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Commercial Fan Fiction #2
Here is the second installment of the Pew-Licker Prize (it’s Mad Magazine’s version of the Pulitzer) winning series of fan fictions in which I take beloved characters from commercials and ruin them.
Commercial Fan Fic #2: GEICO
By Justin Becker
Mrs. A scanned the crowd of students as they streamed out of the school in a snaking line. Jocks, geeks, gLeeks (tm), wastoids, sluttos, preps, stat cats, emos, fatties, snug bugs, cheerleaders, metal heads, flavor savers. Normal. All normal high school students. He wasn’t there. Yet.
Safe for the moment, she leaned over and dug through her glove compartment until she found her flask. She gulped from it, perhaps a little too overeager, the dark rum hitting the back of her throat with the force of a punch from Captain Morgan’s assistant himself. She reared back spluttering and as the tears cleared from her eyes, there he was. Maxwell. He grinned a little piggy grin, his snout quivering, and waived his hoof. “Hey Mrs. A. What’re you drinking?”
“Nothing, Maxwell. Herbal tea. Pepsi cola. Doesn’t matter. Just get in the van.” She unlocked the doors with a mechanical click that in her dark mood seemed as decisive as a gun being cocked.
“Where’s Alonso?” Maxwell asked as he climbed in.
“It’s just the two of us today. His father decided to pick him up early and take him slot-car racing,” said Mrs. A, “father” pronounced thick with disdain.
“Wow!” squealed Maxwell. “I love slot-car racing!”
“Everyone loves slot-car racing, Maxwell.” Mrs. A rolled her eyes. You can magically make a pig talk, but at the end of the day he’s still just an enchanted pig. For humans, it’s a given to love slot-car racing.
“How was your day?” asked Mrs. A as she eased into traffic, but Maxwell was already gone. He leaned out the window, pinwheels clutched improbably in his cloven hands, screaming at the top of his lungs. Mrs. A sighed and pushed the speedometer up. She would get this over as soon as humanly possible. If she could drop Maxwell off in the next thirty minutes, that would give her a precious few hours of alone time, time which she would definitely need if she was going to see Guthrie tonight. Maybe she could squeeze in a quick ride on the stationary bike, try to pre-empt the tightness she would feel in her chest when she saw Guthrie’s face instantly go from laughing with Alonso to stone as he bid her a terse hello. Maybe she would post on a slot-car racing forum, remind herself that she wasn’t alone in the world. Though she was. So very much alone.