Current Issue 2026

People were often perplexed by Gordon. After all, despite being a man well into his

seventies, he always made the effort to dress garishly and brightly. He would never leave home

without a long coat of teal or pink or orange, and always with a matching top hat. Of course, each of these top hats had a peacock feather stuck into the hat band to match both the color of the hat band and his tie, which were always a rich and dark blue-green. Naturally, he also had a long, white, beard and mustache, and the mustache was always twirled to perfection, and the beard was trimmed almost daily. Against reason and probability, no one knew what color his eyes were, as they were consistently hidden by a round pair of dark sunglasses with golden rims. He would step into any room loudly and proudly in his wing tipped shoes, and he’d be doing tricks with his cane if he had the space to do so. His decadent outfits were always matched by an impish and spritely demeanor, as he would constantly make bad puns and dad-jokes to passers by before driving away in his immaculately restored ‘57 Ford Thunderbird, which naturally was a garish and minty green with zebra print seats. No one knew why he put so much effort into his clownish appearance and character, and most people thought it was more fun to speculate on such things than to know the truth.

One winter, on a Wednesday night, Gordon danced into a local grocery store. It was 9:43

PM, and he was just as lively as always. His suit that day was a bright red, and he flamboyantly

walked up to a clearly exhausted grocery worker.

“Good evening, my boy!” he sang. “I have a question regarding a product at your fine

store!”

The grocery worker, a young man wearing a gray flannel shirt and jeans underneath the

apron and name tag that read, “Tom,” sighed as he took a break from stocking raw chicken to see what the insane septuagenarian man wanted from him.

“What might that question be, sir?” he asked.“I was wondering if this establishment might be carrying any rum raisin ice cream. Could you perhaps point me in the direction of the sweet I seek?”

Tom looked behind him, taking a moment to attempt to recall if the ice cream section had

what Gordon wanted. He also thought about how he’d always heard of Gordon from other

workers, who spoke in hushed tones about how this weird, old guy gave off a strange vibe and liked to ask for archaic and outdated products.

“No sir,” Tom uttered, hoping Gordon wouldn’t ask the accursed follow-up question. “I

don’t believe we sell rum raisin anything.”

Gordon frowned.

“Would you mind checking, young man?” Gordon asked, thinking he was not asking for

much. “I’m sure I only have a few years left in me and I want to spend them eating ice cream and listening to jazz, and I would hate to spend time doing the latter without the former.”

Tom looked away so he could roll his eyes with impunity.

“Ok, sir,” Tom said, “gimme a few minutes.”

Tom shambled away.

While Tom was away, a young mother passed by with a baby in a stroller, and Gordon

smiled at the little guy, making silly faces and waving as a greeting as well as a goodbye as the

baby’s mother smiled back at Gordon, in what appeared to be thanks for the bizarre geezer’s

antics. He twirled his cane over his wrist and tossed it in the air, catching it with his other hand.

He grew impatient.

Tom returned with two pints of ice cream in hand, each covered in a thick, fragile layer of

ice crystals, and a face red from the cold of an industrial freezer.

“Sir,” began Tom. “I was unable to find any rum raisin ice cream, so I looked through the

freezer and found two options that I thought may be acceptable alternatives.”

Gordon’s eyes were seldom visible, thanks to his fancy sunglasses, however he made it

clear through body language that he was glaring at Tom. This was unwelcome news. Gordon

sighed.

“Ok, kid,” he began, his voice losing all its previous glee, reminding Tom that this man

had a very low and raspy voice, the depths of which were never heard because no one had ever

encountered him outside of a decidedly jolly mood. 

“I asked for one small thing. I asked for rum raisin ice cream to go with my Tuesday playlist of Chet Baker and Miles Davis. I had very specific plans for tonight and you are running the risk of ruining my evening. Which would be sad.”

There was an uncomfortable silence for a moment before Gordon realized he was

creeping the boy out.

“Wait,” he said, in his normal jovial tone. “That was very rude of me and I apologize.

What kind of flavors did you have in mind?”

The young man tugged at his collar for a moment. He brushed away the crystalline veil of the first pint, revealing its label. It was raisin flavored. What kind of weird ice cream company

made ice cream that was just raisin flavored? What good was raisin without the rum? Gordon

thought. Gordon shook his head disapprovingly.

“No,” Gordon said. “That won’t do.” He pointed his cane at the other pint. “Will that be a

disappointment too?”

“This one is daiquiri,” Tom answered, brushing away the ice to reveal he was telling the

truth. 

“I figured that if you were looking for rum raisin, and we didn’t have any, I would look for

them individually, because I wanted to make sure if you were disappointed, you weren’t that

disappointed.”

Gordon shook his head and clicked his tongue disapprovingly as he inched closer to the

young man until there were only five inches between their faces. He took his sunglasses off to

reveal a pair of dark and beady shark-eyes, which sucked any warmth out of his disposition to

onlookers.

“When I get home,” Gordon began, “after a day of going to parks and trying to get some

action at the country club, I like to wind down with my ice cream and jazz. I like rum raisin. I

asked for one flavor, formed by the union of rum and raisin. I do not care for your attitude and

your sanctimonious attempts to slip out of this conversation. I just want rum raisin ice cream,

and if you do not have that, I want you to say so in no uncertain terms so that I may look in some other grocery store.”

Gordon paused, looking to his left and right.

“You might be surprised to hear that I have seen rum raisin here before. But your

managers clearly want to cater to the hippies that need you to take that off the shelves so you can sell some vegan s**t made of orange skins or some s**t. You’ve sold it before, so I know you have it somewhere else. Good day.”

With that, Gordon stomped away, knocking over a greeting card display as he exited the

building. 

A week later, someone complained about a stench coming from Gordon’s Victorian

home, obviously painted a bright periwinkle to match his demeanor. The stench was Gordon

himself. An autopsy revealed that he had died the same night he had berated poor Tom, only an

hour and change later, and he was found in his living room in front of a record player that had

been skipping on a Chet Baker album’s final track for a week, and there was a pint of rum raisin

ice cream melted on his lap, attracting flies and full of maggots. Surprisingly, further investigation into his house revealed that, in his kitchen adorned with bright yellow subway tile

walls and a checkered floor, was a mid-century modern freezer, absolutely full of pints and pints

of rum raisin ice cream.