Stan Prolongo thought he was investigating a ghost. He walked into something far older and more dangerous. I should've known better when the gorgeous receptionist vanished into thin air. But sightseeing don't pay the rent, so there I was, Stan Prolongo, private detective, investigating a ghost at the Sciacca Retirement Community. A manager weeping over his dead wife in a broom closet. A receptionist who kept disappearing like smoke. Ten naked seniors with pickleball rackets. That's when I knew this wasn't your typical haunting. Five zones decorated with goddess symbols. Photographs showing the same women, year after year, except their faces kept changing. An old man poked my chest: "You'll never be one of us." By the time I met Mrs. Aphrodite Oshun, beautiful and dangerous with smoke curling around her fingers, it was too late. Blue smoke. Darkness. I woke up in white robes. Surrounded by cultists. Pure of heart, they said. Wrong place, wrong time, and exactly what they needed.

It's brilliantly twisted. This story takes the innocent Christmas carol we all know and transforms it into something visceral and unforgettable. Turtle doves become massive, violent creatures. French hens aren't what you expect. Every element of the song appears, but darker, stranger, and more dangerous than you could imagine. The journey is relentless. Armed with only a club made from pear tree wood, our hero ventures through deserts, encounters supernatural beings, and faces impossible choices. The desperation is palpable. You'll feel the weight of every step, every decision, every sacrifice.

"Oh, Mr. Prolongo. You are a better specimen than I was led to believe. Before you go, may I ask for a moment of your time? I promise to pay you in full for your services." "None of that funny business. Promise?" "Mr. Prolongo. I will keep my hands where you can see them at all times. Lola, the thurible, if you will. Mr. Prolongo, my niece will anoint you with the incense—it is merely a test. As you can see, the smoke is red, but if and only if it were to change to white. Well. Let's see." The young lady, Lola, came at me swinging the stinky can. It smelled like my evening tea of Earl Grey. She murmured a small incantation I could not decipher. The red smoke engulfed me and all eyes were on me. Then a smile like one of those cats that can disappear bloomed on her lips. The smoke was white.

I then came across another Oshun painting. As large if not larger than the one earlier. Behind a glass case to protect it from the humidity and chemicals. It looked just like the previous painting but the subjects were different. It had a gold plate attached with the inscription: Aphrodite Oshun: Second Ascension. I must have had it twisted. The older of the two was now African and the “niece” was not. Maybe South African? The previous artpiece must have been Oshun the younger and now here she is, the older of the two. I walked around and got the lay of the land. Nothing else stood out but that feeling of not being alone. I looked up at those swirling eyes and figured I had enough of being stared at.

In a normal-sized living room, a tiny vintage television sits atop an even tinier side table, looking comically small against the furniture. The screen is locked on its only frequency: The Train Station, broadcasting non-stop footage of locomotives. As the tubes inside warm up, shimmering "scent waves" shaped like pepperoni slices drift into the air, a permanent pizza aroma that no amount of scrubbing can erase. The programming is delightfully bizarre. On-screen graphics transition from the political steam engines of Beltway Fever Dreams to the pastoral vistas of Rails and Cows. After hours, the mood shifts to a dimly lit train car where passengers gaze longingly at heart-shaped deep dish pizzas, proving that on this tiny TV, things get truly scandalous after midnight.

Stan Prolongo just wanted new sneakers. What he got was a case involving mysterious tattoos, a peeping Tom with two left feet, and a late-night tattoo parlor where nothing is quite what it seems. In the seedy streets of Visalia, this rumpled private eye will trade shoe discounts for clues, chew through cheap pens, and discover that some crimes solve themselves. A noir mystery with small-town quirks and a detective who files his cases by movie ticket stubs.

An absurdist short story about what happens when extremely online people meet IRL in a Central California shanty town. Features: Dublin Dr. Pepper, curry-scented suntan lotion, cryptid crafts, and an underground do-wop convention. For fans of deadpan humor and the weird corners of small-town America.

What do you get when you cross Nikola Tesla's DNA with ancient golem magic and a grave-robbing cosplayer? Nickolas Goylem—the pint-sized genius who treats physics like a suggestion and toy stores like an armory. When the dreaded Vuvuzela Vixens take a Visalia hobby shop hostage with their sonic weapons of mass annoyance, most people hit the floor in auditory agony. Not Nick. While everyone else clutches their ears, he's busy weaponizing RC cars, model rocket tubes, and foam planets into the most gloriously over-engineered rescue operation this side of a Rube Goldberg convention. Perfect for fans of: Terry Pratchett's absurdist brilliance, Douglas Adams' chaotic logic, Christopher Moore's irreverent humor, and anyone who's ever wanted to see farm animals used as tactical projectiles.

Private eye Stan Prolongo has pulled off some crazy rescues, but this might be his spiciest yet. When crime boss Big Bob Bamford kidnaps Mrs. Lum Lum and demands ransom, Stan knows he can't play by the rules. Armed with nothing but a sombrero, a fake accent, and some seriously questionable food, he infiltrates Bob's tortilla factory hideout for a daring extraction. What follows is a high-speed chase through industrial machinery, creative uses for broken tortillas, and workplace safety violations that would make OSHA weep. Fast-paced, funny, and featuring the best pun you'll hear all week—this is pulp detective comedy at its finest.

This story is a gift. It's funny, weird, profound, absurd, touching, and completely original. It accomplishes the impossible, making you believe in miracles while laughing at fart jokes. Read it when you need to remember that wonder still exists. Read it when you need to laugh. Read it when you need to believe that ordinary broken things—toasters, microwaves, people—might still have some magic left in them. Toast just happens.