The Decameron 2.0

Day 1.7: HEA Love - SLEEK METAL PASSION Wuckster

Dirk made to crack open a beer in triumph. "Awww, man, I forgot you dumped all the brewskis, bro!"

Then the convulsions started. Foam spewed from his mouth. I rushed to his side to grab his tongue so he wouldn't choke on it or bite it off. Dirk's eyes bounced all over the place like he was playing pinball in his head.

And as quickly as the spasms began, they ended. Dirk's body went still. He farted.

"Is he dead?" Ruby Tuesday asked. We all looked at her. She put a hand over her mouth. "Oh my gosh! I can talk!"

Amazed by this new revelation, we all forgot about Dirk and gathered around Ruby, asking her questions and generally engaging her.

Ruby had been mute her entire life. She'd always wanted to talk but the task had seemed impossible. Her parents thought she was "retarded," to use an archaic term, and they'd sent her away to a school "where retards can be dumb," to quote her ignorant parents. Ruby had been passed around from place to place, living with one set of foster parents and quickly given away to another. She'd recently reconnected with her parents after she published a best-selling novel—The Dundelo Society, which dealt with a mysterious group abducting babies in small towns across America. Her parents wanted some of her newly earned money, and they'd also made a deal with Trump to have her kidnapped and used as a sex slave. While they waited for Trump to arrive with his armada, I received a message from God telling me a kindred spirit was in danger. So I arrived in the nick of time, murdered Ruby's parents and helped get her out of there before Satan reached her.

"I don't know what happened," she told us, astounded, tears shining on her cheeks. "I saw Dirk having his seizure and suddenly felt a voice inside me, screaming to get out. It wasn't like anything I've ever felt before. So I... I talked." She laughed, clearly amazed.

"What if Dirk's spirit is inside you now?" Seth asked.

The others went "Ooooh."

"The Lord works in mysterious ways," I said. "A shame Dirk died, though. A worthy sacrifice."

A cough from where we'd left Dirk.

Dirk put a shaky hand to his forehead. "Wooooah... Duuuude... How many beer bongs did I have, man? How many bowls of dank?"

"Zero," I told him. "Aren't you supposed to be dead?"

"Wait, am I? I feel this urge, Jesus... I've done wrong. Grab me a beer."

"Never, you fiend."

Dirk held his hand out and a can of beer shot through the waterfall and landed in his grasp. "Woooah. Check this out." He focused on the can in front of him, focused so hard his temples throbbed with a spider web of veins, so hard his body shook. Then he relaxed, cracked open the can and poured its contents into his palm.

Candy came out.

Everybody applauded.

"Thank you, thank you," he said, bowing. "Yo, Jeeze, want a beer? Hahaha!"

Accepting said "beer," we reformed the circle and started up on the next story. Things were changing among us—we seemed to be evolving, like we were becoming angels, or something like that. I wondered how the others would change, and how long it would take until we were ready to take on Trump.

"Please don't think less of me, dearies," said Dora-Mae, handing Seth and Coltrane matching sweaters. Each showed the other man's face, and they couldn't be happier. She grabbed more wool and started up on the next sweater. "You may find me a teensy bit peculiar after hearing this story, but, what can I say? I'm old. I've been without my dear husband, sweet Iago, and I've developed a liking for certain... ahem, gadgets... Why don't we call this one