Once upon a time in the bustling town of Punnyville, there lived a woman named Regan who had a rather unique occupation that set her apart from the rest. She was a proctologist, and her job brought about a whole new meaning to the phrase “getting to the bottom of things.”

Regan had a quirky sense of humor that she brought to her work, making even the most uncomfortable situations a little lighter and funnier. She believed that laughter was the best medicine, even when it came to examining people’s behinds.

One day, a new patient named Mark came into Regan’s office, feeling a mix of nervousness and embarrassment. He had heard about Regan’s reputation for humor and hoped she could make his visit a little less awkward.

As Mark entered the examination room, he noticed that the walls were adorned with amusing posters and pun-filled jokes. There was one that said, “Don’t be a pain in the rear, come see us here!” and another that showed a smiling sun with the caption, “Let’s shine some light on your bottom line!”

Regan entered the room with a cheerful smile and said, “Mark, I hope you’re ready for a cheeky adventure today!”

Mark chuckled nervously, feeling a bit more at ease already. “I’ve heard you’re the best in town, Regan. And I could use a little humor to get through this.”

Regan winked and replied, “Well, Mark, I promise to make this experience as smooth as possible. Just remember, laughter is the best medicine, even for your derriere!”

As Regan began the examination, she kept the conversation light and filled with puns. “Mark, did you hear about the proctologist who became a baker? He specialized in buns of steel!”

Mark couldn’t help but laugh, his tension slowly dissipating. “That’s a good one, Regan! You really know how to lighten the mood.”

Regan continued with her witty banter, making Mark forget about his initial discomfort. “You know, Mark, I always say that being a proctologist is a behind-the-scenes job. We’re the unsung heroes of the backside!”

Mark burst into laughter, feeling grateful for Regan’s unique approach. He realized that her humor not only made the experience more enjoyable but also helped him feel more comfortable discussing his health concerns.

As Mark left the office, he couldn’t help but spread the word about Regan’s exceptional skills and sense of humor. Soon, Regan’s practice became known as the go-to place for a good laugh and a thorough examination.

Word spread throughout Punnyville, and people started saying, “If you want a proctologist who can make you laugh while checking your rear, go see Regan!”

Regan’s unique occupation and her ability to bring humor to uncomfortable situations made her a beloved figure in the town. She proved that even in the most unexpected places, laughter could be found and healing could be accompanied by a smile.

Throw different streets at me and I can list their attractions. Talk about a hotel and I can pinpoint it’s address in seconds. Just don’t get me started on my experiences with coworkers. As a chauffeur, I meet… interesting people. Being a driver for a secret agency, you’d kind of have to.

I speak 6 languages, I’m immune to multiple poisons, I memorize someone’s face and information at a glance, but I remember my first week on the job, I mistook a pal for an agent.

A cloudy evening and it was darker out. My car had been disguised as a taxi, nothing special. I was supposed to pick a man by the name Ames. Male, late twenties, dark skin, longer face. He came running, saying he needed me to drive to “you know where.” Obviously you can’t say “undercover agency” in public, so quickly checking his appearance I started back, knowing what he meant. Ames had bags bulging from his mission, and panted from running.

But his face… was the wrong shape. Looking closer at the bags, they’re filled with bills. I see, I thought. Seems I need to resort to plan B. When dealing with people like these, we’re supposed to take care of them ourselves. I pull over into a blocked parking lot and beckon him out.

“Sir,” I began, “what was your job?” Usually, we agents are strictly on a need to know basis. If he were Ames, he would say, “If you have access to the file you can read it there.”

“You know what it was. Don’t worry, I dealt with them.”

“Oh I’m not worried.” I said, giving him a harsh throat punch and swiftly knocked him out. Not like he needed such a merciful arrest.

Darn. Now I had to take care of him. In the car, I listened to the police station to hear which bank it’d been.

Driving back I dropped Ames’ imposter off and told the police from a borrowed phone since I didn’t have change for a pay phone. Now to get Ames. He waited impatiently and didn’t question me. As a superior, he’d see it on my file. Sighing, I drove back to the agency. At the very least, I gained experience!

Inside a crowded room but completely alone, watching them mingle like an alien species. Maybe they're not the aliens, maybe it's me, maybe I'm the one who's from Mars.

A young woman - short blonde hair, pretty brown eyes - bumps into me. It was on purpose. She's been eyeing me for half the night. I force a charming smile.

"Easy tiger, don't want to spill wine on that pretty dress." My voice is smooth and kind, not even close to how I sound when I'm working.

She laughs, head back and nose scrunched. She's cute, like a baby deer. "I'm sorry, I've got two left feet."

I raise a brow, only answering her after I've sipped my drink - water with an olive to pass for alcohol. I like to keep my reflexes quick. "Not from what I saw. You were like a ballerina on that dance floor."

"You're too kind," she places a hand on my upper arm, slides it down until she's got my wrist in her grip, "and much too handsome to be alone tonight.

Ah, there it is. I smile again, taking another sip. She watches my throat work down the water, lip trapped in her teeth. Tempting, yes, but not an option. It would be wrong, she wouldn't know what I was. What I do.

"I would love to spend the night with you love, but," Her big brown eyes ask me to not disappoint her, but I'm not a magnanimous man, "I can't."

She's pouting. Her wine glass is almost empty and her lips are stained dark red. It would be wrong in more than one way. I don't bed drunk girls.

"Why not, handsome?" Her grip tightens, bringing my hand closer to her body, my fingertips grazing her waist, "Do you think I'm trouble?"

I set my drink down, pressing my lips close to her ear. She leans in, a sigh leaving her lips. Can she hear the smile in my voice? Or does she just hear the low rasp of a haunted man.

"I'm the one who's trouble, love." I twist my wrist, easily breaking her hold, "You're far too sweet for a dangerous man like me."

She gasps, probably thinks it's a joke or an elaborate way to get into her knickers. I step back, turn on my heel, and walk away without a single glance back.

I take long strides to the loo, taking off my tie as I move. My target entered the bathroom three minutes ago, just before Doe Eyes caught me.

If he's not in here I'll have to waste another hour subtly tracking him again. That would be highly inefficient.

It smells like mint and puke in the loo, but it's quiet and dark. Empty expect for one man. Richard Ghee, mid fifties, bald, heavy-set, and one minute away from being dead.

He doesn't react to my presence, like a sheep who doesn't recognize the wolf. I jam the door, tying the handle to the bathroom stall lock.

Richard only acknowledges me when I slide off my blazer. He eyes the quick rolling of my sleeves, zipping up his trousers like I'll leap for his private parts.

"Woah, easy lad, I don't want to have to hurt you."

I don't smile, I don't glare. I'm ice cold. He seems to notice something isn't right, beady eyes shifting to the locked door. Sweat beads at his temple.

The sheep just caught a whiff of the wolf.

I'm swift, quiet, clean. No pain, no hassle. One man who caused so much pain is gone in seconds, and I've got half a million in my bank account. Easy.

A gun for hire. An assassin. A murderer - All just names for a job that makes my skin tight when a beautiful girl wants to know me. No one can ever know me, or they'll hate me.

This is why I'm a Martian, just wearing human skin. I slip out of the window, and glance up at the crisp night sky.

Mars is up there, maybe I wouldn't feel like an alien there. Maybe it would feel like I'm not a monster.

I hold onto that thought as I slip into the night, trying to forget about Doe Eyes and a life where Earth still feels like a home...

The one who guessed my name belongs to a world of the strange, a world beneath a thimble and under a hill, beyond seven lands and seas. This person was a name thief.

But beyond that, this is the story of a boy.

It started when he was small, asking for his classmates names and laughing when they suddenly couldn’t seem to spell it the next day.

Accidentally snatching the name off his senile grandmother’s lips and being too afraid to say anything when everyone began throwing around words like Dementia and Alzheimer’s.

A young teen taking someone’s name down for a school project, and taking their name entirely.

He gathered them up, watching the havoc wreaked in their absence but completely unsure of how to put them back. They clung to him, snagged on his psyche like burrs and after a while he realized that the only way to avoid taking them anymore was to cease speaking at all.

It was after all, his clumsy words that had stolen his classmate’s surname, and his poorly phrased request that left a waiter looking completely stunned the next table down. If he ceased talking, if he ran off to where none of the names could find him perhaps, just perhaps, they might all flow back into their owners.

So he moved far away, to the far reaches of the world beneath the thimble, and he dressed in shadows in hopes that he might one day become then and release the names inside. He sealed his lips and never spoke a word, unless perfectly phrased, thought through so that no name would ever stick to him again.

He began a small shop where he sold vials of history and flasks of thought, and for a moment things were quiet. He could almost forget at night the stolen names swirling around inside of him.

But something wasn’t right, and eventually one customer entered his shop, one who came in everyday to pester him and batter him with storms of words and flurries of language, and still he didn’t answer. But one day the first thing she asked him was his name.

“J—“

But he couldn’t remember. Still she was smiling and he had the strangest feeling that he had just lost something.

“What did you just…?”

“Jace, that’s a nice name, I haven’t heard that one before” She had a terrible grin upon her face and he realized what had happened.

“You stole my name!” He cried, outraged and forgetting his previous inclination to silence.

“I’ll give it back” She smiled. “If you can guess mine”

Though he thought it unfair, or perhaps didn’t think much of it at all he took the challenge to heart. Everyday they came in and asked if he had their name yet and everyday he stayed silent, sifting through the names that gathered like pebbles inside him.

Now suffice to say that through no lack of trying, or perhaps a properly placed bribe or two, he was still nowhere closer to finding the girl’s name.

He had sorted through them all, displaced the pieces of others inside of him in his search, overturning some more than once, until their was only one name left inside of him.

To utter that name here would be to leave it to thievery, but when the girl entered his shop, full of words that she spread over the space like falling leaves, he had his first and only guess perched on his tongue.

The girl eagerly accepted her name, and through no shortage of bargaining and verbal swordplay, the name thief had his own returned to him. He realized though, as the letters fell over him like a mantel, that in his searching for the girls name, it seemed many of his own had drifted away.

They were still there, he could feel them sitting beneath his skin, but they didn’t burn, didn’t claw at him from inside.

As the story goes our name thief learns to control his words, he learns to let names roll past him without getting caught in their thorns, and once again, after years of silence, he fills the world beneath the thimble with his voice.

How can I come back To the one I love The light it pours Out on the floor Of the house we left So dull and empty My head it spins I’m temporary

How can I get back To the loving feeling The inspiration Of never leaving I can’t feel Or tell what’s real But in return I know I’m here

But I’ve seen this episode before So far I can’t ignore The progress I’ve made and seen The feelings are few and far between

I turn on the tv to block out the pain The board the stress To me it’s all the same Deleting apps to keep myself numb Here I am stuck in this one on one Between life and the neon screen Life’s so plain how can I be seen

The lonely rhythm of the night I can’t do this alone I can’t seem to fight Inspiration here is hard to find Day by day I learn to realign

not completely finished

Do you know what it’s like to never be able to have a friend? To never be your real self? The people who know the real me don’t trust me, to them I’m simply just the kid who kills. But it’s not my fault my life’s like this- it’s just not fair. But I’m way past being sad or upset about my upbringing, I’m angry. Angry at the person who brought me into this business. Angry at the people who killed my family and decided people will trust a kid, trust them enough that they will be alone in the room long enough to be killed by the ‘kind’ kid. But as angry as I am, I have a job to do. Todays mission is a 79 year-old lady, well almost 80. Ironic how the day she has to die is also her birthday isn’t it? I really wish I didn’t have to do this, her profile says she has a husband, kids, just last week she got a grandchild.

   You know this job has its perks, the cake here is really good! And this really is a fun birthday for someone that old. I think I might wait till she goes home to kill her, wouldn’t want to ruin the mood of the party would I? Of coarse I could simply run away, change my name, and never show my face in the entire country ever again. But that’s a hassle- so I guess I should just complete the job.

Every day I wake up, put on my suit, and commute to my place of work.

I unpack my bag, put my lunch in the fridge and head straight to the changing room where I pick out my pyjamas for the day, then I head into the dark testing room with all the monitors attached to my body and climb into bed for a couple of hours.

When I wake I tell the scientists and the retailers and the mattress engineers how well I slept by answering dozens of frustrating questions. It’s funny how when you’re sleeping all day you find yourself never being able to fully rest.

At the end of my shift I do the reverse, I get back into my suit and head home where my dog is waiting for me to walk him. After that it’s dinner then straight to bed again. If I don’t get a good night's sleep I’ll be too tired to sleep at work tomorrow.

Sweat trickled down John’s back. He inched his fingers around his collar hoping for a whisper of cool breeze. Fetid air greeted him as he rounded the stalls. A chicken pecked at his penny loafers. John smiled at the unbearable stench.

“Nice uh pigs you have there.” John adjusted his polo shirt again. The farmer’s son snickered. “Shorn sheep,” the farmer said. “Come again,” John asked brightly. “They’re sheep. Romneys and a couple of Cotswolds. It’s shearing time, you know, shearing,” The farmer said moving his arms in a shaving motion. “You know for wool. This really isn’t a good time. I know Shelly called you and all but it’s our busy time.” “I’ve come all the West Chester. If I can just have a peek,” John pleaded. With a sigh the farmer led them deeper into the barn.

“Boy show the old man,” the farmer said. At a glacial pace the gawky teen stowed his phone in his overalls. With an unexpected flourish the teen ripped a bird crap covered tarp off a high chair in the corner.

Through the dust motes the small canvas glowed in translucent peach, Titanium white, and glorious cadium. John sucked in his breath sharp. Even with his third rate art school lineage, John recognized a Dutch master. His breath shuddered.

The farmer’s wife had submitted a blurry photo to his Cash in the Attic knockoff website Dollars in the Barn that looked like a Rembrandt. With a little googling John had hoped against hope. John the failed artist John the jailed counterfeiter may get have lucked into the clover because of a few hapless rubes.

Standing in front of the nude study of a frail old man draped in a divine light, John dropped to his khakis.

“It is a van Dyck, my God,” John muttered over the beating of his own heart.

“Van Dyck like Dick Van Dyck. I love Chitty Chitty Bang Bang,” the farmer said.

Quickly John got up, brushed off his dusty pants, and revved up his spiel.

“It’s okay. But not valuable per se I can take it off your hands,” John said. The farmer was looking at his kid’s phone. In the dusty barn their faces glowed with understanding. The chicken followed John as he looked back at the masterpiece and headed for his car.

The dreaded question arrives every time I meet someone new.

It’s been in every new conversation without fail.

It comes after the lull in conversation or the slight pause in pleasantries.

“How do you do it? All day, every day?”

It boggles their minds.

My response depends on the day.

On good days, I go the proper route. “There’s dignity in death. It’s the last time someone you love will see you and get to say goodbye. I get to help you look as good as possible.”

On so-so days, I go the legacy route. “Family business. Had to to keep the legacy of death alive.”

On bad days, I just shrug. “Something has to pay the bills.”

They’re all so fascinated with the process, unable to process someone who deals in death.

What’s the worst I’ve seen? Hoarder found 3 weeks later. Closed casket. (Bugs kept running out the body.)

Oldest? 115. Open casket.

Youngest? 18 weeks. Cremation.

Strangest find? Lipstick in the brain. (Drove into a tree at 75 mph putting on a fresh coat) Casket definitely closed.

They chat a little longer before their morbid curiosity catches up with them.

It always hits them that there’s a box with their name on it and me — or someone like me — will be the ones to put them there.

We’ll tighten your slack jaws, break your rigored bones, and paint your cold, dry, slowly decomposing skin.

I make it too real — their own mortality. They thank me and wander off, rushing back to their life. They think it’ll be a long time before they’ll see me again.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned in all my years, it’s never as long as they think it’ll be.

“So, how did you happen upon this … occupation?” I asked, as she led me through the dark aquarium.

“I inherited it,” she answered. “And before you ask, we don’t get many visitors. Our finances are fully taken care of by our benefactors.”

“Does anyone ever visit?”

“Our benefactors often do.”

“Are you happy?”

“There is nothing else I’d rather do. These creatures are like my family. A family I don’t have -“ she waved dismissively- “out THERE.”

This aquarium was like no other. It didn’t seem designed to attract the usual hordes of families and school field trips.

We walked past tanks of murky, brackish waters, and as I looked in them I wasn’t sure if any life was within. But suddenly, something swam up to the glass, with huge bulging eyes and a giant carp-like mouth, long whiskers bobbing. The eyes glowed with some strange intelligence that horrified yet fascinated me.

“Let me show you the cephalopods,” Claire said, gently taking my arm.