Humor Read Online Free Page B

this job, and have taken the precaution of acquiring a phoney machete of flimsy wooden manufacture. I tease the demon with childish taunts, and, as he rushes at me, I dextrously swap the machetes.
    It is only very slightly later, when my client’s head is sliced off, that I realise I have made an error. My career is finished.

Burning Pub
    While drinking coffee in my usual bar I am joined by a group of friends. A couple of hours pass in a pleasant manner, and as evening darkens the sky I am persuaded to join them for a bibulous meander.
    As the sun creases into a bank of simmering cumulus, consensus decrees that we visit a bar close to the meat-packing district. A relatively brief walk, and our destination is within sight. Pigeons scutter overhead, and I am reminded of my jacket which I must collect from the dry-cleaner’s. The blackened city curves over our passage, and we halt for a group consultation of the
A to Z
.
    I notice a flash of light in the corner of my vision, and turn swiftly. Across the road, within the plate-glass windows of a large and busy pub, sudden flames billow and swoop towards the ceiling. I stare, clamped to the pavement with disbelief. A surge of light blasts from the pub windows, which are now completely filled with incandescence. I stand open-mouthed, unable to communicate the horror that is coursing through me, merely ululating monosyllabically.
    As suddenly as they flared, the flames disappear. Within the pub, the customers continue their evening. With gasping breaths, I attempt to explain what I have just seen to my friends.
    It is a nuclear-holocaust theme pub, they explain. Nothing is real. I am unable to deal with this, and make my way home through the echoing streets with tearful eyes.

Rubbish Time Machine
    Having at last completed work on my time machine, I am disappointed to find that it does not work beyond the parameters of my own life. I can travel back to my childhood years, observe myself behaving insufferably as a teenager, see myself as a tottering octogenarian; in effect I can visit any period of my relatively mundane life, but cannot travel to the past that I missed or the future I will never see. To compound this problem, I cannot actually touch, taste or smell anything during my already uninteresting travels.
    No one in the past or future can see me. I attempt to speak with myself, warn myself about imminent dangers, shout ‘don’t marry her’, and so on, but all that escapes the confines of my mouth are little puffs of carbon dioxide. The whole time-travel thing seems horribly reminiscent of my experience at parties.
    Back in my laboratory, I extricate myself from the spidery apparatus of the time machine, and stare wearily from the bleary windows.

A Wet Night
    I am invited to a party that is being hosted by some old friends. As usual, I get to the party early and stand awkwardly outside the gates to the house. It is dark but warm, and unknown creatures speak to one another in the night.
    I step hesitantly into the overgrown garden, and notice a light on in the house. Although the party may not have started, I convince myself that my hosts need help with the preparations. I am a dab hand at samosas.
    Easing my way through the conifers that bar my progress, I approach the lighted house. Intending to play a minor joke, I peer in through the window, and I am surprised to see two Aliens from Outer Space conversing in the drawing room. They appear to be engrossed in a clever discussion, and I withdraw quietly, not wanting to disturb them.
    After loitering outside the front gate for some time, I make my way back home, now sure that the party is either not going to happen or that I have inadvertently entered another dimension.
    About a week later, I come across one of my old friends in a café. He asks me why I wasn’t at their party. I make my excuses and leave.
    My brother calls me at home, and we discuss our respective social lives. My brother complains of a boredom