Mr. Pew-tin

“Mr. Pew-tin?”

Silence.

“Mr. Pew-tin?”

Even more silence.

Mr. Pew-tin?

A wadded up copy of the Declaration of Independence bounces off his chest and plops onto his oakwood desk. He contemplates tossing it back, but that would require skills, precision, and dedication – all of which he didn’t have.

“What do you want, Martinez?” He thumps his chest with his fist. “And it better be worth it, I’m very busy.”

“Sir, it’s the Americans. They’re coming.”

“Oh.” He returns his attention to his computer screen, clicking on another video.

“Sir?!”

A loud boom is heard and he feels something bump his knee. It’s Martinez. “What the devil are you doing, Martinez? Get off the floor!” He starts kicking back and forth.

Instead, Martinez holds tighter and wails, “Mr. Pew-tin! The Americans are coming! You must do something! You must!”

“Get off me! Get off!”

“But, Mr. Pew-tin! It’s your duty! You must save us!”

“Fine! Just let go already!”

Elated and satisfied, Martinez lets go and sits cross-legged on the floor. A giant spider then crawls out from his pocket and makes its way up his stomach, arm, and shoulder, resting under his ear. It waves an appendage at Mr. Pew-tin, who shudders violently, having had a very traumatic experience with crustaceans in the past.

“Put Lawerence away, Martinez.”

Martinez nods. “Go away Larry.”

The spider sighs sadly and begins his journey back down, letting out a soft sob when he reaches the pocket. It always smells like Cheetos in there. But there never are any which is the worst form of torture.

“What are you going to do, Mr. Pew-tin?”

“About the Americans?”

“Yes.”

“Set Mr. Plinkett on them.”

Mr. Plinkett?

“Do it.” Insane feminine pleading is heard from his computer and he realizes he has a skype call. He answers it with great reluctance, ignoring Martinez’s grumbling and obscene swearing as he leaves the room to release The Plinkett. “Pew-tin speaking.”

“I hear the Americans are at your borders again. Very bad of a ruler. Not proper etiquette at all.”

“You had the Joos invading your capital last Monday, Aladeen.”

“I fixed that. I sent them to Summer camp. Very fulfilling experience.”

He sneers. “I hear it’s very cold there.”

“Very. But it’s satisfyingly warm enough.”

“They still got past your otter army. Such inadequacy cannot make fun of my situation.”

“But you trained my otters.” A smirk rises on the pale faced man and he shakes his tentacle at Mr. Pew-tin.

Mr. Pew-tin frowns, remembering the ten day struggle. All the creatures had done was eat his country out of goldfish. And not the actual fish kind. “Forget that. That was yesterday.”

“Ah, but your Americans are today. And the Jeps are tomorrow. Have fun, my frenemy.” And with a vulcan wave of a split in two tentacle, Aladeen disappears from sight, leaving his Youtube in place.

He presses play and a bottle of gin is seen floating across Qui-Gon Jinn’s face. “Stupid Phantom Menace,” he giggles to himself.

The Venus Fly Trap Named Carl throws a coke bottle across the room to The Venus Fly Trap Named Karl. He catches it and throws it back. This entertains them for a few hours, until they grow weary of the game. Briefly, they glance at The Human Named Mr. Pew-tin and wonder if he will ever learn to tie his shoes properly. They shake their leaves. Probably not.

They then switch to a can of sprite and resume.

 

Meanwhile, armed with a camera and toothpick, Mr. Plinkett rides into battle on his trusty iguana, Glenn. He hollers something nasty about George Lucas and charges. The cries of fallen Americans are heard and the deep notes of Talk Dirty To Me start to fade away.

There is no mercy.

When the dust clears and the Sun smiles, the American Greats lie still on the ground. Except for Morgan Freeman who while twitching, recites the 13th Amendment repeatedly. Mr. Plinkett decides to let him be as his words are perversely soothing to Glenn. “Shhh, Glenn, it is over now. You did good.”

Glenn pukes in happiness. It is a job well done.

 

“Mr. Pew-tin! Mr. Pew-tin! Mr. Pew-tin!” Martinez barges into the room, catching his ruler with his pants down.

Mr. Pew-tin sighs and waddles back to his desk chair. His shirt is unbuttoned as well, but he doesn’t make a move to fix his appearance. He lifts cartons of milk yearly. He is quite muscular and attractive.

“Yes, Martinez?”

Martinez ignores his president’s indecent state – it happens quite often – and informs with much excitement that the Americans are quite not alive.

“Is that so. Well then, I did well.” He takes a sip of his Brisk tea. “Pay Mr. Plinkett his usual wages.”

“Right away, sir.” The door slams shut with a squeak.

Mr. Pew-tin leans back in his chair and grins. He did very well. That was why he still remains in power. With intelligence such as his, no man could dare to compare nor rival. Such was not possible.

His grin widens and he fist pumps the air with much deserved pride and dignity. He then belts out a loud heroic cheer.

“HAIL MOTHER RUSSIA!!!”

 

 

 

 

So this is my late-ish entry to Matt Black’s awesome blog party, but that’s what happens when you spent the day traveling. Forgive me Mattie? (That just made me grin evily.)

Anyways, if this short story offends in any way – Good. That was the point. Is this not the worst short story that could ever possibly be written? Probably not, but still. It’s horrifically entertaining.

Let’s be glad that I didn’t throw in Olama like I was going to. That could’ve gone really dark, really fast.

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Posted on May 19, 2014, in My Writings, Short Stories and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. 47 Comments.

  1. My brain just died, rebooted, and died again…lmao

      • Meanwhile, the piranha in the cubicle next to me looked over his spectacles and blew bubbles at me through his gills.This reminded me that I should call my wife, who I never married, and inform her of that I’m happy it’s her birthday.
        However, I’m not happy, she’s a codfish, and I’m not a lesbian.
        In other news, the BBC would like to apologize for the constant repetition in this program. The BBC would like to apologize for the constant repetition in this program. The BBC would like to apologize for the constant-
        The BBC would like to inform its viewers that the people responsible for the previous announcements have been fired.
        IT’S:
        Monty Python’s Flying Circussssss….
        And now for the weather.
        It will be raining spiders in Tunisia for the next week, and we would like to suggest that Justin Beiber make that his next vacation.
        The traffic report will be given by Dan Hopkins, the God of hairdos.
        “Well, it’s 8:00 in the morning. You wanna know what the traffic looks like? Have you been on this planet long? Everybody left their house at the same damn time. Come back at 5 and I’ll tell you the same thing, only guess what? THEY’RE GOING THE OTHER WAY!”
        Thank you Dan.
        That’s all for the cubicle news, and now, we return you to your previous program of Bert the frog, singing lullabies from the rainforest.
        *Ribbit* *Ribbit* *Ribbit*
        The BBC would like to apologize for the use of frogs in this show.

  2. *blink*
    *blink* *blink* *blink*
    *blink* *blink* *blink* *blink*
    Billy: “Translation: Blaze has absolutely no idea about what is going on.”
    -Blaze and Billy

  3. That was painful. Did you have somebody throw something whenever you got stuck? Bravo!

  4. Oh God…
    What have I done?

  5. Such evil imagination – scary! I want an iguana named Glenn that I can ride into battle! πŸ™‚

  6. Odd… Was this just random, or am I insulting your intelligence by suggesting so? πŸ˜›

  1. Pingback: Hey, 27 out of 31 Ain’t Bad | The Little Engine that Couldn't

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