The Short Humour Site

Home : Writers' Showcase : Submission Guidelines : A Man of a Few More Words : Links

Writers' Showcase

No Shit!
by Bill Tope

Neil Young and Crazyhorse were softly singing "Down by the River" on the stereo when Shaheer thoughtfully drew on the reefer and the end burned scarlet for a moment, then faded to gray again.   Shaheer was an Indian ex-pat, on the run from his uncle, the notorious Ishtiag, who ran a global terrorist organization out of American University--Cairo, and had been after Shaheer, for recruiting purposes, for nineteen years.

Next Janis Joplin began lamenting her languished relationship with Bobby McGee and Shaheer extinguished the joint and poured himself a drink.  Decanting two ounces of Drambuie into the shot glass, he drew the glass to his lips and sipped. Thinking better of it, he upended the vessel and drank it in a single gulp.

Ishtiag, Shaheer knew, had a nominal position at AU-Cairo, in the History Department, where he served as a professor involved in the study of loos, outhouses and other water closets.  Needless to say, he was a disgrace to Shaheer's entire family.  He was, thought Shaheer soberly, a scatological mess.

What's Ishtiag up to now? wondered Shaheer.  Over the fence he'd heard that his uncle had joined forces with another notorius figure from Shaheer's past, Beth, the acknowledged queen of numerology.  Every day her blog received tens of thousands of hits from discommoded number freaks, each of which contributed ten dollars for the benighted privilege of stepping into Beth's nether world. He shook his head.

Shaheer thought of Beth. Back in the day, the two had been an item, he reflected, but the last time he'd seen her, perhaps two years ago, she had gained two hundred pounds; her sexy blond locks had been cut into a bob; and she had had a species transplant and was now, medically and legally, an orangutan.  He blew out a breath, remembering. So what kind of shit were ishtiag and Beth up to now? he wondered bleakly. Suddenly the doorbell rang, to the tune of "Highway 61 Revisited."  Shaheer stepped to the door, swept it open.

Standing on his doorstep, the UPS man smiled, passed over a small, shoebox sized package, wrapped in plain brown paper. Shaheer took the box, reenterd his home. Curious, he tore through the wrapping paper and found a smaller box, wrapped in plastic. Digging through the plastic, Shaheer crinkled his nose, struck by the odor. Lifting the top flap of the box. he found pretty much what he expected: it was, in fact, shit--dog, probably--and there was a note appended.  Taking it in hand, he read:  "Shaheer: this is but a token of my esteem and my interest in drawing you back into my orbit. You can't stay away forever, Shaheer--no shit." The note, he discovered, has been inscribed on toilet paper, and was signed, Ishtiag.