Contest Termination

We’re down to the end! That means voting has started to the right. One of our contestants will be crowned the winner, and perhaps as a prize I’ll agree not to shoot them (though a good bagging and tagging may still be in order).

First up, we hear from an odd lady. She claims to have card reading abilities. Big deal. I know what a seven of spades looks like. Oh, well. Company policy makes her a viable specimen anyway.

What Happened?

by Tarot

Visions,

Dreams,

Cards,

Chips.

Bottles,

Pigeon,

Spiritgum,

Mirrors.

Things are scrambled,

Reflections make no sense.

The past is a blur,

The future uncertain.

Holes in my memory,

Pain in my head.

A friend’s ally,

Now lies dead.

What I did,

While he,

Had gone to see,

It’s all hidden from me.

I have read what I must have written,

But I have no recall at all.

All is just the present,

Until my visions return,

And the pain is banished.

Our penultimate contestant, and the only contestant who would know what that word means, is an horrible, horrible man. He’s a traitor to all and should not be trusted. Don’t vote for this fiend. I’m glad he believes in Karma because I can blame destiny when I shoot him in the face.

The Many Metaphorical Hats Serving as Occupational Identifiers of Doctor Mohinder Suresh

by Dr. Mohinder Suresh

What is my vocation?
Do I have an identifiable occupation?
Or do I flutter
From job to job, like a stutter
In Matt’s communication?
A geneticist I was first.
I was a Taxi Driver, at worst.
I dabbled in espionage
It felt like a mirage,
Til I put Bennet in a hearse.
I came to regret my dispatching
Of the very man who’d been hatching
The plan that would destroy
Those keeping me in their employ.
So, I performed some medical patching
Does that determine me a healer?
Does peeling potatoes make me a permanent peeler?
And merely because
I dealt with an artist on drugs
Would I claim to be an art dealer?
So many jobs, here and there.
Similar to a Belgian Hare,
Trapped in a hutch,
Yet still doing much.
But why am I not yet a billionaire?

And then there’s his wife, I mean domestic partner. You have to feel sorry for this guy. Even when I bagged and tagged him, The Haitian didn’t need to do much to knock him unconscious. A Haitian sneeze and his brain was down for the count.

Peotry is Hrad!

By Matt

I nveer lkied peotry
It mkaes my brian hrut
Is’t nto maent fro me,
Lkie a tgiht shrit.

I cna tyr raelly hrad
But it awlays flais
Myabe I cloud do it
If I lreaned how to splel.

I geuss tahts why
My wfie lfet me
Taht and the fcat
She hda anohter man’s bbay.