Let’s roll!”
Both men entered the literary agencies office doors and started blasting their instruments at ectoplasm.
Resistance is Futile
By Sam Martino
Marge Simpson picked up the bacon meant for breakfast and attached it to her rear. She couldn’t bear to see this bacon wasted as food, she knew that Homer would be home soon enough with his new Fenske reed that he would use on her bacon clad bottom. Resistance is futile she thought. “Now what to do with the eggs?”
Ms. Simpson opened the hundredth query of the day.
“This should be interesting,” she said, sniffing.
Dear Agint
Im sendin this query to give you 1ST SHOT at my book Fire and Resistance its full of akshin and sixpence following assassin Fred Fenske as he travels the globe lookin for luv and BLOWIN UP STUFF!!!! I know you will like my query since its on my speshul bacon flavored paper Call me!!!!
Jerry
“Reed, get this guy on the phone,” Ms. Simpson yelled to her assistant.
“Got a hot one, boss?”
“No, but it’s lunchtime,” she said, nibbling the corner.
I'm probably too late but...
Simpson Fenkse Reed loved bacon. There was no doubt. When it came to bacon he was the king. He was the all time bacon-eating champion of Porcine County -downing 3 pounds in 15 minutes. There was resistance at first when his face graced the packaging of Pork Porky’s Pork-like Products. But when it became THE food voted by Epicurious they all cheered. It was sad really when he was found, dead of an accidental tofu overdose.
“Fenske, what are you working on?” Simpson yelled.
“Some missing literary agent, here‘s the file.”
“Is her name Reid or Reed?”
“Don’t know, I’ve been going through her emails and nobody knows how to spell it. You cannot believe how much drivel this woman reads.”
“Who hired us?”
“Some blonde devouring a bacon burger and slurping buffalo milk. She was wailing, ‘how could Janet disappear and incriminate meee! It’s not my fault the hottest writer since Rowlings picked meee!’”
“Any clues?”
“Yeah, a Herpet reeking of whiskey and chocolate with a note, “ World domination is eminent, Resistance is futile.”
“Simpson!” he yelled again, but the indifferent waves swallowed his cries, washing him closer to the coral, further away from his drowning son.
The reef gashed his forehead and he stood, rubbing bloody saltwater from his eyes, seeing only red.
The Fenske coral chewed his legs like hungry rats.
Wave, after endless wave, overpowered his resistance, moving him closer to the barren beach.
Standing on trembling legs he searched for life: A limb, a hand, a body. He found none.
Then he saw him, sliced like bacon by the coral, floating reed-like in the surf.
Sorry- needed to resubmit on the basis of a type, formatting issues and a wordpress name issue.
“Onward!” Fenske shouted above the staccato rhythm of machine gun fire. Simpson tossed the last piece of bacon in his mouth and chewed its rubbery salt. The resistance’s last rations dwindled. The last of the meat rotted in abandoned cellars beyond Reed bluff.
He pulled his blistered feet under him and started forward, lurching amidst his comrades. Only he and 37 other zombies had survived. Yet still they fought. Bullets pummeled his chest, but he launched forward, his machete cleaving in two the human’s skull. Simpson’s mouth fell wide as warm brains coated his tongue.
The doorman buzzed and announced, "Miss Levine, it's the police.” A few minutes later, I opened the door.
"Miss Levine, we have a report of plagiarism," stated a cop. "Plagiarism?" I cried. I stared at the report title: "Plagiarism in a contest at Janet Reed's blog."
I read the numerous charges:
from Laurie Lamb: "You’re paranoid. Keep driving,” said Tawna Fenske.
from Taffy: "I can't. I.Love.Bacon!"
from catcaller: "I dare say, resistance is futile.”
from Nancy Coffelt: "Jessica Simpson,” Margo sighed.
I gave the report back and exclaimed, "You spelled her name wrong on the report. It's Reid."
Busted!
“Piece of what?”
“Piéce de résistance.”
He bit at his lower lip. “Is that like really overcooked bacon?”
“No Fenske, you moron. It’s the best part of something. ” She shook her head. “I was saying that Lou Reed’s greatest drug song ever was White Light/White Heat.”
He smiled in awareness. “Oh, I get it! Like when Homer Simpson went in the Witness Protection Program. That was the best episode ever by far! I still have it on VHS,” he said proudly.
She groaned in pain. “Take me now Lord.”
“Another Lou Reed song?”
“No, Fenske. Just an impossible dream.”
“I don’t want to marry the simpson.”
“Of course you do, Gwyn. And enunciate; you’ll soon be a noble. It’s two words: simp’s son.”
“No. I don’t care if he’s a fenske—ow!”
Her father’s fingers were reed-thin, but his grip was firm. “Not fenskeeper. Keeper of the Fens. Show some respect. He protects our marshlands. Our home. Remember what I always say.”
“Bacon makes everything better?”
“Not that. The other one.”
Gwyn groaned. “Resistance is feudal.”
“Exactly. Serfs may rebel against that simp of a lord, but we’re above that. Here, have some bacon, and let’s get you hitched.”
I am under the midnight deadline and I have to make a correction in an entry. I deleted the incorrect entry.
Announcer whispers: The password is "money."
Allen Ludden: OK. Let's begin this speed round segment of Celebrity Password with Betty White. Don’t forget, today’s theme is mathematics.
Betty White: green
Mark Fenske: celery
Richard Dawson: coins
OJ Simpson: silver
Donna Reed: path
Michael Caine: resistance
Betty White: paper
Mark Fenske: money
Allen Ludden laughs hysterically and Betty White says, "I think we are the stupidest celebrity panel on this show yet. What we do to bring home the bacon!!"
“Busted?” Margo sputtered. “Watch the handcuffs, coppers. This bracelet’s made of genuine Reed Valley silver.”
“Well,” said Leroy, hands extended in surrender. “You coulda maybe read the prior comments. Jessica Simpson? Seriously? And you coulda spelled better too.”
“Buzzchap!” Margo sneered. “I was cruisin’, baby. Resistance wasn’t even on my radar.”
“Margo.” Leroy’s eyes softened. “Whatever happens -you’re the bacon on my club sandwich, you know that, right?”
Margo choked back a sob. “Leroy, I loved algebra. But even Mr. Fenske’s got nothin’ on you.”
I smelled it before I saw it.
“Don’t bring that in here!” I snapped without turning from the lace-trimmed window.
“Why not? It’s so…” gleeful chewing strained my resistance before Shelby continued, “mmmm, good.”
I stared out at the farm I’d inherited from my recently Heaven-bound grandfather.
“You might feel differently if you met Fenske, Simpson, and Reed.”
“Oh.” Shelby swallowed loudly. “Your grandfather’s cardiologists?”
“No.” I turned to smile at Shelby. “Fenske, Simpson, and Reed are my grandfather’s pigs. I’d introduce you to Wallace, but you’ve already gotten to know him.” I nodded to her plate. “Intimately.”
"You are aware of the six-degrees-of-Kevin Bacon?" queried Professor Fenske.
"But of course," said Miss Donna Reed (no relation).
"What has this got to do with lunch?" asked Mrs. Wallis Simpson (distant relation).
"Nothing," admitted Fenske, "where would you like to go?"
Wallis Simpson considered the options. "I feel like a bacon cheeseburger."
"You look a little like a bacon cheeseburger," Donna Reed quipped. "But now that you mention it, I too could go for a cheeseburger."
"With bacon," said Fenske.
"With bacon," said Reed, salivating.
Thus, Professor Fenske was able to prove his six-degrees-of-Kevin-Baconator-resistance-is-futile theory, hands down.
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