Category: Political

Heaven Knows, Mr. M.

Boris and Jonny got the summons like a bad hand at a crooked table. Rufus T. Firefly’s office smelled of panic and cigar smoke, and the Dictator for Life was pacing like a man who’d misplaced his spine. “I’ve got sour news, boys,” Firefly said, voice cracking like cheap shellac. “You fled here to dodge that lunatic Donald Trump, and now he’s kicking down our door. The orange windbag’s declared war on us for our helium reserves. As if he didn’t already sound ridiculous every time he opened his mouth.”

Boris cocked an eyebrow and scratched his jowls. “I thought our spiritual ringer, Sister Ana of Armas, handed him her Nobel Peace Prize to keep his beady little eyes off our goofy gas.” Firefly snorted. “The man’s got the memory of a three-day-old gnat. He forgot. That’s why you’re here. Boris, you take the northern front and try not to get us all killed. Jonny—your job’s heavier. Sister Ana is the soul of this tin-pot republic. She breathes, we breathe. You get her south to our friends. It won’t be pretty, but you’re the only mug I trust to pull it off.”

Jonny opened his mouth to protest the partner split when the door swung open and the good sister walked in. They’d heard the hymns about her kindness and charity, but none of them mentioned she was built like trouble with a halo slapped on top. Boris clocked it instantly—Sister Ana froze when she saw Jonny, her angelic face melting into the same hungry look every Van Nuys tramp gave his pal when she’d already picked out the motel. The pug had seen that look a hundred times. It always ended the same way—wrinkled sheets, bad decisions, and regrets that didn’t last past breakfast.

The Law of Transferance

Hack wrote this novel after María Corina Machado gave Donald Trump the medallion and certificate she received for being named the 2025 Nobel Peace Prize winner in a transparent attempt to make her his puppet president of Venezuela. And while Hack clearly doesn’t comprehend the insignificance of someone winning a trophy and then giving it to another person who didn’t, it’s even more fucking obvious that Trump doesn’t either.

The Protectors

Jonny was just cracking open the morning paper when Boris staggered out of the crime lab like a sailor off a week-long bender. The pug’s eyes were bloodshot from pulling an all-nighter with nothing but fluorescent lights and government-issue coffee to keep him company. The Feds had dumped a stack of anonymous death-threat letters on him—nasty business aimed at the newly announced Nobel Prize winners. Boris had worked the envelopes like a maestro, but the only thing he could pull from the saliva was the ghost of fast food: Big Macs and Filet-O-Fish fingerprints in biochemical form. He muttered something about cholesterol profiles and brand loyalty before face-planting onto the nearest chair.

Meanwhile, Jonny scanned the front page, brow furrowing at names he didn’t recognize—Barack Obama, Robert Fauci, and one Albert Einstine… Einsteen… some German egghead whose name looked like a winning Scrabble hand. But then his eyes snagged on a name he DID know, one that hit him like a thrown blackjack: Bro Joe, fresh winner of the Literature Prize for that book he’d written about the crackpots haunting the local Starbucks. Jonny shut the paper with a snap, marched to the old rolltop desk, and fished out a pair of dusty passports. He tossed one to Boris, who caught it like a man grabbing the last donut at a stakeout. “Pack your trench coat,” Jonny said. “We’re flying to Sweden. Those Nobel nerds don’t know it yet, but along with a certificate and a novelty-sized penny, they just won the two best bodyguards in the business.”

Too Old For This Shit

Hack was impressed when he heard that Jonny and Boris marched in the No Kings protest in downtown L.A. But he thought it was hilarious when it was told that were so wiped out from doing it that they could barely move the next day, so he wrote this to stick it to them. It’s pretty funny.