Humor Fiction posted November 14, 2017

This work has reached the exceptional level
A Mot and Laroc story.

Backward Day

by Thomas Bowling

“Ouch. What was that for?”

Mot Gnilwob's wife Laroc had kicked him in the ribs, knocking him out of bed and to the floor.

“I'm sorry. I was having a nightmare. A monster was chasing me and I was fighting it off.”

Mot struggled to his feet. “Did you have to kick it so hard?”

“What can I do to make it up?”

“How about some coffee?”

“Sorry, we ran out.”

“How about some bacon? That sounds good.”

“We ate the last of it yesterday.”

“I'm going to go out on a limb. Toast?”

“We left it out. I don't think it's still good. Do you want to try it?”

“No. So far, I'm zero for three. It would probably kill me. This sounds like it's going to be a backward day.”

Mot took a shower and got dressed for work. As he walked through the kitchen, the doorbell rang. He glanced at the clock on the oven. “7:45. Who can that be? I'll get it.”

Mot opened the door to find two men in black suits and dark glasses.

“What's this, CSI Miami?”

“FBI. Are you Mot Gnilwob?'


“Mot Gnilwob of 1412 Apricot Lane?”

“That's what it says on the mailbox. Can you fellas read?”

“That's funny, sir, we read company handbooks.”

“What's this about?”

“We have reason to believe you're the person we've been looking for. We have tied you to a string of bank robberies in the Houston area.”

“That's ridiculous. I've never been to Houston except for three years ago for a convention.”

The two men nodded at each other. “That's when the robberies began.”

One of the FBI agents spoke into his radio. “Chief, we've got our man.”

A voice on the radio responded. “We've made mistakes before. Did you ask him the confirming questions?”

One of the agents addressed Mot. “Sir, is your father Mas Gnilwob?”


“And your mother's name is Ydnas Gnilwob?”

“No. My mother's name is Yoj Gnilwob. You've got the wrong guy.”

The FBI agents were taken aback. “Chief, it's not our guy. We'll watch him just to be sure he's not trying to pull a fast one.”

Mot was angry. “What do you mean, a fast one?”

“Sir, a fast one is when . . .”

“I know what a fast one is. The question was rhetorical.”

As Mot left for work, the FBI car fell in behind him. Mot's neighbor, Mrs. McCurdy, waved. “Looks like someone's following you, Mr. Gnilwob.”

“Yes, we're going fishing.”

“In suits?”

“We're after kingfish.”

“You're a strange man, Mr. Gnilwob.”

“I know, Mrs. McCurdy.”

As the caravan pulled into the parking lot, Mot confronted the agents. “This has gone on long enough. Are you planning to sit in my office all day?”

“We'll just wait in the car.”

“In the meantime, you're in my way. You should check your facts before you start throwing accusations around.”

“We have to be sure. You could be a dangerous criminal.”

Mot's voice got louder. “You're making me mad. Don't make me shout.”

Mot fell to the ground, as one of the agents Tasered him. Gradually, the effects wore off.

Mot had a hard time speaking. “Wh . . . why?”

“You threatened federal agents.”


“You threatened to shoot us.”

“I threatened to shout at you.”

One agent looked at his partner. “Is that what you heard, Frank?”

“Nope. Let's search him for weapons.”

Mot was searched.

“Mr. Gnilwob, I suggest that the next time you threaten to shoot a federal agent, you actually have a gun. Turn around and put your hands behind your back. You have the right to remain . . .”

“Tom, wake up. Wake up.”

Tom woke up. He was still in bed.

“You were having a nightmare,“ Carol said. “You were tossing and turning, and yelling ‘stop or I'll shoot.’”

“Wow. That was some dream. Look at the time! I'll be late for work!”

“Don't be silly. It's a holiday. You can lie in bed all day if you want.”

Tom snuggled deeper into the bed. “That's what I'm going to do. I'm going to stay in bed all day.”

“No, you're not, Mr. Bowling. You promised to take me to some garage sales today. Get up. I made coffee and toast and bacon.”

As Tom staggered to the kitchen, the doorbell rang.

“Now what?”

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