Superman was admitted to the WormHole Square Hopkins Medical Center, for what doctors are calling Ferric Oxide, or, rust related ailments.

    “He is The Man of Steel, after all, and even steel will rust and break down over time,” says Dr. Wendy Patel, Chief of Medicine.  “We currently have him on an intravenous drip of Rust-oleum and WD-40 to prevent further deterioration and spread of the Fe203 Oxide, or rusting process.”  Dr, Patel refers to her medical chart, continues. “MRIs show advanced corrosion in both left and right shoulders, right elbows, left hip, both knees, and moderate progression of rust affecting the function of major organs, as well.”

  Superman looking dejected, gives a thumbs-up as he is ushered away on a gurney for more tests.  Again, Dr. Patel.  “Superman was also recently exposed to a high level of kryptonite and was suffering from anemia, gout, and erectile dysfunction, when he was first admitted.  We have him on iron pills for the anemia and corticosteroids for the gout.  He’s been watching videos of Lex Luther, riding a stationary bike, in a bee custom, to correct the erectile disfunction.  Strangely, it seems to be working.”

      Dr. Patel flips her chart, continues.  “Our course of action includes joint replacement and transplant surgery, where necessary, with stainless steel parts, which will not rust over time.  The biggest risk with these transplants, of course, is rejection, as most of these parts are imported from China.  On a minor note, the S on Superman’s chest seems to have lost its serif.   We are in consultation with a calligrapher to address that issue.”

          Casper, the so-called, friendly ghost, as it turns out, is not really white at all, according to his new autobiography.

       “I suffer from the skin pigmentation condition, vitiligo,” Casper says.  “My skin started turning from brown to white in splotches many years ago.  At first, I freaked out, but then I noticed that the more my skin turned white, the lower my blood pressure got and the higher my credit score went.  Amazing!” Casper goes on.  “Suddenly, I had no problem getting a cab to stop for me.  I could sit during the National Anthem at football games and nobody said shit!  And I could fly ghost-like down the street in any neighbourhood and not get pulled over or shot by the cops.”

    Casper’s real name is Raymond Tyrone Reyes.  He’s from the westside of Baltimore City, by way of WormHole Square.  “I actually died back in 1968 during the riots, after the Martin Luther King assignation.  At the time, I had found what I thought was a bong, laying in the street.  So, I went into a nearby phone booth with it, and I took several long hits from what turned out to be a tear gas canister.”

      His eyes widen from the memory.  He continues.

         “The concentrated gas mixed with the strong ammonia from the urine in the phone booth sent me into neurogenic shock.  I died then and there.”

          Raymond became a ghost after that and also changed his name to Casper.  As Casper, he started flying around the City looking for work.  Again, he recounts. “I wasn’t really into the haunting thing, you know.  Haunting motherfuckers doesn’t really help pay the bills.”  He shakes his head in frustration.  He continues.”  And although, I had an advanced degree in Chemical Engineering, I couldn’t land a job anywhere.  And back then – back in the day, I kept getting shot down out of the sky or confused for a UFO for some odd reason.  So I just stopped flying for a long time, to saved myself the aggravation.”

    It was the skin condition that seemed to turn things around for him, he admits. “Once the vitiligo had covered more than half my body, I noticed some significant improvements in my place in the world.  I got a job.  My diet improved.  I started eating organic food, and I started drinking wine out of a box, instead of a brown paper bag.” Casper dabs some hummus on a cracker, bites. “Life is good.”

          Wimpy, beloved, chubby, grifter, was found shot dead in an alley on the west side, yesterday.

              “He owed everybody money,” says a man who wants to go by the name, Bill, to protect his identity. “He kept going around all the time asking people for a dollar, so he could buy a hamburger, and shit.  Then he would promise to pay everybody back on Tuesday. Gladly, the motherfucka would say.  This was an everyday thing for him, you understand?  It made for an untenable situation for all involved.  First of all, where you gonna buy a hamburger for a dollar round here nowadays – the dollar store?!”

   Bill throws his arms up in the air.  He goes on. “I was the one who found him.  I thought he was sleep, at first, right?  And the blood splatters on his shirt?  I seriously thought that was ketchup, for real.  The guy always had stains on his shirt- ketchup, mustard, semen, sriracha-soy, you name it.  Real talk – Wimpy was one of the sloppiest motherfuckers I ever saw. Yo, he was sloppier than a motherfuckin’ two year old after a bowl of Hennessy and Fruit Loops!”

       Bill takes a moment to carefully look up and down the block, continues.  “So… the word on the street is that Wimpy borrowed a dollar from, none other than, Pablo Escobar.”  He looks around cautiously, continues.”  And as usual, he promised to pay it back the next Tuesday.”  Bill shakes his head mournfully, then speaks in hushed tone.  “Well… Tuesday came and went…. and Wimpy ain’t amongst the living no more.  You connect the goddamn dots.”

    Pablo Escobar is not the only person suspected of killing Wimpy.

    “Yo, any one of the thousands of people he bummed a dollar from is potentially a suspect, in my book,” says Bill.

      Indeed, authorities have also named Bluto, Olive Oil, The Hamburglar, The Chick-fil-A Cow, Ellen DeGeneres, Yosemite Sam, Luca Brasi, and O.J., as persons of interest.
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“He even borrowed a dollar from me once,” says Bill. “Never paid it back.  Never mentioned it.  No nothing.  But, I didn’t kill him.  I just wrote it off on my taxes along with my gambling debts and my failed rake-less, leaf raking business.”

       After questioning many suspect and running down multiple leads, the police say they are no closer to finding the person/s responsible for killing Wimpy.  Bill starts walking off through the shadows, but stops to offer this backdoor question.

        “Yo, my failed rake-less, leaf raking business has left me a little flat. Can I hold a couple bucks, so I can run up here and get a chicken box, real quick?”

           The proverbial Lost Dryer Sock, which has been considered missing for many years, has finally been spotted running with the bulls, in Pamplona, Spain.

      “I’ve looked behind the dryer, under the bed, and  under, in, and around everything goddamn thing in the house,” says, sock owner, Nelson Nestleby. “For the life of me, I could not find that one other matching sock.  The last place I thought to look was on the streets of Pamplona, Spain.”
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But, there the sock was, in the thick of the running horde of thrill seekers, going full throttle, around the curve of the Calle de Mercaderes.  Mr. Nestleby says, it was his favorite sock.

       “I bought the pair of magenta argyles, because of the versatility it offered me.  I found I could wear them with my bowling shoes on Thursday night, and then turn around and wear ’em with a pair of penny loafers at a wedding on Saturday.  Didn’t have to wash ’em or nothing.  Just shake ’em out or slap ’em up against the wall and keep on rolling.”  I was devastated when one of the socks went missing.  I blamed my brother for the disappearance, with him being my main bowling rival and all.  Turns out I was wrong.”

Mr. Nestleby spotted the lost sock, by chance, on the the internet, he says.

     “Yeah, I was perusing through some soft porn sites, looking for any videos with ​bulls in them.  I found a few.  There was one with a bull and a leprechaun kissing.  I came across another one with Michael Jordan giving Bullwinkle a lap dance at a bull roast, while drinking a Red Bull.  And then I came across a video with my lost sock running with the bulls.”  Mr. Nestleby’s eyes pop open wide. “I couldn’t believe it.”

    So, Mr. Nestleby immediately flew to Spain, where he then caught a cab, and then a shuttle, and then a rickshaw and then an Uber ( driven by non other than Edward Smith, former Captain of the Titanic ) who dropped him off on Calle de la Estafeta.  Amazingly, the bull run was still going on!  Again, Mr. Nestleby,

         “I saw my lost sock run down the last stretch of Calle de la Estafeta, in between the thundering herd of bulls and running fools.  But, then there was a pile up, a twisted wreck of carnage.”  Mr. Nestleby’s shoulders drop with sadness. “That was the last I saw of my Lost Dryer Sock”.

            It is not known whether the Lost Dryer Sock survived the pile up or not.    No other sightings have been reported to date.

          Hodor, the lovable, gentle giant, from Game of Thrones, has been working a new gig at Burger King since the show ended.  But, sometimes situations that are new can bring a host of new problems.

      Burger King store manager, Gwen Rucker, “I can’t understand a goddamn thing he’s trying to say!”

      When asked how he likes working at Burger King, this was Hodor’s response. “Hodor… HODOR… Hodor.”

       Again, manager, Rucker, “See, what I mean?”

   Anticipating a communication issue with Hodor, an interpreter was on the scene to clarify his thoughts. Interpreter, Juan Alvarez,

       “Hodor said, he is very excited to be working at Burger King!  At least, I think that’s what he said. Actually, I have no idea what Hodor is saying either. I’m a Spanish interpreter.  The only reason I assumed he was excited to work here is because of his slight tonal inflection, and the fact that he’s currently displaying an erection under his uniform.  You need a 13th century, man-child interpreter to understand Hodor.”

     As it turned out, five month employee, Roy, 19, currently working the french fries, has been studying that exact same language in his first semester at WormHole Square Community College.  Roy chimes in.   “Hodor said that…he’s very excited to be working here at Burger King.  So much so…he’s weilding an erection of medieval proportions under his uniform, right now.

        Store manager, Rucker, brings the conversation back on track.

      “Hodor is working on the special orders unit.   When a customer orders a sandwich without cheese, it’s Hodor’s job to call back on the intercom and say, Hold the cheese!“

   And as to how he’s doing so far…again, manager Rucker.   “He’s still saying Hodor…Hodor… and not Hold the cheese… which is a problem.  An even bigger problem is when he blocks the front entrance and prevents customers from getting inside the store.” Hodor, agitated, speaks. “Hodor… Hodor… Hodoooor!” Roy interprets. “Hodor said, he’s just trying to keep the Night King from stealing all the ketchup packets.”
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“Nobody’s going to steal the fucking ketchup packets,” Ms. Rucker says.  She continues.”  Another problem is, whenever a disabled customer enters the store in a wheelchair, Hodor picks them up and carries them over to the goddamn park… which is eight miles from here!  And when he does comes back… like four to five hours later, he never brings the customer with him.”  She throws her hands up in the air.”  Elderly folks, veterans, and Paralympic athletes, don’t even come in the store anymore.  It’s crazy!”

       A special order comes back into the special orders unit- Double Whopper with no cheese.  Hodor grabs the intercom.  He speaks. “Hodor… Hodor!”