"Stories of Intrigue" is a pastiche of terrible amateur genre fiction. Another way of explaining it: here is a story written by the dumbest motherfucker taking Intro to Creative Writing at your local community college.

Here is "The Madman," a Story of Intrigue about Drape Donner, a smooth advertising agency executive in the 1960s. It does not resemble and was not influenced by any other work of fiction, ever.

Drape Donner walked to the window in a black suit. "Whoa, whoa!" he yelled. He fell out the window, tumbling $1 thousand stories down, past all manner of advertisement's. "Buy Groob!" said one (a kind of wierd berry from the Madmen reality). "Purchase delicious meats and friut's for you're family today!" quoth another. Down he fell, down, down, down, until finally he was about to slam into the sidewalk, the strains of a dub-step harmonica playing over a killer drum riff. He woke up. 'Twas all a dream. This was how every morning began for him, like a ground hog-day most foul. He looked at his wife and said a thing.

Drape walked to work. It was "Sex in the City" meet's "The Office" in that freewheelin' worl'. "Ahoy," he said to Peat Camble, the snivel-livered punk whom stalked his every move. Drape grinned his signature grin, a little close-mouthed number allah Sylvester from Cracked magazine. "What's the good word in 1965?" he said to Peat. "Yes, it is 1965." Peat said. Suddenly, they turned on a newspaper. "Martin Lawrence King J.R. and Precedent Kennedy--and I ain't talkin' the VJ!--were died today. They were 45 year's old. They were shot by a gun and they're brain's splattered all over there wife's pretty little dress's." "Wow, life sure is crazy in this time period," said Drape. "You can say that again," said Peet. "Say, did you here Man landed on the Moon yesterday?" Wow said Drape.

He trod on, to his office. It was definately 1965, you could tell for sure now by the absance of Asian's and the car's outside that looked like wierd pod's. So anyway, Drape walked into his office. He poured himself a stiff Seagram's wine cooler and sat down. Before he could say boo, Roger Thesorus, Drape's nearest and dearest freind, came in with white hair's. He looked like a shorn-quimmed Edger Winter's.

"Hi-ho silver," said Drape.

"Your one to talk," said Roger. "You're hair's looks like a Lego Man. It look's like a boat spilled miryad's of oil's 'pon you're skull. Golf coast, eat you're heart out."

"Alrighty already," said Drape. "Cut the banther. Lets get down to buisness."

Yes lets'. The Lucky Stripe cigarrete Company is a big account, said Roder. Got any thought's fo're they're ads?

Drape began to think. He entered a trantric trance,much like Sting having sex with his wife for the 51th hour in a row. Suddenly, an idea!

"Eurepa!" he said. "Imagine in you're mind's eye, if you will, a child. The child represent's hope. The child is rolling a large hoop with a stick, as child's are want to do in this '60's era. The hoop then turn's into a ladie's mouth. The stick turn's into a cigarrete. The child turn's into a match. The announcer say's, "Lucky Stripe. You will feel like a child. Smoke are cigarrete."""

Said Roger, "That's brilliant! Thats why we pay you the big buck's. Hey Burk, get in hear!" Burk Cooter was the founder of the company, as old as Father Time and twice as old. He looked like a walnut with a goatee. His goatee bespake a forward thinking, for he would be the first man in history to sport one until the grunge era came along and you could spot one on the narly mug of every Chad Kroger's the world over. Anyway, he said good to Drape's idea.

The secretery Jones walked in wearing a red dress, the only artical of clothing she owned, the poor thing. She walked like a wierd cat, shaking her tailfeather in time with an imaginery base drum solo. "Hiya boys, she said."

"Va-va-voom!" they all three said at the same time. They're bow ties spun real fast and they all panted and howled like Whom Let The Dog's Out. She was adored throughout the city of Kyrandia (the Mad Men's thinly-veiled version of New York), for this was but the 19'60s, and she was the only woman whom had sex.

"Its time for you're meeting with the big brass. I'm talkin' Casio camera's. They have a newfangle thing called a camera. I don't think it'll ever catch on." She looked at the audience with a sly grim, for we in the present all knew this couldn't be more farther from the truth.

They all went to the meating. The Cassio exec's humbled and grumbled. They had no idea what was in store.

Drape turned off the light's. A slideshow came on. "Photograph." He said. "From a Greek word meaning picture. Why do we photograph? Where do we photograph? To go back home. We photograph at home. Home is we're the heart is. Home. Home, from the Latin for house. Homo sapien's. People. All of us." As he gave this tour deforce, he showed picture's of his wife Beddy and kid's, Sally, who's brown eyebrow's and yellow hair's made it so you didn't know if she was coming or going, and Bobbie, who, in an oppurtunity ripe for a True Blood crossover if ever I did know one, was some manner of shapeshifter. He settled on a picture of them all together.

Their was nary a dry eye in the house. Drape had saved the day. Casio camera's stayed with the Mad Men Ad Agency. Suddenly, Drape drifted off into a dream. He turned black and fell out the window again. "Hear we go again he thought." The whole crazy cycle started all over again. This man was mad.

For more bone-chilling and heart-stopping tales, check out our Stories of Intrigue section.