Issue #94

Moreso, Series One

by Peter Cherches

Morty went to his favorite bagel shop on the Lower East Side and purchased a single onion bagel and a small container of scallion cream cheese. It was a treat. His doctor had told him to cut back on carbs and fats, but he refused to slavishly follow doctor's orders.

When he got home, Morty brought his booty into the kitchen and pulled a bread knife from the knife rack to cut the bagel with and a butter knife from the drying rack to spread the cream cheese with. Oh boy, he thought, a nice bagel with cream cheese!

Morty took the bagel out of the bag and laid it on a plate. As he was about to cut it, bread knife in hand, the bagel all of a sudden started throbbing, pulsating. It was making noises like a beating heart. What the fuck?

The beating of the bagel threw a wrench in his plans. How could Morty cut the bagel now? It might be alive. The bagel shop was too far away to go back and exchange it, so he ended up toasting a couple of slices of multigrain bread he had in the house and spreading half the cream cheese on the toast, saving the remainder for when (he hoped) the bagel finally stopped beating.

***

The traffic cone, lying on its side, dirty, cracked, told a sad story. I had to strain to hear it, so weak was the cone. I figured it wanted to tell me how it had reached this pitiful state, but no, it was a completely different sad story, one about a con artist who had fleeced the cone's grandmother for all she was worth. "Funny, I've never considered traffic cones might have grandparents," I told the cone.

"That's the problem with you people," the cone replied. "So fucking anthropocentric."

***

I stopped in at the diner for a late breakfast after my dental appointment and ordered French toast with a side of sausages. I was still a bit numb, but I was starving. Ten to 15 minutes later the waiter returned to my booth and handed me a trench coat. Peeking out of the left pocket were several breakfast sausages, perfectly browned.

***

A pigeon landed on my shoulder. I got the impression it wanted to tell me something from the way it looked up at my ear. What could a pigeon have to tell me? It cooed. What was it trying to say? I wished I understood pigeon cooing. After a few more coos, the last one ascending like a question mark, the pigeon flew away, leaving me none the wiser.