Diddie's Stories!

A lone fugure stands, definant of the desert, mocking it. His six feet and four inches easily withstand the wind. His jaw is set grimly, his grey eyes gleaming with cold ambition. His shoulder-length, sandy blonde hair is tossed back by a sudden wind gust. His hands are clenched into fists, his light blue denim shirt is unbuttoned and rolled up to the elbows, showing off his tanned, muscular forearms to good advantage. Another gust of wind comes, blowing his shirt open to show a thin silver chain around his neck, a tight fitting wife-beater, and a black belt buckled around un-wrinkled khaki pants. He plants his feet, clad in white tennis-shoes, and squints as the sand bites at exposed skin. A single tumbleweed bounces by. He stands, facing his opponent withought fear.

A hundred yards away sits a square building, the same color as the surrounding sand. The building looks nothing less than a monstrosity, being twenty-three stories high. On the west wall, the wall the lone man is facing, three red capital letters, at least eight feet tall each, stand out from the building. These letters are the heart of the man's arch nemises, and his only hope. The letters spell a word that is not in the dictionary, the most loved and the most hated word in the publishing industry.

The man narrows his eyes as he stares at the word. Then, without shifting his gaze, his right hand slowly comes up to his head. He places the tips of his fingers at his right temple. There is a bright flash of blue light as he reaches into his skull, then another flash of blue light as he slowly pulls his hand out again. He is now holding a gelautinous, grey, wrinkled mass in his hand; his brain.

The man rears back and throws his brain as hard as he can in the direction of the building. Then he resumes his defiant stance and waits.

The brain splats against the west wall, barely three feet away from the big red word. It leaves a sloppy wet mark, then slides down the building, leaving a slimy trail behind. It hits the ground and slumps over. Still the man waits.

A glass door opens from the south wall of the building, and a short, stalky man emerges. He walks slowly around to the west wall, his hands in the pockets of his black pants. A white button-down shirt strains over his middle. His burgundy-and-navy striped tie whips up in his face, covering his gold-rimmed spectacles, and reaches back to the small abount of mousey-brown hair that is left on his mostly bald head. As he reaches the fallen brain, he takes off his glasses and polishes them with a rolled-up shirtsleeve, then puts them back on and looks with surprize. He looks over to the man, who is still standing defiantly. His head drops and shakes slowly back and fourth three times. He turns around and slowly walks back into the building.