One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it was in pennies, so you just know you're going to be dealing with a pissed off cashier. Oh, and the people in line behind you? In the middle of the Christmas shopping season? Jesus, forget about it!
Della could have gotten a job, but she decided that there was nothing she could do but fling herself onto the tattered couch and let the bedbugs massage her scalp.
While the mistress of the home consorts with her thirsty friends, let's have a look around. It was a furnished flat that went for $8 per week, due in part to the busy railway ten yards from the front door that transported hazardous freight at all hours. It was also haunted by the ghost of a serial killer that used the leather torn from his victims to fashion a recliner, an ottoman, and other handsome living room essentials. But hey, it was furnished, so you can't beat that.
James Dillingham Young was away now, hard at work in a textile plant across town. Whenever a child laborer got their fingers mangled in the razor-sharp, unregulated machinery it was his job to wipe away the soft tissue and mop up the peasant blood before it stained the product. James had been thrilled when his supervisor announced the implementation of "employee discounts" to everyone in the factory. He hadn't realized that what they had meant was they wanted their employees at a discount, and his wages were cut by $10 a week (approximately $1000000000 in future people money).
Della began to feel anemic from blood loss and decided that now was not the day to be found cold and covered with flies after James' 16-hour shift. It was so close to Christmas, after all. She rose and stood by the window. Every day, the view was the same. Each surface gritty with industrial waste, stray cats fighting and breeding endlessly. Maybe a dead hobo in the yard, stray cats fighting and eating him endlessly.
Tomorrow was Christmas, and Della had only $1.87 to purchase her husband a gift. For months she had wandered around town scouring the sidewalks and flinging herself into wishing wells, and this was all she had to show for it. Only a $1.87 for Jim, who had never asked her to be both barefoot and pregnant. Just the first one, because broads are always wasting money on shoes. Am I right?
Della stepped back from the window until she could see her reflection in it. With a flourish and a shower of swollen parasites, Della allowed her hair to cascade freely over her shoulders.
Poverty didn't allow for many precious possessions, but Della had always cherished her hair. Its gorgeous length flowed like gossamer, and was the envy of all who were fortunate enough to see it. Jim had a treasure as well. The heirloom pocket watch never left his side. He never failed to gently polish it with a clean-ish rag every Sunday evening, whether it needed it or not. Secretly, Jim enjoyed the jealous eyes that fell on him whenever he pretended to check the time; allowing the golden device to catch the light. That the jealous eyes usually belonged to starving child laborers wasn't enough to diminish his love for the trinket.
Della pulled her hair up again quickly before the temptation to change her mind overwhelmed her conviction. She threw on a jacket and left in a hurry. Della walked with a purpose until she stood before a sign that read: "Ooooh Gurl! Weaves and More!" The shop was atop a narrow flight of stairs that Della climbed with labored, trembling steps. Pausing to collect herself, she closed her eyes and opened the door. A woman with her hair elaborately done up like a large Christmas bow looked up at Della and openly appraised her worn clothing with a cynical stare.
"Will you buy my hair?" asked Della.
"I dunno. Maybe," the woman replied without much enthusiasm. "Let's see what you've got."
Her hair rippled down a final time.
"Twenty bucks, I guess," the woman muttered, rising to collect her instruments.
"Give it to me quick," said Della."
The stylist laughed. "Girl, if I had a dime for every time I--"
"No!" Della interrupted. "Sorry, just--Can we do this already?"
For as long as it takes to grow hair as fine as Della's, it took only seconds for it to be cut cruelly away. The swaying weight of it was gone, making the muscles in her neck feel strange.
As heavy as Della's heart was over the loss of her hair, the money in her pocket made her feel light and free. She moved from store to store, searching for the ideal gift for Jim.
She found it at last in Henry's Cash 4 Gold Mart. Lying in a display on a bed of purple velvet was a platinum watch chain. Just like Jim's golden watch, it was simple and understated. The substance that made it precious was enough to convince anyone of its value, especially if it caught the light just so. After parting with $21 (approximately $532934 in future people money), Della walked home as fast as she could without drawing attention. She felt like a stagecoach driver moving a bank's strongbox through the territory of highwaymen.
Once through the door, Della's adrenaline high faded and she regained her wits. Though she had obtained the perfect gift, the price she had paid was high. Something had to be done about what remained of her hair before Jim returned home. Grasping a can of grease drippings in a fit of inspiration, she went to her bedroom mirror to begin the sad task of repairing her butchered scalp. Forty minutes later, her hands sticky with grease, she decided that there was nothing more that could be done.
"God, I look like frigging Peter Pan over here," Della muttered.
At 7 o'clock, coffee was beginning to percolate next to the pan that was currently frying the rat steaks. Jim always arrived home promptly, and it was prudent for Della to make it seem as though she hadn't neglected her rightful place in the kitchen (haw, old timey people).
Della sat at the table and cradled the watch chain in her hand. As the unmistakable thud of his boot striking the first stair sounded, her beating heart began to answer in kind. Her eyes did not blink as she watched the door and listened to his approach.
"Please God, let him still find me pretty," she whispered. "People still like Ellen Degeneres, right? That's something!"
This did little to comfort her, for she didn't quite know who Ellen Degeneres was.
The door opened, and Jim stepped in. He was thin and serious, his apron smeared with orphan chunks. It had clearly been a hard day.
Jim froze in the doorway and stared at Della, frozen as though she were Medusa. With a shout, his trance was broken and he stumbled back against the door.
"Dear God, Della! Call the constable!" he cried. "We're being burgled by a lesbian biker!"
"Jim, darling!" she sobbed, rising from her seat. "I had my hair cut off and sold! I couldn't live through Christmas without giving you the gift that you deserve! My hair--my hair grows very fast! It will be at pixie-cut levels in no time!"
"You've cut off your hair?" Jim muttered. His voice was low and empty of emotion like the bloody, naked ghost that leaned over their bed and whispered about what he had done in Hell that day while they were trying to sleep.
"And I sold it," Della continued. "I think we have a paper bag in the cupboard. If you'll just let me cut eye holes you don't--"
"You said that your hair was gone?" he rasped.
"Yes!" she replied, trying to remember everything she had read about aneurysms. "And I did it for you! I know you'll love your gift! Please stop forcing blood into your face."
Jim flung himself against Della and held her to his chest, sobbing. A hideous feeling of foreboding clouded Della's soul, and soon she was weeping as well. Suddenly, Jim pulled away and slammed a package on the table. An assortment of combs clattered out onto the table, the very ones that she had fawned over in the storefront window for ages. Of course, she had always known that the beautiful things were far beyond their financial reach. Unless...
"Oh God, Jim. You sold it, didn't you?" she shouted, balling her fists in front of her pale face. The chain felt like it was burning into her palms.
"Yes, the watch. I did it for you, and I'd do it again a thousand times over. Oh, if I had only known that fate would play such a cruel trick on us!" Jim lamented.
"The cruelty is greater than you know," Della gasped, holding her open palm out to Jim. The chain seemed dull in the gloomy kitchen. All the promise that it had held was torn away.
"Oh God! It's perfect! But you!" Jim screamed, his finger thrust at the sky. "You couldn't let us have this moment, could you? What did we do to you? Was it the baby? Goddamnit, it was the baby!"
Della rushed forward and grasped his shoulders. "No, it wasn't! You couldn't have known! You're not responsible!"
"Apparently I've been found guilty by the Judge of Heaven!" Jim cried. "'Drop it off at the fire station,' they said! 'It's completely legal," they said! But they never told you where in the fire station to place it! And the rubbish bin was a warm enough place. Someone was sure to take out the garbage in a matter of minutes and discover the wriggling bundle there! How was I to know about mechanical compactors? Who knew such a damned thing existed at this point in history?"
Della pressed her face to his chest. Her hair stabbed into his jaw while they cried together in a state of hysterical misery.
"What shall we do, Jim? What can we do?"
For a time, Jim did not answer. His breathing became slow and even. Della could feel his mind arriving at an inescapable conclusion.
"I know of a bridge," Jim began. "It is high, and this time of year the water is cold enough to stop a heart in mid-beat."
"Let's go, darling!" Della implored. "Right now! Together!"
"Yes, Della. Today we escape this torment forever!" Jim returned. In spite of everything, he began to smile. Then he laughed.
Della, grinning too, began to pull him towards the front door. "Freedom, Jim! Isn't that the greatest gift of all? Oh, I hope the ice is as deadly as you say!"
"I hope it is twice as fatal for you, my dear! But let us not forget to burn this place before we depart! Burn it right down to its odd-smelling foundation!"
Della seized a lamp and began to slosh the oil across the kitchen, laughing all the while.
"Cleansing fire!" she shouted. "Let this Hell we occupy better represent the Hell that lies in wait for us!"
"Yes!" Jim cheered! "Burn it all, and then we shall gladly dash into the Devil's arms!"
The magi, as you know, were terribly misinformed men. They brought things like frankincense and myrrh to a newborn baby, after all. What, exactly, is a newborn baby going to do with potpourri? Is it even safe for them to breathe in all those vapors and crap, because I know it isn't cool to burn incense right next to a frigging kid that's just a few hours old.
Anyway, when the magi found out their mistake, the exchange of gifts was terribly awkward (although not as bad as the moron that gave a SLEEPING BABY a drum solo). As the tales of that child's incredible acts began to spread, the magi were reminded again and again of their failure. Finally, the burden of it grew too heavy. All three flung themselves from the summit of the highest temple. And though they were oppressed by the cruel memory of that night around the manger, they did not have to escape the tyranny of a squandered life alone. Sometimes, the greatest ambition a man can entertain is to find someone willing to help them step off that high ledge.
Jim and Della, just like the magi before them, achieved this noble goal.
Showing posts with label GTTGC. Show all posts
Showing posts with label GTTGC. Show all posts
Tuesday, December 3, 2013
Sunday, November 3, 2013
2 Spooky: Terror in Tea-Town
"They've breached the gate, Martha," Eric Gaiman muttered as he peeked fearfully through the boards on his window.
Martha Gaiman cradled her snub-nosed .38 in her lap as though she were comforting a small dog. She had constructed a couch cushion fort at the top of the cellar steps and spent the majority of her time kneeling behind them for cover. "Good Lord, save us! What now?"
"We defend what's ours."
Eric's knees cracked like gunshots as he crouched and waddled to the front door, where he began to snap open the deadbolts and chains.
"Can't we call the police once more?" Martha shouted, fumbling with the cylinder of her pistol. She checked the primers for the fifth time in an hour before snapping it back into place.
"They ain't coming, woman! It's every man for his-self!"
The final deadbolt slid back and Eric eased the door inward; grateful that he oiled the hinges religiously. The only sound was the bottom of the door rasping against the welcome mat as he swung it open just enough to slide his rifle through. Eric peered through the scope, cursing his failure to buy those infrared optics he found on Ebay last month. The scope was all but useless, revealing only the shambling silhouettes of the invaders that stalked the streets.
Sounds. The night was alive with ghoulish sounds of prowling monsters. Some wore chains around their necks that jangled like Jacob Marley with epilepsy. Other groaned with otherworldly hunger, their arms outstretched and grasping for victims. And worse yet, some were approaching homes and battering at the doors.
"Naturally, not a damn one of them is standing their ground," Eric muttered. "Guess it's up to me to get this war off on the right track."
His old eyes weren't what they had been, but they had adjusted to the inky blackness that hid the ravenous tangos. Squinting, he settled the scope on an undulating figure. The crosshairs were invisible, but Eric knew well enough that he was honed in on the center mass. Gently, just like his father had taught him 60-years earlier, he squeezed the trigger.
When it goes off, it's gotta be a surprise, his father had said.
Across the street, the shifting form exploded in a spray of latex and plastic scraps.
"Did ya' get 'em!? Did ya'!?" Martha shouted from her fort.
No, no he hadn't. What he had gotten (forgotten, more like) was the damn animatronic witch Henderson trotted out every year. Judging by the silence of countless listening ears, Eric would pay for his foolish act of accidental vandalism dearly.
"Yeah, hon'. I got one of them. And now we've just got to hold off the rest, lest they're deaf," Eric called over his shoulder. No reason to believe she'd ever see his faux pas. It'd be bad for morale, besides.
Martha checked her rounds again, and held the small gun with both hands close to her breasts; exactly the way Eric had told her to stop doing more times than he cared to remember. No matter. If he did his job, she'd never have to sock herself in the jaw using the damn thing.
Like ants on a distressed anthill, the night-walkers scrambled every which way. Shadows moved away, and through yards. But some approached, with anger bubbling up from their inhuman throats.
"There! Son of a bitch!" one of them screamed.
A round drove itself into the door, slamming it against Eric's shoulder. Frantic now, Eric forgot the face of his father and began to yank at the trigger. His straining eye sought out shadows that moved.
"You didn't say they'd shoot back! You said they wouldn't!" Martha shouted. She thrust her gun at the window looking out on the front lawn and flung a round through the glass. The gun yanked her wrists painfully backwards, and with a twitch of her finger she put a second round through the roof.
"Goddamnit, woman, I told you to stow the fucking thing 'til I was dead or disarmed!" Eric barked, half expecting the batty old ball-and-chain to slip and put a bullet through his ass. Wouldn't that be a delightful end to this whole mess?
Another shot came from the dark, this time shredding the aluminum siding just to the right of the door. Eric felt a trickle of warmth slide down the knuckles of his left hand. He gripped the weapon even tighter and returned the shots in kind. How many rounds were left in the clip? In his panic, Eric had neglected to count. Today was going very, very poorly.
The view through Eric's scope turned a deeper shade of black. Too close. They were far too close. He had failed.
"Fuckin' asshole!" the figure roared.
More loud reports came then. As the last one reverberated into nothing, all that remained in Eric and Martha's gated neighborhood was the stink of gunpowder and the shadows that moved.
From behind her fort, Martha jostled to her knees and leveled her gun at the front door. She pushed the snub-nose towards the doorway until her biceps and forearms burned.
"You got them, Eric? I know you did. You got them dead to rights," she said. It was a dumb question, and she'd be scolded for it, but she needed to be confident that the fight was won. Even if it wasn't.
Eric didn't answer. He lay prone by the door just as he had before, his rifle jutting out into the sliver of night that lay beyond. His shoulder kept it from swinging inside all the way. Wasn't that just Eric, a strategist in the worst of times?
The barrel of Eric's rifle began to drift to the right.
"There still more Eric? You need another magazine?" Martha asked, shuffling into a squat so she could hop the cushions if need be.
The stock slid from Eric's shoulder and bounced against the carpet as the rifle spun in his motionless arms like a compass needle. Just before it stopped turning, Martha saw the gleam of a polished boot pressing the end of the barrel away from where the moving shadow was standing.
"M'am, I am coming in. And when I do, I suggest you have both hands up and empty," the person outside said. His voice was deep, confident, and tingling with adrenaline.
"Are you one of them? What did you do to my husband?" Martha stuttered. She wondered if her gun could punch through the door to where the invader was standing. It was plenty powerful, for sure, but how many chances would she have to shoot before they descended on her?
"Nothing I ever wanted to do, lady. If you turn around and place your hands on the wall, I promise that you won't have to see anything," he replied. A large, dark hand grasped the corner of the door and began to push.
Eric's head rolled to the side, revealing the wet hole where his eye had been. Martha's frantic eyes darted from Eric to the hand, and then to the widening gap that lead into the darkness. And now it was coming inside. And now it would appear, any second, it would appear and consume her with its wrath. Martha closed her eyes and fired once.
The front door met the wall and spat its stained glass window across the carpet, where it glittered like green and amber jewels. And Martha was falling too, thoughts and memories breaking into jagged pieces that she wanted to gather and piece back together. Maybe the ugly parts of Eric could be set aside, and shining, beautiful pieces could go in their place.
But maybe it was okay to leave them as they were. Maybe they were even more beautiful than before, and they could color the sunlight if it ever returned again. And if it never did, maybe that was okay too. Maybe it was okay to sleep and let the pieces fall where they may.
--------------------
Lieutenant Terrance Carver stood stock-still for a time, his ears searching for the metallic snap of gun actions. The soles of his feet searched for the rhythmic vibration of human footsteps. When he felt the time was finally right, he swept the sweat from his forehead with the side of his hand.
"Echo 15, what's your status?"
Carver thumbed his receiver. "Still could use that backup, and two EMT's. No hurry on those. Two suspects down, scene looks clear."
"Copy that, Echo 15. Keep it secure for a few. Calvary will be there soon enough."
"Not soon enough," Carver muttered, as he stepped over to an old CRT monitor humming away on a desk in the living room. The screensaver hadn't even had time to kick in yet, from the looks of it. Keeping his body facing the two downed suspects, he squinted at the text.
It was a forum post on a site called Free Republic, not completed or submitted yet.
"What's the point of living in a SECURED community when the THUGS get access to it so they can beg for candy along with all the decent kids. And don't believe for a second those feral urban THUGS aren't casing every single American who's foolish enough to open the door. Well not me! I'm putting a stop to it TONIGHT. RAHOWA! RAH--"
Carver sighed and wiped a fresh crop of sweat from his forehead. His pores would take any excuse they could to start flowing. He found himself wondering if he could ask to wear a hat when they asked him to go on Good Morning America over this.
Martha Gaiman cradled her snub-nosed .38 in her lap as though she were comforting a small dog. She had constructed a couch cushion fort at the top of the cellar steps and spent the majority of her time kneeling behind them for cover. "Good Lord, save us! What now?"
"We defend what's ours."
Eric's knees cracked like gunshots as he crouched and waddled to the front door, where he began to snap open the deadbolts and chains.
"Can't we call the police once more?" Martha shouted, fumbling with the cylinder of her pistol. She checked the primers for the fifth time in an hour before snapping it back into place.
"They ain't coming, woman! It's every man for his-self!"
The final deadbolt slid back and Eric eased the door inward; grateful that he oiled the hinges religiously. The only sound was the bottom of the door rasping against the welcome mat as he swung it open just enough to slide his rifle through. Eric peered through the scope, cursing his failure to buy those infrared optics he found on Ebay last month. The scope was all but useless, revealing only the shambling silhouettes of the invaders that stalked the streets.
Sounds. The night was alive with ghoulish sounds of prowling monsters. Some wore chains around their necks that jangled like Jacob Marley with epilepsy. Other groaned with otherworldly hunger, their arms outstretched and grasping for victims. And worse yet, some were approaching homes and battering at the doors.
"Naturally, not a damn one of them is standing their ground," Eric muttered. "Guess it's up to me to get this war off on the right track."
His old eyes weren't what they had been, but they had adjusted to the inky blackness that hid the ravenous tangos. Squinting, he settled the scope on an undulating figure. The crosshairs were invisible, but Eric knew well enough that he was honed in on the center mass. Gently, just like his father had taught him 60-years earlier, he squeezed the trigger.
When it goes off, it's gotta be a surprise, his father had said.
Across the street, the shifting form exploded in a spray of latex and plastic scraps.
"Did ya' get 'em!? Did ya'!?" Martha shouted from her fort.
No, no he hadn't. What he had gotten (forgotten, more like) was the damn animatronic witch Henderson trotted out every year. Judging by the silence of countless listening ears, Eric would pay for his foolish act of accidental vandalism dearly.
"Yeah, hon'. I got one of them. And now we've just got to hold off the rest, lest they're deaf," Eric called over his shoulder. No reason to believe she'd ever see his faux pas. It'd be bad for morale, besides.
Martha checked her rounds again, and held the small gun with both hands close to her breasts; exactly the way Eric had told her to stop doing more times than he cared to remember. No matter. If he did his job, she'd never have to sock herself in the jaw using the damn thing.
Like ants on a distressed anthill, the night-walkers scrambled every which way. Shadows moved away, and through yards. But some approached, with anger bubbling up from their inhuman throats.
"There! Son of a bitch!" one of them screamed.
A round drove itself into the door, slamming it against Eric's shoulder. Frantic now, Eric forgot the face of his father and began to yank at the trigger. His straining eye sought out shadows that moved.
"You didn't say they'd shoot back! You said they wouldn't!" Martha shouted. She thrust her gun at the window looking out on the front lawn and flung a round through the glass. The gun yanked her wrists painfully backwards, and with a twitch of her finger she put a second round through the roof.
"Goddamnit, woman, I told you to stow the fucking thing 'til I was dead or disarmed!" Eric barked, half expecting the batty old ball-and-chain to slip and put a bullet through his ass. Wouldn't that be a delightful end to this whole mess?
Another shot came from the dark, this time shredding the aluminum siding just to the right of the door. Eric felt a trickle of warmth slide down the knuckles of his left hand. He gripped the weapon even tighter and returned the shots in kind. How many rounds were left in the clip? In his panic, Eric had neglected to count. Today was going very, very poorly.
The view through Eric's scope turned a deeper shade of black. Too close. They were far too close. He had failed.
"Fuckin' asshole!" the figure roared.
More loud reports came then. As the last one reverberated into nothing, all that remained in Eric and Martha's gated neighborhood was the stink of gunpowder and the shadows that moved.
From behind her fort, Martha jostled to her knees and leveled her gun at the front door. She pushed the snub-nose towards the doorway until her biceps and forearms burned.
"You got them, Eric? I know you did. You got them dead to rights," she said. It was a dumb question, and she'd be scolded for it, but she needed to be confident that the fight was won. Even if it wasn't.
Eric didn't answer. He lay prone by the door just as he had before, his rifle jutting out into the sliver of night that lay beyond. His shoulder kept it from swinging inside all the way. Wasn't that just Eric, a strategist in the worst of times?
The barrel of Eric's rifle began to drift to the right.
"There still more Eric? You need another magazine?" Martha asked, shuffling into a squat so she could hop the cushions if need be.
The stock slid from Eric's shoulder and bounced against the carpet as the rifle spun in his motionless arms like a compass needle. Just before it stopped turning, Martha saw the gleam of a polished boot pressing the end of the barrel away from where the moving shadow was standing.
"M'am, I am coming in. And when I do, I suggest you have both hands up and empty," the person outside said. His voice was deep, confident, and tingling with adrenaline.
"Are you one of them? What did you do to my husband?" Martha stuttered. She wondered if her gun could punch through the door to where the invader was standing. It was plenty powerful, for sure, but how many chances would she have to shoot before they descended on her?
"Nothing I ever wanted to do, lady. If you turn around and place your hands on the wall, I promise that you won't have to see anything," he replied. A large, dark hand grasped the corner of the door and began to push.
Eric's head rolled to the side, revealing the wet hole where his eye had been. Martha's frantic eyes darted from Eric to the hand, and then to the widening gap that lead into the darkness. And now it was coming inside. And now it would appear, any second, it would appear and consume her with its wrath. Martha closed her eyes and fired once.
The front door met the wall and spat its stained glass window across the carpet, where it glittered like green and amber jewels. And Martha was falling too, thoughts and memories breaking into jagged pieces that she wanted to gather and piece back together. Maybe the ugly parts of Eric could be set aside, and shining, beautiful pieces could go in their place.
But maybe it was okay to leave them as they were. Maybe they were even more beautiful than before, and they could color the sunlight if it ever returned again. And if it never did, maybe that was okay too. Maybe it was okay to sleep and let the pieces fall where they may.
--------------------
Lieutenant Terrance Carver stood stock-still for a time, his ears searching for the metallic snap of gun actions. The soles of his feet searched for the rhythmic vibration of human footsteps. When he felt the time was finally right, he swept the sweat from his forehead with the side of his hand.
"Echo 15, what's your status?"
Carver thumbed his receiver. "Still could use that backup, and two EMT's. No hurry on those. Two suspects down, scene looks clear."
"Copy that, Echo 15. Keep it secure for a few. Calvary will be there soon enough."
"Not soon enough," Carver muttered, as he stepped over to an old CRT monitor humming away on a desk in the living room. The screensaver hadn't even had time to kick in yet, from the looks of it. Keeping his body facing the two downed suspects, he squinted at the text.
It was a forum post on a site called Free Republic, not completed or submitted yet.
"What's the point of living in a SECURED community when the THUGS get access to it so they can beg for candy along with all the decent kids. And don't believe for a second those feral urban THUGS aren't casing every single American who's foolish enough to open the door. Well not me! I'm putting a stop to it TONIGHT. RAHOWA! RAH--"
Carver sighed and wiped a fresh crop of sweat from his forehead. His pores would take any excuse they could to start flowing. He found himself wondering if he could ask to wear a hat when they asked him to go on Good Morning America over this.
Wednesday, October 30, 2013
2 Spooky: The Meshuga Mirror
"I can't believe we're doing this," Shelly Easton groaned. "This is the dumbest Halloween thing ever!"
Christine Wilkes had been struggling to salvage this get-together for the past three hours. And with only two of her closest friends sticking with her, she couldn't help but wonder how long it would be before she stumbled over the limits of their patience like the clumsy ass that she surely must be. This was her last hope. And boy, was it ever dumb!
"You heard about this from your uncle? You mean the annoying one who likes Ron Paul?" Marie Cantor grumbled.
"Yeah, yeah, that one. Now listen up," Christine whispered, switching off the bathroom lights. The room was thrust into smothering darkness, with only the milky light of the moon visible through a frosted glass window. As their eyes adjusted, their pale faces and moonlit hair became visible in the mirror.
"So when does the mummy jump out of the medicine cabinet or whatever?" Shelly asked. The smirk in her voice was unmistakable. Time for a bold gambit.
"Shell, why don't you perform the summoning incantation and see what does pop out?" Christine said, stepping aside and gesturing in invitation.
Shelly hesitated for a moment. As she stepped into the shaft of moonlight splashing against the marble sink, Christine saw that her friend's smirk was in terrible danger of becoming an anxious grimace.
You might not have any confidence in this bullshit, but you can sure as hell hide it. I'm practically a Senator, Christine mused.
Shelly cleared her throat and met the gaze of her ghostly reflection. "Spirits that are near and far...Twinkle, twinkle, little star--"
"Say it right so we can get out of here!" Marie whined. Her mousy face betrayed more frightened anticipation than anyone in the room.
"Fine! Don't have a stroke," Shelly muttered. She squared her shoulders and began again.
"Spirits that are near or far,
In this room as black as tar,
I speak in hopes that you will hear,
And travel to this mirror clear!"
Shelly paused for a moment as she pieced together the summoning phrase. Her breath whispered through her nose as she inhaled.
"Israel is an illegal Apartheid state!
Israel is an illegal Apartheid state!
Israel is an illegal Apartheid state!"
The air grew still as the trio held their breath. A potent brew of adrenaline and fear crept through their veins. It reminded Marie of the time that she had gotten her tonsils removed and the doctor had injected something hot and potent into her IV line before the world had begun to swim.
"Jesus, Chris, look! Please tell me you're seeing this" Shelly gasped in wonder.
Christine's face, illuminated by the strengthening blue glow of the mirror's surface, gave Shelly all the confirmation necessary. Something had been called into this room. God help them if this thing from beyond wasn't friendly.
A slender face was rendered on the mirror's silvery surface, with short-cropped hair and a strong jaw. It spoke in an authoritative, accented voice.
"I am Abraham, member of the JIDF. I have heard your Anti-Semitic words, and will not allow your obscenities to go unchallenged!"
"Christine," Shelly hissed through her teeth. "Any more wise ideas from your uncle?"
Christine stepped toward the mirror. Her uncle was batting a thousand so far, anyway.
"Begone, spirit!" Christine scolded. "Criticism of Israel is not the same thing as being an Anti-Semite!"
"SILENCE!" Abraham roared. "An attack on Zionism is an insult to all the children of Israel!"
Oh shit, that wasn't supposed to happen
"What the hell, Chris? Stop pissing him off!" Marie groaned, backing away towards the door.
"The door is sealed, fascist. Escape is not possible," Abraham said. Marie jerked her shaking hand away from the knob as if it were red hot. "I suggest you pray to your moon god now, Arabs. A drone strike is en route as we speak."
"What!? Like, an actual drone!?" Shelly shrieked.
"Yes. You deserve no less for your oppression of our plucky little state with your words of criticism."
Marie sprung back to the door, pulling and kicking on the plywood barrier that suddenly felt as though it were a bank vault.
"Isn't that kind of a disproportionate response?" Shelly shouted, eyeballing the small frosted window for signs of weakness.
"Yeah, I guess," Abraham replied. "But nobody's ever been able to hold us accountable for anything we've done before, so I doubt they're going to start with you."
Christine pinched the bridge of her nose, pushing blood into her eardrums until all she could hear was a dull roar. He mind scrambled for something, anything that could defuse this situation before the explosions began. There had to be something.
"You can't just attack the continental United States!" Shelly pleaded. "International waters are one thing, but you're taking this to a whole new level!"
International waters...Christine focused her concentration until the words were all she could see against the stark blackness of her eyelids. International waters....attack....United States....The Liberty. The Liberty!
"The U.S.S. Liberty!" Christine shouted.
Both girls froze. Confused as they were, their eyes betrayed a sliver of hope.
"What about it?" Abraham muttered, sneering at the unfavorable change of subject.
"My next door neighbor was on that ship! He tells everyone he can that the IDF knew the Liberty was an American ship before they attacked it!"
Abraham pursed his lips. "You don't say? 'Everyone' who will listen?"
"Exactly," Christine replied, gesturing broadly. "The letters to the editor, the guys at the VA hospital, the Memorial Day parade organizers. He's been rallying for a memorial plaque on the town square for years!"
All three girls knew that mean old Miss Grizzle lived in the house next door, hoarding wayward baseballs and frisbees; not to mention a few dozen cats. Christine silently prayed that her friends would set their moral inhibitions aside and roll with this.
"You don't say," Abraham said. "We've got no record of this guy. Mossad really dropped the ball on that, it seems. All right, I'll make you a deal. That is, if you're interested?"
"Hell ye--I mean, yes, sir, we are," Christine muttered.
Abraham smiled. "Good, good. There will be a terrible incident involving a gas leak and a pilot light at your neighbor's house in just a bit. You never saw me, you never heard me, and this was all just a terrible tragedy that highlights the need to install hazardous vapor detectors in every home."
"Yeah, yeah! We understand completely!" Marie said, nodding with cartoonish enthusiasm.
"Very cool, as you Americans say! Our business here is done. Shalom!"
The JIDF phantom swirled away into nothing and the bathroom was silent once more.
"Alright, please tell me somebody spiked the punch and none of that happened," Shelly gasped, slumping down onto the toilet seat.
"Not unless I got the same dose you did," Christine replied, staring with trepidation at the dark mirror.
"I only drank the Diet Coke," Marie croaked as she tried the door knob once more. It turned and opened easily.
"So what now?" Shelly asked.
In the distance, a droning engine began to crescendo as it flew westward for its rendezvous with Grizzle the Frizzled's hovel.
"First, we go to the basement and don't leave until the explosions stop."
"And then?" Marie asked.
"We stick to summoning Candyman from now on."
Christine Wilkes had been struggling to salvage this get-together for the past three hours. And with only two of her closest friends sticking with her, she couldn't help but wonder how long it would be before she stumbled over the limits of their patience like the clumsy ass that she surely must be. This was her last hope. And boy, was it ever dumb!
"You heard about this from your uncle? You mean the annoying one who likes Ron Paul?" Marie Cantor grumbled.
"Yeah, yeah, that one. Now listen up," Christine whispered, switching off the bathroom lights. The room was thrust into smothering darkness, with only the milky light of the moon visible through a frosted glass window. As their eyes adjusted, their pale faces and moonlit hair became visible in the mirror.
"So when does the mummy jump out of the medicine cabinet or whatever?" Shelly asked. The smirk in her voice was unmistakable. Time for a bold gambit.
"Shell, why don't you perform the summoning incantation and see what does pop out?" Christine said, stepping aside and gesturing in invitation.
Shelly hesitated for a moment. As she stepped into the shaft of moonlight splashing against the marble sink, Christine saw that her friend's smirk was in terrible danger of becoming an anxious grimace.
You might not have any confidence in this bullshit, but you can sure as hell hide it. I'm practically a Senator, Christine mused.
Shelly cleared her throat and met the gaze of her ghostly reflection. "Spirits that are near and far...Twinkle, twinkle, little star--"
"Say it right so we can get out of here!" Marie whined. Her mousy face betrayed more frightened anticipation than anyone in the room.
"Fine! Don't have a stroke," Shelly muttered. She squared her shoulders and began again.
"Spirits that are near or far,
In this room as black as tar,
I speak in hopes that you will hear,
And travel to this mirror clear!"
Shelly paused for a moment as she pieced together the summoning phrase. Her breath whispered through her nose as she inhaled.
"Israel is an illegal Apartheid state!
Israel is an illegal Apartheid state!
Israel is an illegal Apartheid state!"
The air grew still as the trio held their breath. A potent brew of adrenaline and fear crept through their veins. It reminded Marie of the time that she had gotten her tonsils removed and the doctor had injected something hot and potent into her IV line before the world had begun to swim.
"Jesus, Chris, look! Please tell me you're seeing this" Shelly gasped in wonder.
Christine's face, illuminated by the strengthening blue glow of the mirror's surface, gave Shelly all the confirmation necessary. Something had been called into this room. God help them if this thing from beyond wasn't friendly.
A slender face was rendered on the mirror's silvery surface, with short-cropped hair and a strong jaw. It spoke in an authoritative, accented voice.
"I am Abraham, member of the JIDF. I have heard your Anti-Semitic words, and will not allow your obscenities to go unchallenged!"
"Christine," Shelly hissed through her teeth. "Any more wise ideas from your uncle?"
Christine stepped toward the mirror. Her uncle was batting a thousand so far, anyway.
"Begone, spirit!" Christine scolded. "Criticism of Israel is not the same thing as being an Anti-Semite!"
"SILENCE!" Abraham roared. "An attack on Zionism is an insult to all the children of Israel!"
Oh shit, that wasn't supposed to happen
"What the hell, Chris? Stop pissing him off!" Marie groaned, backing away towards the door.
"The door is sealed, fascist. Escape is not possible," Abraham said. Marie jerked her shaking hand away from the knob as if it were red hot. "I suggest you pray to your moon god now, Arabs. A drone strike is en route as we speak."
"What!? Like, an actual drone!?" Shelly shrieked.
"Yes. You deserve no less for your oppression of our plucky little state with your words of criticism."
Marie sprung back to the door, pulling and kicking on the plywood barrier that suddenly felt as though it were a bank vault.
"Isn't that kind of a disproportionate response?" Shelly shouted, eyeballing the small frosted window for signs of weakness.
"Yeah, I guess," Abraham replied. "But nobody's ever been able to hold us accountable for anything we've done before, so I doubt they're going to start with you."
Christine pinched the bridge of her nose, pushing blood into her eardrums until all she could hear was a dull roar. He mind scrambled for something, anything that could defuse this situation before the explosions began. There had to be something.
"You can't just attack the continental United States!" Shelly pleaded. "International waters are one thing, but you're taking this to a whole new level!"
International waters...Christine focused her concentration until the words were all she could see against the stark blackness of her eyelids. International waters....attack....United States....The Liberty. The Liberty!
"The U.S.S. Liberty!" Christine shouted.
Both girls froze. Confused as they were, their eyes betrayed a sliver of hope.
"What about it?" Abraham muttered, sneering at the unfavorable change of subject.
"My next door neighbor was on that ship! He tells everyone he can that the IDF knew the Liberty was an American ship before they attacked it!"
Abraham pursed his lips. "You don't say? 'Everyone' who will listen?"
"Exactly," Christine replied, gesturing broadly. "The letters to the editor, the guys at the VA hospital, the Memorial Day parade organizers. He's been rallying for a memorial plaque on the town square for years!"
All three girls knew that mean old Miss Grizzle lived in the house next door, hoarding wayward baseballs and frisbees; not to mention a few dozen cats. Christine silently prayed that her friends would set their moral inhibitions aside and roll with this.
"You don't say," Abraham said. "We've got no record of this guy. Mossad really dropped the ball on that, it seems. All right, I'll make you a deal. That is, if you're interested?"
"Hell ye--I mean, yes, sir, we are," Christine muttered.
Abraham smiled. "Good, good. There will be a terrible incident involving a gas leak and a pilot light at your neighbor's house in just a bit. You never saw me, you never heard me, and this was all just a terrible tragedy that highlights the need to install hazardous vapor detectors in every home."
"Yeah, yeah! We understand completely!" Marie said, nodding with cartoonish enthusiasm.
"Very cool, as you Americans say! Our business here is done. Shalom!"
The JIDF phantom swirled away into nothing and the bathroom was silent once more.
"Alright, please tell me somebody spiked the punch and none of that happened," Shelly gasped, slumping down onto the toilet seat.
"Not unless I got the same dose you did," Christine replied, staring with trepidation at the dark mirror.
"I only drank the Diet Coke," Marie croaked as she tried the door knob once more. It turned and opened easily.
"So what now?" Shelly asked.
In the distance, a droning engine began to crescendo as it flew westward for its rendezvous with Grizzle the Frizzled's hovel.
"First, we go to the basement and don't leave until the explosions stop."
"And then?" Marie asked.
"We stick to summoning Candyman from now on."
Friday, September 20, 2013
Go to the Guidance Counselor: Gerbil on the Edge
Write an email to a homesick gerbil who is a tightrope walker.
TO: wheelnsqueel@comcast.net
FROM: ballrollin@hotmail.com
SUBJECT: RE:I hope i've got ur support man
I guess I always knew I'd see you on the news someday, but not like this.
To be honest, I either thought it'd be you rolling your ball into traffic, or jumping off of a counter-top in front of a whole litter of kids. It kills me to say that, because I love you, man. But you've never been happy a single day that I've known you. God help me, I tried. I introduced you to my sister, even. She's still pissed about that whole stalking thing, by the way. What part of "I enjoyed our date, but I think we should see other people," didn't you understand? Sorry, I'm getting off topic. You don't need that right now.
When you left without even talking to me about the lease or moving your stuff, I kind of figured that was it. I even started making arrangements to send your stuff to your parents, if they wanted it. And then I see your promo on Good Morning America, where you're going to walk a tightrope three stories above the plaza where they do the weather. Jesus, man.
I know what this is, and so do you. As if the fact that you've never walked a tightrope in your life wasn't evidence enough. And the email you sent me!
"God, sometimes I just want to be back home again."
"I was just contacting you to ask for your support in this new adventure I've decided to pull the trigger on."
Holy shit, is that a gun metaphor in reference to your decision to step off of a third-story window sill on live television?
Yeah, you want to be home. Because a part of you, a very primal part of you, knows exactly what's going to happen. There's no going home once your foot slips off of that wire. All that's waiting for you is oblivion. The legacy you will leave is another snuff film on YouTube for 13-year-olds to watch on a dare.
My advice to you is this: Don't do it. Tell the TV guys that you've never done this before, and you planned not to survive. Maybe they'll get you some help, turn it into an inspiring news package. Who knows, maybe they'll even pay for your hospitalization. And if they don't, Dr. Phil probably will. Play your cards right, and you can be home within a few months.
I don't hate you, man. Nobody hates you as much as you hate yourself. Give yourself permission to feel good about being alive again.
If you choose to do this, and God I hope you don't, I'm not going to watch. I'm not going to cheer you on. You can't ask that of me. You have no right. If you really want to impress me and redeem yourself, recognize that you have a problem and get help. There's no shame in that, and I'll be goddamn proud of you for doing it.
Make the right choice, for God's sake.
Your friend,
Mister Bubbles
TO: wheelnsqueel@comcast.net
FROM: ballrollin@hotmail.com
SUBJECT: RE:I hope i've got ur support man
I guess I always knew I'd see you on the news someday, but not like this.
To be honest, I either thought it'd be you rolling your ball into traffic, or jumping off of a counter-top in front of a whole litter of kids. It kills me to say that, because I love you, man. But you've never been happy a single day that I've known you. God help me, I tried. I introduced you to my sister, even. She's still pissed about that whole stalking thing, by the way. What part of "I enjoyed our date, but I think we should see other people," didn't you understand? Sorry, I'm getting off topic. You don't need that right now.
When you left without even talking to me about the lease or moving your stuff, I kind of figured that was it. I even started making arrangements to send your stuff to your parents, if they wanted it. And then I see your promo on Good Morning America, where you're going to walk a tightrope three stories above the plaza where they do the weather. Jesus, man.
I know what this is, and so do you. As if the fact that you've never walked a tightrope in your life wasn't evidence enough. And the email you sent me!
"God, sometimes I just want to be back home again."
"I was just contacting you to ask for your support in this new adventure I've decided to pull the trigger on."
Holy shit, is that a gun metaphor in reference to your decision to step off of a third-story window sill on live television?
Yeah, you want to be home. Because a part of you, a very primal part of you, knows exactly what's going to happen. There's no going home once your foot slips off of that wire. All that's waiting for you is oblivion. The legacy you will leave is another snuff film on YouTube for 13-year-olds to watch on a dare.
My advice to you is this: Don't do it. Tell the TV guys that you've never done this before, and you planned not to survive. Maybe they'll get you some help, turn it into an inspiring news package. Who knows, maybe they'll even pay for your hospitalization. And if they don't, Dr. Phil probably will. Play your cards right, and you can be home within a few months.
I don't hate you, man. Nobody hates you as much as you hate yourself. Give yourself permission to feel good about being alive again.
If you choose to do this, and God I hope you don't, I'm not going to watch. I'm not going to cheer you on. You can't ask that of me. You have no right. If you really want to impress me and redeem yourself, recognize that you have a problem and get help. There's no shame in that, and I'll be goddamn proud of you for doing it.
Make the right choice, for God's sake.
Your friend,
Mister Bubbles
Friday, September 13, 2013
Go to the Guidance Counsilor: Bird Driving
Describe a long car ride with a proud blackbird who receives a box with airholes punched in it.
There were a few scenarios that I'd drawn up for my life at this point. Honestly, this never came up. Not even when I was high as a kite with my shiftless college buddies. Not even in my most delirious fever dreams.
The bird and I had driven for so long through the American mid-west that my perception of time and space felt like a melting reactor core; white hot and dripping through every barrier it met. Denser than a dying star.
Mountains had been a nice change of pace, though. I'd never really gotten to see a proper mountain, having grown up west of the Appalachian range in the care of parents who had no sense of adventure. I was making up for it in spades these days.
The Rockies gave way to sand and desolation, and that's when the bird spoke again.
"I have gone so far. So very far. You do well," Raven croaked.
A lot of people don't know this, but ravens are goddamn smart. Yeah, they can talk too. Their voices are deep and tinged with gravel. The big bird stood as it always had against the back rest of my passenger seat. In front of it was a cardboard box, like a shoebox for a size 9 or 10, only the sides were blank and always had been. Six holes on the long sides, one on the short. Not ragged, like they'd been stabbed (or pecked) into the box carelessly. The edges were smooth and deliberate, with the zig-zagging insulation cut clean as you please. Sometimes the box moved when I had to stop quicker than I wanted to. Sometimes it moved when I was at a dead stop. Either way, the bird nudged it back into place with the crown of its skull.
Now that he was talking, maybe we could address the elephant in the room.
"Where are we going?"
"You do well," said Raven.
West then. In Oklahoma I had turned south, towards Texas. Raven took offense, flapping furiously until I angled my car west once more. Embarrassing as hell, I have only the vaguest idea of what cities and landmarks might lie directly in front of me. But geography wiz that I am, I did know that we'd eventually get to the coast; where the roads stopped and there wasn't a Wal-Mart in sight.
"What's in the box?"
"Gift."
My body seized up from my ass to my throat. Little bastard, he'd just gone and thickened the plot after all this time. I bet my ass he won't have another word to spare on his chauffeur. Shake on it?
"A gift for who?" I say. I should have said "whom", right? Nah, screw it.
Raven said nothing. Instead, he hopped up on the rim of my open window, defecated, and returned to his seat. I wonder what would have happened if I'd gone for the automatic windows.
"Eyes. A gift for me," croaked Raven.
Oh.
We're heading towards one of those big clover cluster-fucks where ramps and merges loop like some kind of Gaelic symbol. I keep straight ahead, never moving to leave the interstate.
"I do well?" I asked Raven.
"You do well," he croaked.
We drive on.
There were a few scenarios that I'd drawn up for my life at this point. Honestly, this never came up. Not even when I was high as a kite with my shiftless college buddies. Not even in my most delirious fever dreams.
The bird and I had driven for so long through the American mid-west that my perception of time and space felt like a melting reactor core; white hot and dripping through every barrier it met. Denser than a dying star.
Mountains had been a nice change of pace, though. I'd never really gotten to see a proper mountain, having grown up west of the Appalachian range in the care of parents who had no sense of adventure. I was making up for it in spades these days.
The Rockies gave way to sand and desolation, and that's when the bird spoke again.
"I have gone so far. So very far. You do well," Raven croaked.
A lot of people don't know this, but ravens are goddamn smart. Yeah, they can talk too. Their voices are deep and tinged with gravel. The big bird stood as it always had against the back rest of my passenger seat. In front of it was a cardboard box, like a shoebox for a size 9 or 10, only the sides were blank and always had been. Six holes on the long sides, one on the short. Not ragged, like they'd been stabbed (or pecked) into the box carelessly. The edges were smooth and deliberate, with the zig-zagging insulation cut clean as you please. Sometimes the box moved when I had to stop quicker than I wanted to. Sometimes it moved when I was at a dead stop. Either way, the bird nudged it back into place with the crown of its skull.
Now that he was talking, maybe we could address the elephant in the room.
"Where are we going?"
"You do well," said Raven.
West then. In Oklahoma I had turned south, towards Texas. Raven took offense, flapping furiously until I angled my car west once more. Embarrassing as hell, I have only the vaguest idea of what cities and landmarks might lie directly in front of me. But geography wiz that I am, I did know that we'd eventually get to the coast; where the roads stopped and there wasn't a Wal-Mart in sight.
"What's in the box?"
"Gift."
My body seized up from my ass to my throat. Little bastard, he'd just gone and thickened the plot after all this time. I bet my ass he won't have another word to spare on his chauffeur. Shake on it?
"A gift for who?" I say. I should have said "whom", right? Nah, screw it.
Raven said nothing. Instead, he hopped up on the rim of my open window, defecated, and returned to his seat. I wonder what would have happened if I'd gone for the automatic windows.
"Eyes. A gift for me," croaked Raven.
Oh.
We're heading towards one of those big clover cluster-fucks where ramps and merges loop like some kind of Gaelic symbol. I keep straight ahead, never moving to leave the interstate.
"I do well?" I asked Raven.
"You do well," he croaked.
We drive on.
Friday, September 6, 2013
Go to the Guidance Counselor: Into the Dead Zone
Da-wa Sherpa crouched at the door of our tent, his slender fingers
pressed against his eyelids. Henry Sharp pulled the oxygen mask back a
bit. It sucked his lips and nose slightly as it came off.
"Damn! Damn!" Da-wa cried as he fell forward onto his hands and knees.
"What's wrong, Da? I need you if we're going to do this," Henry gasped.
"The mountain is poison now. There is nothing holy now."
Henry
grimaced. As if there weren't things working against him. Da-wa
Sherpa's spiritual crisis had begun just after Camp 1, and grew with
each ascending step. Trash had been the first trigger. Henry, as
exasperated as he was with being slowed by superstition of all things,
thought he could at least understand why a Sherpa might be pissed. All
across the holy mountain of Everest, shredded tents flapped like mangled
battle flags. Oxygen tanks were left to oxidize into ugly logs that
dyed snow maroon. It was a dump, yes. Absolutely profane. But Henry
hadn't just paid good money, he had paid an obscene amount for this
secret expedition. Everest had been forbidden ground for four years.
They weren't in the Dead Zone yet, but they were close enough that sitting in a tent singing Koomb-a-Ya was suicide.
"We need to go. You of all people should know that," Henry grumbled before taking another pull from his mask.
"Yes. Down."
He pulled the mask away. "You go down, you go alone."
That
would do it. Under any other circumstance, a Sherpa could descend alone
with a strong possibility of reaching the base relatively unscathed.
But more than once, Da-wa had grasped at the sleeve of Henry's parka.
Usually when they encountered a body.
"Please."
Henry grinned. "We're mighty close, Da. We get to the top, I plant the payload, and we both get the hell off of this place."
Da-wa still knelt. With gentle tugs, as if he was ashamed to be seen, he pulled the straps on his glove tight against his wrist.
"I
get my money, and you get yours. And then, early retirement for the two
of us," mumbled through his mask. It didn't matter if Da-wa understood
anymore, though Henry hoped he did. There was something about taking a
done deal and making it a little sweeter. It was the closest thing to
charity that Henry Sharp was willing to get.
After girding themselves, the two men stumbled into
the graveyard of Camp 3. Tent frames arched from the snow at obtuse
angles. Da-wa had rifled through the tents and packs for supplies before
bedding down the night before, and found nothing beyond a pair of small
women's gloves and a digital camera. The gloves fit neither of them, of
course. Henry slid the SD card from the camera and pocketed it.
Souvenirs were foolish, but he could spare a sliver of pocket space for
the sake of curiosity.
Da-wa disassembled the tent with urgency and crammed
it into the sleeve. Henry considered scolding him, but decided not to
press his luck. The Sherpa was still on board, and that was good enough.
He didn't need to be thrilled about it.
The two of them crept forward, trudging past a
gloved hand ascending from the snow like an alien tree. Henry smirked
and waved back.
"Damn! Damn!" Da-wa cried as he fell forward onto his hands and knees.
Henry grunted and moved to help his partner to his
feet until he saw just what it was that had stopped the seasoned Sherpa.
Da-wa's boot and broken through a thin sheath of snow and into the
swollen belly of a long-dead climber. The skin was like parchment,
forming a fragile dome over the cavity where the organs had been. Even
at this altitude, scavengers still took what they could. With George
Mallory, they had gone in through a buttock and pillaged his torso.
"What is it?" Da-wa grumbled as Henry pulled him forward.
"Nothing worth caring about," Henry replied. "Come now, we have a date with the Dead Zone."
Friday, August 30, 2013
Go to the Guidance Counselor: Clumsy Miner Brings Joy!
Write a newspaper article about a clumsy miner who has never seen the sun.
Laborer of Hilarity Brings Great Joy!
In the limestone mines of South Hamgyong, there are many who labor for the joy of our Great Leader with the united strength of collectivist spirit. But there is one different, Hyon Ju, who wields the tools of the people with great clumsiness!
There have been many occasions upon which the Worker's Party of Korea Central Committee has suggested a righteous execution of this man who impedes. However, Hyon Ju's many failures tend to inspire laughter and joy among the supervising Worker's Party Administrators. They insisted with great urgency that Hyon be allowed to remain for the growth of morale.
Hyon Ju has been seen to be swinging pickaxe, for only to have it bounce from the rich bedrock of Korean lands to strike his helmet with great trajectory. On no time has Hyon ju wielded a hammer without striking it upon his thumb for great effects of comedy!
It is said that Hyon Ju experienced the great fortune of birth in the DPRK while his mother labored in mine for the glory of Juche. So great is his love of The Great Leader, he has not left. In the resulting, his eyes have not known the light that illuminates the works of Juche above ground. The hands of Hyon Ju are weak and display few manliness. It is said that these dishonorable traits bring even greater mirth to those who witness his shame!
For this gift of amusement bestowed by our Great Leader, the Worker's Party of Korea will request a price of increased mine output. With our hands united against imperialist economic interests, we will deliver our Leader the victory!
UPDATE OF URGENCY!!!!
Attention united citizens of the People's Republic! It is reported that Hyon Ju has stumbled on a peel of banana and blasphemed against all citizens! As the impaired fool tripped to a wall, his evil fist struck a revered portrait of The Great General Kim Jong Il.
All are invited with mandatory urgency to attend the public execution of Hyon Ju for his crimes against Juche. All family for three generations will be assigned to camp of labor as Comrade Kim Il Sung commanded. A cloth of blinding will be applied to the unseemly eyes of this sinner, for he should not witness the glory of the Korean Republic.
Laborer of Hilarity Brings Great Joy!
In the limestone mines of South Hamgyong, there are many who labor for the joy of our Great Leader with the united strength of collectivist spirit. But there is one different, Hyon Ju, who wields the tools of the people with great clumsiness!
There have been many occasions upon which the Worker's Party of Korea Central Committee has suggested a righteous execution of this man who impedes. However, Hyon Ju's many failures tend to inspire laughter and joy among the supervising Worker's Party Administrators. They insisted with great urgency that Hyon be allowed to remain for the growth of morale.
Hyon Ju has been seen to be swinging pickaxe, for only to have it bounce from the rich bedrock of Korean lands to strike his helmet with great trajectory. On no time has Hyon ju wielded a hammer without striking it upon his thumb for great effects of comedy!
It is said that Hyon Ju experienced the great fortune of birth in the DPRK while his mother labored in mine for the glory of Juche. So great is his love of The Great Leader, he has not left. In the resulting, his eyes have not known the light that illuminates the works of Juche above ground. The hands of Hyon Ju are weak and display few manliness. It is said that these dishonorable traits bring even greater mirth to those who witness his shame!
For this gift of amusement bestowed by our Great Leader, the Worker's Party of Korea will request a price of increased mine output. With our hands united against imperialist economic interests, we will deliver our Leader the victory!
UPDATE OF URGENCY!!!!
Attention united citizens of the People's Republic! It is reported that Hyon Ju has stumbled on a peel of banana and blasphemed against all citizens! As the impaired fool tripped to a wall, his evil fist struck a revered portrait of The Great General Kim Jong Il.
All are invited with mandatory urgency to attend the public execution of Hyon Ju for his crimes against Juche. All family for three generations will be assigned to camp of labor as Comrade Kim Il Sung commanded. A cloth of blinding will be applied to the unseemly eyes of this sinner, for he should not witness the glory of the Korean Republic.
Friday, August 23, 2013
Go to the Guidance Counselor: We're Going to Need a Bigger Prompt
Write a short biography of a wheezing explorer who swims with sharks.
Jacques Cousteau. Daniel Boone. Captain Jean Luc Picard. Their rugged and steadfast dedication to exploring the unknown has inspired countless brave souls to follow in their legendary footsteps.
But in the annals of human history, there is none greater than George Francisco.
George didn't fit the profile of a legendary explorer. His doughy form and diminutive stature hardly inspired confidence. And the asthma! Oh, his ability to breathe was not at all adequate! Yet George had an ambition that would require superhuman bravery and skill. George Francisco wished to document the world of sharks.
First-hand.
They called him a fool! George, you don't have the training or the equipment! You don't even have a boat!
So what.
On a warm July morning, before the glut of tourists swarmed the beach, George hauled a bucket of chum to the end of the 7th street pier. Sharks were known to congregate around the thick wooden beams, drawn by the fish looking for dropped morsels of food. As the water ran red, George took a gallant leap into ocean below.
And broke both of his legs.
No matter! Legs aren't required for swimming. All the better to blend in with the toothy clan he sought to join.
There, a fin! It glides across the surface to George, who is using his pliable hanging arm fat as oars to propel him swiftly through surf. Rugged skin and keen black eyes welcome him to the misunderstood realm of the shark. Again and again, they brush against him. At last, George's life was complete! All of his dreams were fulfilled! Casting aside his frail humanity, George became one with the hungry sea.
They ate him, is what I'm saying. He was a fat guy who was dumb and he got eaten by some sharks. That's the joke.
Jacques Cousteau. Daniel Boone. Captain Jean Luc Picard. Their rugged and steadfast dedication to exploring the unknown has inspired countless brave souls to follow in their legendary footsteps.
But in the annals of human history, there is none greater than George Francisco.
George didn't fit the profile of a legendary explorer. His doughy form and diminutive stature hardly inspired confidence. And the asthma! Oh, his ability to breathe was not at all adequate! Yet George had an ambition that would require superhuman bravery and skill. George Francisco wished to document the world of sharks.
First-hand.
They called him a fool! George, you don't have the training or the equipment! You don't even have a boat!
So what.
On a warm July morning, before the glut of tourists swarmed the beach, George hauled a bucket of chum to the end of the 7th street pier. Sharks were known to congregate around the thick wooden beams, drawn by the fish looking for dropped morsels of food. As the water ran red, George took a gallant leap into ocean below.
And broke both of his legs.
No matter! Legs aren't required for swimming. All the better to blend in with the toothy clan he sought to join.
There, a fin! It glides across the surface to George, who is using his pliable hanging arm fat as oars to propel him swiftly through surf. Rugged skin and keen black eyes welcome him to the misunderstood realm of the shark. Again and again, they brush against him. At last, George's life was complete! All of his dreams were fulfilled! Casting aside his frail humanity, George became one with the hungry sea.
They ate him, is what I'm saying. He was a fat guy who was dumb and he got eaten by some sharks. That's the joke.
Friday, August 16, 2013
Go to the Guidance Counselor: Venus Brotrap
Write a postcard from an annoying venus flytrap that wants to get in to the Guinness "Book of World Records"
Hey Dad!
I know you're disappointed in me taking a sabbatical after getting my degree in art history. Apparently you think a "sabbatical" is only a thing if you're a college professor or something, but I don't play by the rules anyway. YOLO! Anyfart, I'm chilling at this body farm and there's mad flies! Like I told you, I'm going to get that world record and start working on that book deal. Working's for followers, and I'm a leader (no offense, man). Yo, and could you also spot me 20 or 100 bucks? It's an investment in my future success. Once I hit it big on the speaking engagement circuit, I'll not only move my stuff out of your house, I'll pay you rent for the year I spent recuperating from my stressful senior year. You know I'm good for it!
One love,
Chompy.
Hey Dad!
I know you're disappointed in me taking a sabbatical after getting my degree in art history. Apparently you think a "sabbatical" is only a thing if you're a college professor or something, but I don't play by the rules anyway. YOLO! Anyfart, I'm chilling at this body farm and there's mad flies! Like I told you, I'm going to get that world record and start working on that book deal. Working's for followers, and I'm a leader (no offense, man). Yo, and could you also spot me 20 or 100 bucks? It's an investment in my future success. Once I hit it big on the speaking engagement circuit, I'll not only move my stuff out of your house, I'll pay you rent for the year I spent recuperating from my stressful senior year. You know I'm good for it!
One love,
Chompy.
Friday, August 9, 2013
Go to the Guidance Counselor: Quicksand Almighty
Write an invitation for a sincere actor who gets caught in quicksand.
Dear Mr.Freeman:
I would be remiss not to invite an actor of your stature to the upcoming wrap party for "Se7en 2: Return of the Box". After all, the original film wouldn't have been what it is without you. Although you declined my offer to appear in this highly anticipated new thriller, I am still extending the hand of friendship.
However, I must confess that my benevolence begins and ends with this letter. Everyone involved with "Se7en 2" feels you should not be associated with our product. You have recently made a number of regrettable career decisions, and we would strongly prefer that the ill-will directed towards "Oblivion" and "A Dolphin Tale" not be applied to our superior work.
If the tabloids are to be believed, this will not be a problem, as you appear to be stuck in quicksand. Shameful how those paparazzi seem content to stand by and snap photos when an elderly man is in desperate need of help, isn't it? Then again, there are many who believe it would just be best if you kind of--I don't know--went away before you soiled "Shawshank Redemption" or "Glory". God, that sounds really goddamn awful when I write it out, but you saw what happened to M. Night Shyamalan. One minute he's the hottest property in the business. A few stinkers later, it's not cool to like "Unbreakable" anymore. He could direct a goddamn masterpiece, and everyone would just point to "The Last Airbender" and turn up their noses. You don't need that, man. Just let the nice, soft womb of Mother Earth embrace one of its most cherished sons.
Anyway, the party's at Val Kilmer's place. He isn't in the movie, but he wasn't doing anything this Saturday and gets lonely sometimes. So, you know, if you get out of that quicksand before then you can call I guess. I'll put you on speakerphone so we can all say hello to each other.
Dear Mr.Freeman:
I would be remiss not to invite an actor of your stature to the upcoming wrap party for "Se7en 2: Return of the Box". After all, the original film wouldn't have been what it is without you. Although you declined my offer to appear in this highly anticipated new thriller, I am still extending the hand of friendship.
However, I must confess that my benevolence begins and ends with this letter. Everyone involved with "Se7en 2" feels you should not be associated with our product. You have recently made a number of regrettable career decisions, and we would strongly prefer that the ill-will directed towards "Oblivion" and "A Dolphin Tale" not be applied to our superior work.
If the tabloids are to be believed, this will not be a problem, as you appear to be stuck in quicksand. Shameful how those paparazzi seem content to stand by and snap photos when an elderly man is in desperate need of help, isn't it? Then again, there are many who believe it would just be best if you kind of--I don't know--went away before you soiled "Shawshank Redemption" or "Glory". God, that sounds really goddamn awful when I write it out, but you saw what happened to M. Night Shyamalan. One minute he's the hottest property in the business. A few stinkers later, it's not cool to like "Unbreakable" anymore. He could direct a goddamn masterpiece, and everyone would just point to "The Last Airbender" and turn up their noses. You don't need that, man. Just let the nice, soft womb of Mother Earth embrace one of its most cherished sons.
Anyway, the party's at Val Kilmer's place. He isn't in the movie, but he wasn't doing anything this Saturday and gets lonely sometimes. So, you know, if you get out of that quicksand before then you can call I guess. I'll put you on speakerphone so we can all say hello to each other.
Friday, August 2, 2013
Go to the Guidance Counselor: Crappy Cobbler Christmas
Write a holiday card to a dreadful enchanter whose winged boots fly away.
My Christmas gift was sorely missed
By my children, who were pissed
The boots that they had wanted so
Were not bathed in our tree's soft glow
I paid you well, and was assured
You gave me your most solemn word
Two boots with wings to go airborne
Would be produced by Christmas morn'
I should have read some Yelp! reviews
Before your business I did choose
I found you in the Yellow Pages
Your listing in "Wizards and Mages"
Because your service truly vexes
I cast on you my cruelest hexes
Steel-toed boots mighty and fast
Will soon collide with your fat ass
Merry Christmas!
My Christmas gift was sorely missed
By my children, who were pissed
The boots that they had wanted so
Were not bathed in our tree's soft glow
I paid you well, and was assured
You gave me your most solemn word
Two boots with wings to go airborne
Would be produced by Christmas morn'
I should have read some Yelp! reviews
Before your business I did choose
I found you in the Yellow Pages
Your listing in "Wizards and Mages"
Because your service truly vexes
I cast on you my cruelest hexes
Steel-toed boots mighty and fast
Will soon collide with your fat ass
Merry Christmas!
Friday, July 26, 2013
Go to the Guidance Counselor 3
Write a legend of a confident weight lifter who must locate a secret vault.
On the battered surface of planet Icarus 7, a figure walks the slums of Stabsvegas--which was named after a cheating gambler was given his ill-gotten winnings in Knife Dollars. Beef Slabrock paused to examine the corpse, long since mummified by the sun. He had been nailed to the village's welcome sign above the name he inspired. Some of the rusted shivs had found enough purchase in the corpse to remain. The rest had probably been snatched up by children as they fell from the shriveling cadaver.
Beef felt wary eyes measuring the extent of his manliness. Indeed, the story of the "Mighty Man of Bronze" had raced across the wastes along trade routes and at sand-skiff docks.
"This good," muttered Beef. He wrapped his arms around the base of the Stabsvegas sign and began to lift. The cruciform extended about five full feet into the clay, which had married itself to the wood and refused to yield.
"Ground is bitch!" shouted Beef. "Yield to greatest of flesh!"
Two knives fell from the gambler and bounced harmlessly off his shoulders.
"Buddy! Hey, jerkass! You got sand in your skull?"
Beef released the sign, and the clay sucked it back into place.
"Why stop breakfast?" asked Beef, turning to face the tiny man that batted at his ears with feeble hurtwords.
"The hell you talking about, breakfast?" said the man.
The interloper was clearly a man of status. His mustache gleamed with wax beneath his tinted goggles. He wore a long-pork leather vest and denim pants with fewer than ten wrinkles (Beef could count to ten, and took every opportunity to do so). A law star was pinned to his left nipple.
"Lifting is breakfast. Also lunch and dinner."
The law man spat into the dirt. "Well, my name is Shank, and I happened to notice you looking at my badge."
"Law star," said Beef, shrugging.
"Right. And Shank says you need to let that sign alone."
Beef glanced at the sign. It would have given his muscle good pains. Better than anything else he could see.
"Ten lifts for breakfast. Then going."
Shank shook his head. "You aren't going to lift that sign once, not as long as I'm here."
A greasy man poked his head from the upper floor of the town INN and lifted his gas mask from his mouth. "Hey Shank, I think maybe you should let him go ahead. I heard of this guy, I think."
"And I think you should get back inside before I take another of your toes, Stinkpit."
Beef returned on hand to the sign and clenched.
"I already told you not to do that," Shank said. As the law man approached Beef, he reached for his dusty seven-gun.
Beef regarded the encroaching Shank with a disinterest that sent a cold sliver of foreboding through the law man's tattooed spine.
"You know what this is, right?" Shank asked, tipping the barrel of his seven-gun up so its barrel gleamed in the morning sun.
"Not stop Beef," Beef mumbled.
Shank shook his head. "And what do you plan to do about it? Because I think I've convinced myself to shoot you down."
"Punch," said Beef.
"Wha-"
Where Shank had been standing there was now only the mighty fist of Beef Slabrock, Mighty Man of Bronze. Had the law man survived the impact, he might have ended up enjoying the view--at least until he became intimate with the cliffside that waited at the end of his flight.
The eyes remained fixated on Beef, but nobody seemed interested in avenging Shank.
"Hiders. Any who know about Vault?"
Silence.
"Need to find Vault. Tell Beef! Beef friend!"
Stinkpit had relocated to the lobby of the INN to watch the action. Shank being sent into orbit via fist was a memory he would cherish for all of his remaining days, but he had no desire to take a ride on the knuckle train himself.
"No, Bronze Man!" Stinkpit called, tipping the mask from his chin. "Nobody here knows. But I bet if you walk east you'll find it real soon!"
Beef perked up. This was the first tip he had heard in many, many sun-ups.
"Where east?" Beef asked.
"Do you see the sun, Bronze Man?" asked Stinkpit.
Beef scanned the horizon until he was staring into its wavy hurt-shine. His eyes felt like they were lifting, and it made Beef glad..
"That's the ticket," Stinkpit called. "Move towards it, and don't stop until you find the Vault."
Thoughts of breakfast faded, and Beef began to stride with a purpose towards the rising sun. Stabsvegas waited until his footsteps thudded out of earshot.
"Who the hell was that?" asked Gut the Bartender.
Stinkpit's heart swelled with pride. "As a matter of fact, I happen to know. It'll only cost you as many beers as it takes me to finish telling you."
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Thus concludes another brain-damaged adventure with Beef Slabrock, Might Man of Bronze, Lifter of All Things, Smasher of the Unsmashable.
Join us next time as our hero continues his journey to find the Vault of Armstrong, where the legendary Steroid of the Infinite is hidden. Only after plunging the anointed syringe into his groin will be able to achieve his dream of bench pressing the entire planet.
On the battered surface of planet Icarus 7, a figure walks the slums of Stabsvegas--which was named after a cheating gambler was given his ill-gotten winnings in Knife Dollars. Beef Slabrock paused to examine the corpse, long since mummified by the sun. He had been nailed to the village's welcome sign above the name he inspired. Some of the rusted shivs had found enough purchase in the corpse to remain. The rest had probably been snatched up by children as they fell from the shriveling cadaver.
Beef felt wary eyes measuring the extent of his manliness. Indeed, the story of the "Mighty Man of Bronze" had raced across the wastes along trade routes and at sand-skiff docks.
"This good," muttered Beef. He wrapped his arms around the base of the Stabsvegas sign and began to lift. The cruciform extended about five full feet into the clay, which had married itself to the wood and refused to yield.
"Ground is bitch!" shouted Beef. "Yield to greatest of flesh!"
Two knives fell from the gambler and bounced harmlessly off his shoulders.
"Buddy! Hey, jerkass! You got sand in your skull?"
Beef released the sign, and the clay sucked it back into place.
"Why stop breakfast?" asked Beef, turning to face the tiny man that batted at his ears with feeble hurtwords.
"The hell you talking about, breakfast?" said the man.
The interloper was clearly a man of status. His mustache gleamed with wax beneath his tinted goggles. He wore a long-pork leather vest and denim pants with fewer than ten wrinkles (Beef could count to ten, and took every opportunity to do so). A law star was pinned to his left nipple.
"Lifting is breakfast. Also lunch and dinner."
The law man spat into the dirt. "Well, my name is Shank, and I happened to notice you looking at my badge."
"Law star," said Beef, shrugging.
"Right. And Shank says you need to let that sign alone."
Beef glanced at the sign. It would have given his muscle good pains. Better than anything else he could see.
"Ten lifts for breakfast. Then going."
Shank shook his head. "You aren't going to lift that sign once, not as long as I'm here."
A greasy man poked his head from the upper floor of the town INN and lifted his gas mask from his mouth. "Hey Shank, I think maybe you should let him go ahead. I heard of this guy, I think."
"And I think you should get back inside before I take another of your toes, Stinkpit."
Beef returned on hand to the sign and clenched.
"I already told you not to do that," Shank said. As the law man approached Beef, he reached for his dusty seven-gun.
Beef regarded the encroaching Shank with a disinterest that sent a cold sliver of foreboding through the law man's tattooed spine.
"You know what this is, right?" Shank asked, tipping the barrel of his seven-gun up so its barrel gleamed in the morning sun.
"Not stop Beef," Beef mumbled.
Shank shook his head. "And what do you plan to do about it? Because I think I've convinced myself to shoot you down."
"Punch," said Beef.
"Wha-"
Where Shank had been standing there was now only the mighty fist of Beef Slabrock, Mighty Man of Bronze. Had the law man survived the impact, he might have ended up enjoying the view--at least until he became intimate with the cliffside that waited at the end of his flight.
The eyes remained fixated on Beef, but nobody seemed interested in avenging Shank.
"Hiders. Any who know about Vault?"
Silence.
"Need to find Vault. Tell Beef! Beef friend!"
Stinkpit had relocated to the lobby of the INN to watch the action. Shank being sent into orbit via fist was a memory he would cherish for all of his remaining days, but he had no desire to take a ride on the knuckle train himself.
"No, Bronze Man!" Stinkpit called, tipping the mask from his chin. "Nobody here knows. But I bet if you walk east you'll find it real soon!"
Beef perked up. This was the first tip he had heard in many, many sun-ups.
"Where east?" Beef asked.
"Do you see the sun, Bronze Man?" asked Stinkpit.
Beef scanned the horizon until he was staring into its wavy hurt-shine. His eyes felt like they were lifting, and it made Beef glad..
"That's the ticket," Stinkpit called. "Move towards it, and don't stop until you find the Vault."
Thoughts of breakfast faded, and Beef began to stride with a purpose towards the rising sun. Stabsvegas waited until his footsteps thudded out of earshot.
"Who the hell was that?" asked Gut the Bartender.
Stinkpit's heart swelled with pride. "As a matter of fact, I happen to know. It'll only cost you as many beers as it takes me to finish telling you."
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Thus concludes another brain-damaged adventure with Beef Slabrock, Might Man of Bronze, Lifter of All Things, Smasher of the Unsmashable.
Join us next time as our hero continues his journey to find the Vault of Armstrong, where the legendary Steroid of the Infinite is hidden. Only after plunging the anointed syringe into his groin will be able to achieve his dream of bench pressing the entire planet.
Friday, July 19, 2013
Go to the Guidance Counselor: Week 2
Write a journal entry about a creepy computer programmer who controls a fleet of starships.
Log 2845
Apprentice Engineer Farn Edwards
Mining Fleet- U.S.G. Washington
It's been three days since the U.S.G. Von Braun was sabotaged by Frank the IT Guy. We've gathered some information, but our findings haven't yielded anything the crew can use to regain control of our fleet. If anything, the data only reveals more obstacles than we first anticipated.
Frank the IT Guy was an intern of some renown in he Geological Survey shipyards, right around the time I got hired on--working under a guy named Max Chen. Frank took the unreliable inter-ship communications software and created an algorithm to determine the packet size that would optimize data transmission. In layman's terms, the Feds didn't want to upgrade our shitty comm. hardware, so Fred the IT Guy polished our turd to a mirror sheen.
Oh, and he added a backdoor to the whole shebang.
"But I don't understand, Celestica!" said Frank over the Emergency Public Announcement System. "How are we supposed to deliver these muffins to the Magicorn Kingdom?"
For the last half hour or so, Frank the IT Guy's been moving all five crafts in our mining fleet; reenacting his third favorite episode of "My Tiny Horsie: Acquaintances are Bewitching". The EMPAS is the only way he can broadcast the dialogue to every corridor in every ship from the bridge of the Von braun.
I refresh the Darknet browser on my tablet and chose another mask for my IP address. The longer I use the same one, the more likely it is Frank the IT Guy will catch on. He almost certainly knew the Darknet well enough.
>Connecting to Secure Channel Ajfheuislajs.dark/irc/#wsh
>Connection established, Illegal trade is not permitted. Use a damn proxy. Safety is not guaranteed.
>Signed in as user EddyMuney
Encrypted IRC channels are the only way to communicate. Frank's constant navigational commands and video surveillance feeds dominating the bandwidth means voice comms. are out of the question.
EddyMuney> u there chen?
There was no telling how things are on Assistant Chief Engineer Max Chen's ship, the U.S.G. Gore. Apparently Frank the IT Guy was using it to depict a character called "Rainbow Slash", and apparently that particular Tiny Horsie zipped around in a way that was not hull-integrity-friendly.
Cmax> barely. no sleep.
EddyMuney> no kidding. breach?
Cmax> contained fr now. might have something.
God damn, Chen. You beautiful bastard.
EddyMuney> DETAILS. WANT.
Cmax> cams are not secured. frnk forgot.
One of the first things Frank the IT Guy did, aside from locking himself in the bridge after emptying it with a false evacuation alarm, was give himself administrator access to all the cameras. Every single room, latrines included, had security cameras. Our "privacy" was relatively safe since the latrine and dorm feeds were encrypted in such a way that security personnel could only view one sensitive area at a time. Frank had apparently gotten wise to the female crew member's strategy of using different latrines as randomly as possible to avoid his gaze; so he went ahead and used his special privileges to decrypt them all. In his haste, he must have neglected to restrict access to just the bridge of the Von Braun. Every security room in the fleet could see the feeds too.
EddyMuney> so you can see him?
Cmax> from security room yes.
EddyMuney> what good is that?
Cmax> he has to sleep soon
True enough, but he hadn't yet. Not once that I could tell, anyway. From 23:00 to 08:00, Frank the IT Guy began an extended political analysis--usually about the merits of Republican Ron Paul IV. And at 08:00, the Tiny Horsie time resumed.
EddyMuney> must have stims. he talks all night
Cmax> those are old podcasts. made me listen to the 1 he played lst night
Clever bastard! He probably has thousands of hours in nasal ramblings to choose from. As long as his voice droned on, most of the fleet's crew would assume that he was wide awake and tweaking on stim drinks. Suddenly, prior exposure to the bastard became an asset.
EddyMuney> what now.
Cmax> wait til sleep, then use escape pod to smash bridge.
So it has come to this. I wonder how they'd take the decapitation of a fleet's mothership if we ever made it home.
EddyMuney> are u sure. completely godam sure?
Cmax> that or the whole fleet.
Klaxons begin blaring, the hazard lights paint my dorm cherry-red.
"Escape pods are primed as follows: All available," says the ship's simulated voice.
Cmax> NO
EddyMuney> you too? CHRIST
"Escape pods will launch in--ten minutes--in the following order: All available. Escape pods will launch in--nine minutes and bypass. Escape pods will launch now in this order: All available."
The ship shudders as every single escape pod is jettisoned at once.
EddyMuney> theyre gone there too?
Cmax> yes. back to drawing board.
Cmax> shit
"Rainbow Slash, you've been so naughty!" Frank the IT Guy shrieked over the EMPAS. "As the High Unicorn of Horsestia,I banish you to the Kingdom of the Sun!"
There is a red dwarf about 1.7 AU from our position.
Cmax> course change. need go. bye.
"And you, Washington. You were plotting against your princess as well, weren't you? I can't abide that. Not in my kingdom."
The Washington's thrusters are fully involved in less than thirty seconds. The ship reminds me of the elevators at my father's office. He'd press the button for the top floor sometimes, even though we never needed to go there. And we'd put out our arms and fly, our stomac bewilered and floting somewhere benth our feet.
I miss h now. And i hot. God the hea
Log 2845
Apprentice Engineer Farn Edwards
Mining Fleet- U.S.G. Washington
It's been three days since the U.S.G. Von Braun was sabotaged by Frank the IT Guy. We've gathered some information, but our findings haven't yielded anything the crew can use to regain control of our fleet. If anything, the data only reveals more obstacles than we first anticipated.
Frank the IT Guy was an intern of some renown in he Geological Survey shipyards, right around the time I got hired on--working under a guy named Max Chen. Frank took the unreliable inter-ship communications software and created an algorithm to determine the packet size that would optimize data transmission. In layman's terms, the Feds didn't want to upgrade our shitty comm. hardware, so Fred the IT Guy polished our turd to a mirror sheen.
Oh, and he added a backdoor to the whole shebang.
"But I don't understand, Celestica!" said Frank over the Emergency Public Announcement System. "How are we supposed to deliver these muffins to the Magicorn Kingdom?"
For the last half hour or so, Frank the IT Guy's been moving all five crafts in our mining fleet; reenacting his third favorite episode of "My Tiny Horsie: Acquaintances are Bewitching". The EMPAS is the only way he can broadcast the dialogue to every corridor in every ship from the bridge of the Von braun.
I refresh the Darknet browser on my tablet and chose another mask for my IP address. The longer I use the same one, the more likely it is Frank the IT Guy will catch on. He almost certainly knew the Darknet well enough.
>Connecting to Secure Channel Ajfheuislajs.dark/irc/#wsh
>Connection established, Illegal trade is not permitted. Use a damn proxy. Safety is not guaranteed.
>Signed in as user EddyMuney
Encrypted IRC channels are the only way to communicate. Frank's constant navigational commands and video surveillance feeds dominating the bandwidth means voice comms. are out of the question.
EddyMuney> u there chen?
There was no telling how things are on Assistant Chief Engineer Max Chen's ship, the U.S.G. Gore. Apparently Frank the IT Guy was using it to depict a character called "Rainbow Slash", and apparently that particular Tiny Horsie zipped around in a way that was not hull-integrity-friendly.
Cmax> barely. no sleep.
EddyMuney> no kidding. breach?
Cmax> contained fr now. might have something.
God damn, Chen. You beautiful bastard.
EddyMuney> DETAILS. WANT.
Cmax> cams are not secured. frnk forgot.
One of the first things Frank the IT Guy did, aside from locking himself in the bridge after emptying it with a false evacuation alarm, was give himself administrator access to all the cameras. Every single room, latrines included, had security cameras. Our "privacy" was relatively safe since the latrine and dorm feeds were encrypted in such a way that security personnel could only view one sensitive area at a time. Frank had apparently gotten wise to the female crew member's strategy of using different latrines as randomly as possible to avoid his gaze; so he went ahead and used his special privileges to decrypt them all. In his haste, he must have neglected to restrict access to just the bridge of the Von Braun. Every security room in the fleet could see the feeds too.
EddyMuney> so you can see him?
Cmax> from security room yes.
EddyMuney> what good is that?
Cmax> he has to sleep soon
True enough, but he hadn't yet. Not once that I could tell, anyway. From 23:00 to 08:00, Frank the IT Guy began an extended political analysis--usually about the merits of Republican Ron Paul IV. And at 08:00, the Tiny Horsie time resumed.
EddyMuney> must have stims. he talks all night
Cmax> those are old podcasts. made me listen to the 1 he played lst night
Clever bastard! He probably has thousands of hours in nasal ramblings to choose from. As long as his voice droned on, most of the fleet's crew would assume that he was wide awake and tweaking on stim drinks. Suddenly, prior exposure to the bastard became an asset.
EddyMuney> what now.
Cmax> wait til sleep, then use escape pod to smash bridge.
So it has come to this. I wonder how they'd take the decapitation of a fleet's mothership if we ever made it home.
EddyMuney> are u sure. completely godam sure?
Cmax> that or the whole fleet.
Klaxons begin blaring, the hazard lights paint my dorm cherry-red.
"Escape pods are primed as follows: All available," says the ship's simulated voice.
Cmax> NO
EddyMuney> you too? CHRIST
"Escape pods will launch in--ten minutes--in the following order: All available. Escape pods will launch in--nine minutes and bypass. Escape pods will launch now in this order: All available."
The ship shudders as every single escape pod is jettisoned at once.
EddyMuney> theyre gone there too?
Cmax> yes. back to drawing board.
Cmax> shit
"Rainbow Slash, you've been so naughty!" Frank the IT Guy shrieked over the EMPAS. "As the High Unicorn of Horsestia,I banish you to the Kingdom of the Sun!"
There is a red dwarf about 1.7 AU from our position.
Cmax> course change. need go. bye.
"And you, Washington. You were plotting against your princess as well, weren't you? I can't abide that. Not in my kingdom."
The Washington's thrusters are fully involved in less than thirty seconds. The ship reminds me of the elevators at my father's office. He'd press the button for the top floor sometimes, even though we never needed to go there. And we'd put out our arms and fly, our stomac bewilered and floting somewhere benth our feet.
I miss h now. And i hot. God the hea
Saturday, July 13, 2013
Go to the Guidance Counselor: The Cantaloupe of the Infinite
Write a horror story about a
powerful cantaloupe who explores a newly discovered planet.
Robert Wells and his son walked
side-by-side through the cantaloupe field of the Wells Estate Farm.
In an age of corporate buyouts and
genetic tinkering, Robert “Bob” Wells was the sort of man an
old-fashioned Texan would place on a pedestal for the world to see—to
prove that the old ways were the best ways. Most migrant workers knew
to apply elsewhere, and the first-timers got briefed as soon as they
hit town. The Wells Estate Farm was the pride of the county, the
finest melon growers in south Texas, and every solitary seed in the
whole shebang was operated by Bob and kin. How’s that for a big,
juicy slice of Americana?
Bobby Jr. trudged through the mud,
careful not to step on the looping vines that fed the swelling
fruits. The sack slung over his back had thrashed about when he had
first thrown it over his shoulder, but it was still now—save for a
gentle, warm vibration against his shoulder blade. Junior was pale
and gaunt, but that was the way of things in the Wells clan. There
was a lithe, sinuous strength that convinced the bullies to find
other quiet boys to terrorize.
“Robert Wells Junior, this is where
we stop.”
A flutter of pride tickled his ribs
like moth wings. The last time his father had used his full name was
on his ninth birthday, after his father had handed him his first
knife. “Robert Wells Junior,” he had said, “let this
tool serve you, just as you serve our Lord.”
That same knife bounced against his
hip now, sheathed in buckskin, held by the length of twine that
served as his belt. His hand had been stroking the carvings along the
handle of bone. Now it seized on the blade and slid it free. Junior
held it out and appraised it in the moonlight. Its keen blade glowed
the way Junior figured a ghost would, like a candle encased in
frosted blue glass. Dozens of eyes were etched in red on the bleached
bone grip. They stared in anticipation—ancestors witnessing a new
generation seizing the power they knew well.
“Are you prepared, son?”
“I am.”
Hesitation betrayed doubt, and could
not be allowed. The Lord abhorred doubters.
The two stood before the largest
cantaloupe on the farm, the crosshatching on its flesh like the web
of an impossible spider. Junior swung the bag to his father, who slid
his rough palm around sack’s neck as Junior let go. The contents,
no longer warmed by the boy’s shoulder, began to thrash once more.
Bob reached into the sack and grasped the contents.
Slippers, long-term resident of Mercy
Animal Sanctuary and veteran of countless back-alley fights, had
every claw at his disposal sunk into the white bulk of Bob’s arm.
His teeth could find no purchase, as the human’s left hand was
pressed around his throat. The animal could breathe, but only in
anemic gasps.
Bob was in no pain. There was only the
anticipation of the Becoming.
“I offer you the
feast of blood mingled with the essence of our ancestors.” Bob
began.
Junior bowed his
head in reverence, still brandishing his knife towards the scene
playing out before him. With practiced confidence, he spoke. “Out
of the scorching noon of Issac, out of the bosom of Earth, a fruit
emerged. Male and female together. The male is called Sama’el, his
female is always included within him.”
Bob raised his chin
to the room and cried out to it, “End of All Flesh, End of Days.”
Junior proceeded
forward to his father’s side, holding the knife as an altar boy
would a candle. He knelt, and held the blade against the cat’s
heaving chest. It struggled again as it felt the blade’s cold
touch. Junior’s hand remained steady. “He is full of fearsome
eyes. In her hand a sharp sword drips bitter drops,” Junior said,
sinking the knife through the cat and into the soft flesh of the
cantaloupe. “He kills the fool and flings him into hell.”
Dark blood slid
downward, across the plump expanse of the fruit. And then into the
soil, where the earth drank it with supernatural speed. The roots
were thirsty.
“Sama’el,
Mal’ek Ha-Maveth!” the father shouted.
“Sama’el Sheol
‘alah ached ahab’im re’uwth!” replied the son.
Bob’s grip
tightened until the vertebrae gave way. The ritual was finished.
Bob Wells crouched,
his hands between his knees. Bob Wells Junior did likewise. For some
time, they remained, the knife dripping against Junior’s boot until
it gelled on the blade.
“What comes
next?” Junior asked at last.
“It grows on its
own terms, just like any of its kind. But big as she is now, she’ll
be a shoe-in for a blue ribbon or two when fair-time comes around.”
From beneath the
soil, there came a shuffling, scratching sound. Like mice tunneling.
“I can hear it,
sir! Those roots are drinkin’ it in!”
Bob squinted. “No,
that can’t be. Not how it goes, boy.” But he had heard it, no
doubt. He pushed forward onto his hands and knees, and pressed his
ear to the earth.
“Do you hear it?
It’s still moving!”
“Boy, pipe down. I can’t hear a
thing with—“
Like a lance from Satan’s forge, the
root slid into Bob Wells Senior’s right ear canal and emerged from
the left. His body flopped to the earth as additional roots emerged
to explore his chest cavity, the meat of his thigh.
Junior scrambled backwards. Legions of
roots sprang from the field, pulping cantaloupes and piercing stout
trees at the boundaries of the field. The roots in Bob Wells began to
lift into the air, dangling his body like a broken marionette. His
eyes had been pushed from their sockets, and yet they still met
Junior’s gaze as he stumbled backwards through the quaking dirt.
The dead thing spoke to the child,
with a thousand voices that spoke in unison. “End of All Flesh! End
of All Days!”
Earth had a tumor, a cancer that drank
it dry—its flesh webbed, its insides sweet. Roots drank the salted
oceans, devoured the cities of men, crushed the mighty glaciers, and
soon the world was well and truly dead.
The cantaloupe detached from its great
umbilicus, leaving its destroyed placenta to the mercy of a violent
cosmos. It began to move with urgency, through the asteroid belt,
through the Oort Cloud and beyond. Somewhere in this black expanse
would be a place where its seeds could grow.
As it searched, the fragrant meat of
the cantaloupe hummed with the poetry of Legion. “There shall the
owl nest and lay and hatch and brood in its shadow.”
The blood within the fruit began to
reach out with unseen tendrils, searching for fertile soil. And they
too spoke. “Come unto us now and yield the secret of thy bosom!”
Time beyond reason passed, but the
cantaloupe was patient and vigilant. The aura of water and life drew
the fruit to a planet orbiting Gliese 581. Tendrils with colors
beyond the spectrum of human understanding grasped at the planet and
began to pull. A trillion seeds began to vibrate, the flesh began to
burn and flay open as the atmosphere gouged at the intruder. As the
seeds spilled across the surface of Gliese 581f, they sang together
as one.
“End of All Flesh! End of All Days!”
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