I've saved the story exactly as it was when I submitted it, though I've updated the formatting so it's not just a block of text without indents or proper hyphens. I still think it's a pretty silly story, though I guess my sense of humor has always leaned toward the absurd, and you can see that pretty clearly.
Remember, I wrote this nearly 20 years ago, now.
The Serial Sporker
By Olivia Smith
Lying on the beach was one of Larry MacPherson’s favorite past-times. He and his manly bulldog, Percy, did it every Sunday. Nothing ever went wrong. That is, until the Sunday of October 25, 1997. It was a peaceful day, or so it seemed. The clouds were few and far between and nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Until HE came bursting out from behind a large boulder. The HE of whom I speak was none of other than the elusive Serial Sporker. No one knew who he was because of his brilliant, but simple, disguise of women’s lipstick. The police had been trying for years to capture him, but they had failed. He never left any clues. When he did the dastardly deed, he would spork his victim and then run away, too fast for anyone to catch him.
On this particular day, his victim was none other than Larry MacPherson’s dog, Percy. The Serial Sporker had a grudge against all dogs that peed on his mother’s rose bushes. Poor Percy had a bladder infection, which made him unable to pass a bush without peeing on it. Unfortunately, that morning, Larry had walked Percy by the Serial Sporker’s house and Percy’s infection had kicked in.
As the Serial Sporker came rushing out from his hiding place, messily applying his lipstick he raised the large metal spork above his strangely shaped head. As he ran toward his victim, he started screaming insanely. When people noticed him, they yelled, they screamed, they ran for their cameras!
“I will spork you! Resistance is futile!” The criminal yelled. Larry opened his eyes just in time to see the spork coming down toward Percy, who was resting on his thigh. But it was not Percy’s fate to be sporked. Oh no. It was Larry’s. As the spork quickly descended, Percy gracefully leapt out of harm’s way and ran whimpering into the sea. The spork came down, slicing into Larry’s thigh. Larry let out a whimper, and then a high-pitched scream. Blood spurted out, splashing anyone within a two-foot radius.
The Serial Sporker laughed and then skipped happily back to his hiding place, ignoring the snickering and camera flashes that came his way. He hadn’t hit his intended victim, but he had hit someone; that was all that counted.
After a very brief hospital stay, Larry emerged to freedom with twenty-three stitches and a very disturbed dog. He knew what his missions were. His first was to sue the “Happy Happy Spork” company for not having warning labels on all their sporks. Larry’s second mission was to find the Serial Sporker and deliver his own brand of justice. So, the first thing he did when he got home was call 411 for information.
“Hello, this is Barbara, here at Information What City- Oh no! I’m not supposed to give my name out! Quick, forget my name, call back, and we’ll try again.” With that, she hung up. Larry shrugged and dialed 411 again, having trouble with the last two numbers. Again it was Barbara. Or, rather, the lady whose name no one knows.
“Hello, this is… Information. What city please?”
“Yes, the city of Rottingham, the number for the Serial Sporker,” Larry said, hoping with all the hairs on his head the number was listed.
“Okely Dokely. Here’s the number,” Barbara said. Then came the voice of whoever records all the telephone numbers.
“Thank you for calling. The number is… area code… five five five… five five five… four three two one… Seven nine twelve forty-six. Oh dear lord! Please! No more numbers!” As the woman slowly went insane, Larry hung up. He quickly dialed the number that the insane woman had given him and listened to the ringing. Finally, after twenty-five rings, someone answered.
“Hello?” the person whispered.
“Uh, yes. I’m a friend of the Serial Sporker and I’d like his address,” Larry said.
“No! You’re from the government—the CIA! I know it!” the woman on the other end screamed. Larry frowned.
“Um, no,” Larry answered.
“Yes, I swear,” Larry said.
“Oh, well in that case, my name’s Ingrid and our address is 13 Elm Street, apartment 666. See you soon!” With that, Ingrid hung up. Larry squealed with girlish glee. He knew where Elm street was. He and his friend Freddie used to go there all the time, even though Freddie hated going outside because of his horrible skin infection.
As he and Percy approached the house, Larry felt fear creep up inside him. He was about to meet the most elusive, violent and insane criminal of all time. He needed something to calm him down. Larry searched through his tape collection and then slipped in his “Sweating to the songs you’ve never even heard of” tape. He quickly calmed down. He approached the house, briefly detoured by the sign that read, “The Serial Sporker does not live here!” After gathering his courage, he knocked.
Suddenly, a hand reached out, grabbed him by the collar and jerked him inside. He found himself sprawled on the ground, with Percy squished underneath him. As he let Percy out from under him, a strange woman reached down and grabbed the dog by the collar, lifting him into the air.
“Why are you here? You’re from the government, aren’t you?” screamed the woman. Larry jumped to his feet.
“No! Ingrid, it’s me! Remember, we just spoke on the phone?” Larry said. The woman nodded.
“Oh,” was all she said. Then, she dropped Percy on the couch, where he snuggled up into the cushions.
“My son is back there,” she said, jerking a thumb toward the hallway. Larry glanced over. Evil darkness spilled out of the hallway, like molasses off a fallen pancake. Larry slowly unsheathed his spork, which he’d bought after a five day waiting period from “Sporks R Us.” He stealthily sneaked down the hall, loudly whistling the theme from “The Andy Griffith Show.”
Larry was cautious as he peeked into the first room. Along the walls of the room were rows and rows of many different kinds of sporks. There were big sporks, small sporks, short sporks, and tall sporks. Larry gasped at this huge and deadly arsenal of sporks. Suddenly, from behind him, Larry heard a noise. He jumped, slamming his head into the ceiling—the very low ceiling. He whipped around and found himself face to face with the Serial Sporker.
“You!” he yelled. The Serial Sporker only smiled.
“Yes it’s me, the Serial Sporker. But you can call me Moe,” he said. Larry took a step back, hiding his spork behind his back.
“I will smite thee!” Larry yelled. “Smite, smite, smite!” Moe stepped back, seeming confused.
“What’s—Oh! You’re still mad about the spork thing. Look, I was aiming for the dog. I have no problem with you,” Larry nodded.
“Ah. Well then, I’ll just be going no. Bye!” Larry quickly ran down the hallway, and heading for safety. He had to get the dog out of there before someone tried to kill him. Suddenly, Ingrid ran out, screaming.
“Moe! Oh, son, it’s that dog! The one that peed on our rose bushes!” Ingrid yelled.
Moe came running down the hall, messily applying his lipstick to his lips (and consequently to his nose, cheeks, and forehead). Moe lifted a large spork over his head, aiming for Percy.
“I will get him, my pretty, and his little human, too!” Moe yelled, no longer the nice guy he pretended to be. He charged at Larry, brandishing his large spork. But Larry was ready for the coming attack. He lifted his spork and deflected the blow. Moe staggered back, surprised. Then, he charged again! During the arduous fight that ensued, there was screaming! There was slashing! There was clashing—most of it done by Ingrid’s striped shirt and spotted shorts.
After the two-minute long fight, Larry saw an opening. Larry tightened his grip on Percy and then dove at the opening, which happened to be an old dog door that Ingrid had never gotten around to closing. Larry fought with all his might to get to freedom. Twenty seconds later, he realized he was stuck. An idea swam into his head.
“Percy, my beloved pet. Quick, run to safety! Call the Sheriff! Timmy’s stuck in the well—I mean, I’m stuck! Stuck in the dog door. Wait, that’s so embarrassing. Don’t tell anyone! Just leave! Yeah, sniff that fence. Good boy!” Larry yelled, letting Percy out of his grip.
Suddenly, he felt the cruel bite of the rusty, metal spork in his thigh. He screamed, cried, wished he was free. Then, something happened. He heard a distinct “dong” and then the thump of a body hitting the floor. Ingrid cried out.
“Oh no. Now my new frying pan has a dent in it. Thanks a lot, Moe’s head,” Ingrid said. Then, as she opened the door that Larry was stuck in, he saw a wall approaching his hair. He tried to cry out, but before he could, Ingrid smashed him into the wall. Unconsciousness seeped in.
Larry awoke to pain. He had seen the white light, and realized it was a flashlight. He opened his eyes and lifted his arm to shield them from the harsh light.
“Hey, turn that off!” Larry yelled. A paramedic came into view.
“I have great news! You have forty-seven stitches!” the paramedic said.
“That’s good news?” Larry yelled.
“It’s better than death!” The paramedic chuckled. “Sorry, just a little paramedic humor. Anyway, I’m happy to inform you that your dog is a hero. He raced to the police station and led us to you. And to the unconscious Serial Sporker.” Larry looked down at Percy, who was laying with him on the gurney. He had a medal and two hundred dollars under his paw. Larry hugged Percy close, slyly stealing the money.
“Oh Percy! You’re all right!” The paramedic continued talking.
“With the Serial Sporker behind bars, the world is safe once again. Oh, and you won your lawsuit,” The paramedic said, and then walked away.
Larry lay back, feeling much safer than he had that morning. From then on, every spork would have a warning label that read, “This spork is not intended to kill people.” The world was now a better place.