Then the day of the Trial finally came.
Blue Pedro showed up earlier in the morning then he had any right to and dragged me out of my house still in bleary-eyed and dressed for rest.
"For God's sake, it's three in the morning!" I groaned.
"If we aren't there soon, the trial will be over and everyone will have gone home!" he insisted.
Unable to challenge such faultless logic, I followed along as he dragged me under bridges, through storm-drain, towards the deep underwater underworld that most of us try not to think about.
"Halfway to Grenell now," he announced. "Can't get much closer to the Borders."
"Obviously," I agreed.
We came to a big open alcove, and I saw that everyone really was waiting for us.
Blue Pedro shoved his face right into my airspace and I could smell the children's blue colored chalk on his breath. "I'm going to be brutally honest with you," he whispered, "I don't think your chances are very good."
He looked sidewise at someone who wasn't there.
"It's pretty certain you'll hang," he confided.
And before I could ask him just what the fuck he was going on about, he slammed me down into that little seat they keep up front so everyone can gape at the witnesses.
He instantly forgot me and gave a big sweeping arc towards his audience. "Please forgive my lateness of arrival," he beamed. "I'm afraid it was unavoidable."
And everyone laughed like he'd just made a brilliant reference to his first album.
He nodded like he deserved it all. "Let me begin by course-examining the victim." Then he got right up in my face again. "You claim you were raped, is that correct?"
"I was there. That's what happened."
Blue Pedro nodded mockingly. "And yet you have repeatedly denied me when I asked to thoroughly examine your vagina."
"Of course I did!" I shouted indignantly.
"I've heard enough!" The Clown shouted. "Hang the bitch!"
"You're not the judge," I reminded him harshly, "you're the prosecuting attorney." I turned back to Blue Pedro. "And you're the defense, you're supposed to be on my side!" I took a swiping glance across the room. "And I shouldn't have to defend myself, I 'm the victim!"
Blue Pedro was still a few miles behind. "I'm the defense?"
I nodded sadly. "Apparently."
"Then I guess I should probably call my first witness," he decided.
"I'm your only witness," I supplied. "I'm already on the stand."
He nodded sagely then banged his fist against the wall. "Motion carries."
"You're not the judge either," I muttered. Which got me thinking: who was the judge? I mean, the setup of the courtroom wasn't exactly what I was used to. The jury, for instances, could have been sitting in any one of the various sitting sections randomly clustered around the vast, dome-like room, but it was pretty obvious that the big, empty stand that towered over all of us ought to have a judge sitting in it. "Shouldn't we wait for the judge to show up."
"The Judge is among us always," the Clown replied solemnly. "I call my first witness."
Drinker shambled blankly towards the front of the room, then took a seat in what was evidently the Witness Stand, which made where I was sitting something of a mystery.
Drinker looked left and right. "I shouldn't be here."
"Do you have somewhere else to be?" the Clown asked coldly.
"No..." Drinker replied, confused. "This just feels wrong."
The Clown turned to Blue Pedro. "Permission to treat the witness as hostile?" the Clown asked.
Blue Pedro nodded. "Granted."
And then they each grabbed half of Drinker, swung him in the air three times, then tossed him into the crowd where he was promptly torn apart.
Blue Pedro brushed his hands off with care and then shared a firm, sexually-charged handshake with the Clown.
"Next witness?"
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Blue Pedro
It was soaking wet outside when they first sent Blue Pedro to talk to me.
"I understand you've been having some problems lately," he said.
I shrugged. "I guess so." I always tried to remain non-committal in these (and all) situations.
"Look at it this way," Blue Pedro began.
Then, in a surprise move, decided to leave it there.
"What way?" I finally demanded.
"Not important," he insisted. "All that matters is that you do exactly as you're told at all times. Everyone's looking out for you, you know."
This struck me as false. "I think circumstances prove no one is trying to protect me."
"I never said they were trying to protect you," Blue Pedro corrected. "I said they were looking out for you." He took a sip from his teacup despite the fact that it was both empty and non-existent.
"And that's very much the opposite thing," he added matter-of-factly.
I gave him the scowl he was asking so politely for. "So you're basically threatening me so I'll stay in my place."
"It's very important to stay in one's place," he reflected distractedly. "It's how you get to feel at home."
"I wouldn't know," I replied.
"Take me for example," Blue Pedro continued, clearly not listening to me. "I hurt people," he admitted as though it were very ordinary. "Quite badly, actually."
"Why?"
He shrugged. "I don't rightly know and gives me no pleasure."
"Then we don't you stop?" I asked.
Blue Pedro contemplated this for a few minutes in obvious confusion. "Well, I don't see how you expect that to work."
"Just don't hurt anyone," I said. "All you have to do is make a decision and follow through."
"And if the Earth decided to stop being hard, we'd all fall straight through to Indochina," Blue Pedro hissed.
I shook my head. "Look, if you're going to go with threatening me, could you please just be straight about it? Don't try to convince me that this is actually how the world should be."
"Everyone else seems to be doing just fine as is," Blue Pedro insisted. "It's just you who doesn't see why she has to be a a sacrificial animal."
"I just can't understand how none of you realizes how insane you are," I grumbled.
"You don't have to understand," Blue Pedro taught. "Just do as you're told and either die or fade away. We're trying to have a society here and you weren't invited."
"Fair enough," I said. It wasn't like I'd asked to be a part of it anyway.
"I understand you've been having some problems lately," he said.
I shrugged. "I guess so." I always tried to remain non-committal in these (and all) situations.
"Look at it this way," Blue Pedro began.
Then, in a surprise move, decided to leave it there.
"What way?" I finally demanded.
"Not important," he insisted. "All that matters is that you do exactly as you're told at all times. Everyone's looking out for you, you know."
This struck me as false. "I think circumstances prove no one is trying to protect me."
"I never said they were trying to protect you," Blue Pedro corrected. "I said they were looking out for you." He took a sip from his teacup despite the fact that it was both empty and non-existent.
"And that's very much the opposite thing," he added matter-of-factly.
I gave him the scowl he was asking so politely for. "So you're basically threatening me so I'll stay in my place."
"It's very important to stay in one's place," he reflected distractedly. "It's how you get to feel at home."
"I wouldn't know," I replied.
"Take me for example," Blue Pedro continued, clearly not listening to me. "I hurt people," he admitted as though it were very ordinary. "Quite badly, actually."
"Why?"
He shrugged. "I don't rightly know and gives me no pleasure."
"Then we don't you stop?" I asked.
Blue Pedro contemplated this for a few minutes in obvious confusion. "Well, I don't see how you expect that to work."
"Just don't hurt anyone," I said. "All you have to do is make a decision and follow through."
"And if the Earth decided to stop being hard, we'd all fall straight through to Indochina," Blue Pedro hissed.
I shook my head. "Look, if you're going to go with threatening me, could you please just be straight about it? Don't try to convince me that this is actually how the world should be."
"Everyone else seems to be doing just fine as is," Blue Pedro insisted. "It's just you who doesn't see why she has to be a a sacrificial animal."
"I just can't understand how none of you realizes how insane you are," I grumbled.
"You don't have to understand," Blue Pedro taught. "Just do as you're told and either die or fade away. We're trying to have a society here and you weren't invited."
"Fair enough," I said. It wasn't like I'd asked to be a part of it anyway.
Monday, September 1, 2008
More Thought Crime
"I'm never going to break, you know that, right?" Tommy Two-Tone assured his interogator. He wasn't about to let something like being beaten, bound, and strapped to a disused toilet make him admit weakness.
"I think you will," the other man replied with smiling confidence.
Tommy Two-Tone said nothing, but kept his eyes defiant.
"Fact is," the other man continued, "in less than an hour, you'll tell me everything from your dicksize to the dream you had last night about Jen Forster just to get me to leave you alone."
"What?" Tommy demanded.
"Not that it matters, I know everything about you anyway." He got right in Tommy's face. "Girl's names are easy. I could tell you right now all about what happened between you and Megan O'Brien that day in the supply closet in detail that even you forgot."
"If you don't need me to tell you anything, then..." Tommy began.
"Why am I going to torture you?" the other man concluded. "Well, studies have proven that people enjoy torture. And even if it's kind of a shallow pursuit, having a prisoner and not torturing him is like having a dog and not taking it for a walk."
Tommy could hardly argue that point; he was currently fantasizing about torturing a prisoner of his very own.
"I am of extraordinary genius," the other man announced.
"Congratulations," Tommy muttered.
The other man bowed. "And since my genius is so extraordinary in character, certain things are known to me."
"You knew about the dream I had about Jen Forster," Tommy supplied.
"I did," the other man granted.
"Say, do you think I have time for another one before you start?" Tommy inquired. "That one wasn't sexy at all and I think if I'm going to be tortured to death I want something better to go out on."
The Clown smiled. "You know, I really like you."
"Glad to hear it," Tommy replied brightly as he felt the leftover filth from the toilet seat soak right through his trousers.
"I think we're both really going to get something from this," he assured Tommy. Then he reached across the tool bench at his side, past the rusty nails, the tetanus-infected straightrazors, the powerdrill, and the basty-wicked metal files, and extracted a cheap plastic Mickey Mouse mask.
"Oh, fuck, no," Tommy shrank involuntarily.
"See, friend, everyone breaks when you hit them just right," the Clown said, snapping the mask into place. "I'm gonna fuck you right up."
And so it was.
"I think you will," the other man replied with smiling confidence.
Tommy Two-Tone said nothing, but kept his eyes defiant.
"Fact is," the other man continued, "in less than an hour, you'll tell me everything from your dicksize to the dream you had last night about Jen Forster just to get me to leave you alone."
"What?" Tommy demanded.
"Not that it matters, I know everything about you anyway." He got right in Tommy's face. "Girl's names are easy. I could tell you right now all about what happened between you and Megan O'Brien that day in the supply closet in detail that even you forgot."
"If you don't need me to tell you anything, then..." Tommy began.
"Why am I going to torture you?" the other man concluded. "Well, studies have proven that people enjoy torture. And even if it's kind of a shallow pursuit, having a prisoner and not torturing him is like having a dog and not taking it for a walk."
Tommy could hardly argue that point; he was currently fantasizing about torturing a prisoner of his very own.
"I am of extraordinary genius," the other man announced.
"Congratulations," Tommy muttered.
The other man bowed. "And since my genius is so extraordinary in character, certain things are known to me."
"You knew about the dream I had about Jen Forster," Tommy supplied.
"I did," the other man granted.
"Say, do you think I have time for another one before you start?" Tommy inquired. "That one wasn't sexy at all and I think if I'm going to be tortured to death I want something better to go out on."
The Clown smiled. "You know, I really like you."
"Glad to hear it," Tommy replied brightly as he felt the leftover filth from the toilet seat soak right through his trousers.
"I think we're both really going to get something from this," he assured Tommy. Then he reached across the tool bench at his side, past the rusty nails, the tetanus-infected straightrazors, the powerdrill, and the basty-wicked metal files, and extracted a cheap plastic Mickey Mouse mask.
"Oh, fuck, no," Tommy shrank involuntarily.
"See, friend, everyone breaks when you hit them just right," the Clown said, snapping the mask into place. "I'm gonna fuck you right up."
And so it was.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
A visit to the old folks home
The Caterpillar was fairly accepting of what nature had in store for him.
"Within the next few years of my life," he explained, "I will be beaten within an inch of my life by a trio of young men, I will be beaten and left for dead by the Lord of Knives, and then, when I am little more than a husk that feels pain, I will be set down as a sacrifice to the Spider-That-Will-Grow..."
He took a long drag of his tea, although most of what he inhaled was steam. "This is as it will be."
I took a moment to really look at him. "And that doesn't bother you?"
The Caterpillar tried to really look back at me, but simply did not have the ability to open his eyes anymore. "It is not a fate I look forward to, obviously. But that is what lies ahead for each of us in our way."
I wasn't going to argue this anymore than I was going to argue "the Spider-That-Will-Grow" or any of his other batshit inventions. "Grampa," I started softly, "I need to ask you about something..."
He nodded slightly. "Of course you do," he agreed gruffly. "You just don't know what."
"Huh?"
"What you really want to ask me about," he continued, not paying much attention to me at all, "is the labyrinth."
"Wait, what?"
"Because the labyrinth is all there is," he said.
"What labyrinth?" I nearly shouted. "What the hell are you talking about?"
He knotted his eyebrows in frustration, again without showing a hint of white pupil. "I'm trying to tell you the big important truth you only learn when you're about to die, so would you please mind shutting the fuck up?"
"Sorry, Grampa," I grumbled.
He gave me the Piss Face anyway. "It's a cliche for the wise old man to hate the young for their youth and stupidity for a reason, you know."
"I know, I know," I sighed.
He shook his head. "Now, some may tell you it's actually a maze... that's a fucking technicality and you shouldn't let it bother you; it's immaterial. What is important is that the labyrinth is both phenomenon and metaphor..."
"It's my life, but it's also a real place somewhere," I repeated.
And he actually looked like he was going to be proud for a moment. Then he said "I still wish your mother would have had a son. Who the hell wants a grandchild that bleeds five days a month? Worthless fucking legacy, if you ask me."
And I gave him another hard look. "You realize that you're more accepting of your own mortality than the fact that I have a vagina?"
But he just shrugged, failing to see any disparity about that at all.
"Look, something happened to me..." I started to say.
"No, it didn't," he butted in. "When I was half your age, they just to shove me against the wall and drive it deep into me over and over again," he growled. "God, I'd give anything to be that age again."
How was I supposed to respond to that?
"Time is a fucking criminal, you know?" he reflected. "You never fucking feel it until it's being ripped away from you."
"Okay, fine," I agreed, "but if we could go back to talking about the Underworld or if you could actually let me ask you about what I came here to ask you about..."
He actually seemed to consider this for a moment.
"You know," he opined, "I could probably handle having you as a grandchild better if your tits were bigger."
And then I finally got up and left.
"Within the next few years of my life," he explained, "I will be beaten within an inch of my life by a trio of young men, I will be beaten and left for dead by the Lord of Knives, and then, when I am little more than a husk that feels pain, I will be set down as a sacrifice to the Spider-That-Will-Grow..."
He took a long drag of his tea, although most of what he inhaled was steam. "This is as it will be."
I took a moment to really look at him. "And that doesn't bother you?"
The Caterpillar tried to really look back at me, but simply did not have the ability to open his eyes anymore. "It is not a fate I look forward to, obviously. But that is what lies ahead for each of us in our way."
I wasn't going to argue this anymore than I was going to argue "the Spider-That-Will-Grow" or any of his other batshit inventions. "Grampa," I started softly, "I need to ask you about something..."
He nodded slightly. "Of course you do," he agreed gruffly. "You just don't know what."
"Huh?"
"What you really want to ask me about," he continued, not paying much attention to me at all, "is the labyrinth."
"Wait, what?"
"Because the labyrinth is all there is," he said.
"What labyrinth?" I nearly shouted. "What the hell are you talking about?"
He knotted his eyebrows in frustration, again without showing a hint of white pupil. "I'm trying to tell you the big important truth you only learn when you're about to die, so would you please mind shutting the fuck up?"
"Sorry, Grampa," I grumbled.
He gave me the Piss Face anyway. "It's a cliche for the wise old man to hate the young for their youth and stupidity for a reason, you know."
"I know, I know," I sighed.
He shook his head. "Now, some may tell you it's actually a maze... that's a fucking technicality and you shouldn't let it bother you; it's immaterial. What is important is that the labyrinth is both phenomenon and metaphor..."
"It's my life, but it's also a real place somewhere," I repeated.
And he actually looked like he was going to be proud for a moment. Then he said "I still wish your mother would have had a son. Who the hell wants a grandchild that bleeds five days a month? Worthless fucking legacy, if you ask me."
And I gave him another hard look. "You realize that you're more accepting of your own mortality than the fact that I have a vagina?"
But he just shrugged, failing to see any disparity about that at all.
"Look, something happened to me..." I started to say.
"No, it didn't," he butted in. "When I was half your age, they just to shove me against the wall and drive it deep into me over and over again," he growled. "God, I'd give anything to be that age again."
How was I supposed to respond to that?
"Time is a fucking criminal, you know?" he reflected. "You never fucking feel it until it's being ripped away from you."
"Okay, fine," I agreed, "but if we could go back to talking about the Underworld or if you could actually let me ask you about what I came here to ask you about..."
He actually seemed to consider this for a moment.
"You know," he opined, "I could probably handle having you as a grandchild better if your tits were bigger."
And then I finally got up and left.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Suddenly Johnny gets the feeling...
And suddenly the whole world feels false and dream-like, as if the walls are going to fall over backwards at any given moment. Colors are suddenly missing and everything feels so out of focus and vague and over-bright... it's almost like a fever, but my mind as never felt more real.
And suddenly it all feels so small.
Thoughts flow backwards through my brain like a film of a catipillar shown in reverse.
The key question, I guess, is how do you know you're really thinking or if you're merely being told what to think?
The Clown, whoever he is, seemed to be able to "hear" my thoughts somehow, so if there's ant reality to him at all, that seems to confirm that my thoughts are genuine.
But what about anyone else?
I'll never be able to read what they're thinking, and since the only thing I can prove is objectively true is that I'm thinking (assuming I really am thinking and not having thoughts that seem to be mine put in my head), then how can I possibly prove anyone else is real if I can't prove their thoughts are really their own?
"Gee, that's a toughie," Jet Boy admitted. "Do you think it involves allegebra? 'Cos if it involves allegebra I don't think I'm going to be much help to you."
"I think I can safely say it does not involve algebra," I assured him.
Jet Boy nodded, seemingly convinced.
"No, wait," he realized, "if you don't think it will involve algebra and you don't know if what you're thinking is true, then it could involve algebra afterall."
I chuckled slightly, that made about as much sense as anything else. "Well, at least let's not focus on potential algebra right now. There are more important things to worry about then what 'A' equals."
"'A' isn't anything," Jet Boy voiced sagely.
"Right," I agreed.
And suddenly it all feels so small.
Thoughts flow backwards through my brain like a film of a catipillar shown in reverse.
The key question, I guess, is how do you know you're really thinking or if you're merely being told what to think?
The Clown, whoever he is, seemed to be able to "hear" my thoughts somehow, so if there's ant reality to him at all, that seems to confirm that my thoughts are genuine.
But what about anyone else?
I'll never be able to read what they're thinking, and since the only thing I can prove is objectively true is that I'm thinking (assuming I really am thinking and not having thoughts that seem to be mine put in my head), then how can I possibly prove anyone else is real if I can't prove their thoughts are really their own?
"Gee, that's a toughie," Jet Boy admitted. "Do you think it involves allegebra? 'Cos if it involves allegebra I don't think I'm going to be much help to you."
"I think I can safely say it does not involve algebra," I assured him.
Jet Boy nodded, seemingly convinced.
"No, wait," he realized, "if you don't think it will involve algebra and you don't know if what you're thinking is true, then it could involve algebra afterall."
I chuckled slightly, that made about as much sense as anything else. "Well, at least let's not focus on potential algebra right now. There are more important things to worry about then what 'A' equals."
"'A' isn't anything," Jet Boy voiced sagely.
"Right," I agreed.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
A moment with an imaginary boy
Drinker was still leaning against his wall when he spotted a familiar face attached to a familiar ultra-mod suit, strutting his way. "Hi, Mr. Bible," Drinker called out.
"Hello, Daniel," Bible replied with the usual unintentional flourish. "How are you today?"
"I think I'm kind of having an existential crisis," Drinker admitted.
"Well, that's a bit presumptive, don't you think?" Bible inquired.
"Huh?" Drinker 'huh-ed.'
"Who ever said you existed?" Bible asked frankly.
Drinker searched his thoughts for a moment. "I guess I just thought it could be assumed."
Bible shook his head. "I wouldn't."
Drinker shrugged his lips and slid down the wall to the floor. "Guess I'm an asshole."
"That's the spirit!" Bible said, slapping Drinker lightly on the shoulder.
And then, seemingly out of nowhere, Bible said "I'm going to tell you something no one else in the world knows."
Drinker raised his eyes to look at him.
Bible paused as though he were telling a group of children the story of Peter and the Wolf...
Then began. "Before he became Jet Boy, a child of no importance fell asleep in his parents' car, on a long journey.
"In his dream, he was the last boy on the planet, running wild and free, at one with the animals, eating only what grew in the earth.
"When he awoke," Bible continued crisply, "his parents, his home, all of his brothers and sisters, and even his name had gone as though they'd never existed; even he no longer remembered them. Likewise, remembered nothing of his dream and would never have been able to interpret its meaning in any case."
Bible's tone abruptly slipped back into its natural tone. "What do you think about that story?"
Drinker tried to think, but came up empty. "I don't know."
"Do you find it a tad cliche," Bible persisted. "Or do you find the very fact that it exists as a cliche a damning statement about our civilization?"
Drinker tried once again to formulate an opinion. "...I don't know."
Bible crouched down so that he was at eye level with Drinker. "Do you understand, now?"
Drinker shook his head, suddenly near tears. "No," he cracked. "I still can't understand."
"And there is your answer," Bible said softly, but completely without sympathy.
And then he got up and walked away, leaving Drinker alone again.
"Hello, Daniel," Bible replied with the usual unintentional flourish. "How are you today?"
"I think I'm kind of having an existential crisis," Drinker admitted.
"Well, that's a bit presumptive, don't you think?" Bible inquired.
"Huh?" Drinker 'huh-ed.'
"Who ever said you existed?" Bible asked frankly.
Drinker searched his thoughts for a moment. "I guess I just thought it could be assumed."
Bible shook his head. "I wouldn't."
Drinker shrugged his lips and slid down the wall to the floor. "Guess I'm an asshole."
"That's the spirit!" Bible said, slapping Drinker lightly on the shoulder.
And then, seemingly out of nowhere, Bible said "I'm going to tell you something no one else in the world knows."
Drinker raised his eyes to look at him.
Bible paused as though he were telling a group of children the story of Peter and the Wolf...
Then began. "Before he became Jet Boy, a child of no importance fell asleep in his parents' car, on a long journey.
"In his dream, he was the last boy on the planet, running wild and free, at one with the animals, eating only what grew in the earth.
"When he awoke," Bible continued crisply, "his parents, his home, all of his brothers and sisters, and even his name had gone as though they'd never existed; even he no longer remembered them. Likewise, remembered nothing of his dream and would never have been able to interpret its meaning in any case."
Bible's tone abruptly slipped back into its natural tone. "What do you think about that story?"
Drinker tried to think, but came up empty. "I don't know."
"Do you find it a tad cliche," Bible persisted. "Or do you find the very fact that it exists as a cliche a damning statement about our civilization?"
Drinker tried once again to formulate an opinion. "...I don't know."
Bible crouched down so that he was at eye level with Drinker. "Do you understand, now?"
Drinker shook his head, suddenly near tears. "No," he cracked. "I still can't understand."
"And there is your answer," Bible said softly, but completely without sympathy.
And then he got up and walked away, leaving Drinker alone again.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Revolutionary Head Praxis
After my encounter with the Clown, life fell back into a pretty standard pattern: wake up, shower, get dressed, go outside to water the Head. At this point, it's size has moire or less stabilized,
but it's take to shouting, which is more than a little unnerving.
"I AM PURE HATRED MADE MANIFEST! I AM THE ENGINE OF CHANGE! I AM THE FUTURE! ONLY THROUGH FIRE MAY THE NEW WORLD BE GIVEN FORM! ONLY THROUGH THE PAIN OF REVOLUTION CAN A NEW THE STATUS QUO BE TORN DOWN!" And so on.
At first, I tried arguing with it; pointing out the it could have the highest ideals for this new world, but that it would only end up being corrupted by human nature, just like everything else.
The Head, not being human, didn't understand.
I tried to prove to the Head that no one ever really changes the world... not really and certainly not for the better... but it just kept right on roaring
"I HAVE GIVEN A NAME TO RAGE! I AM THE MANDALA! I AM THE BURNING WHEEL! ANGER IS THE ONLY TRUE POWER!"
So, I guess there's really no proving someone wrong when they really believe in their own hype.
Me, I don't believe in anything. Not people and certainly not ideals.
"And why should you?" the Viral Clown voice growing in my head asked. "Nothing means anything, and if nothing means anything then you can do whatever you want."
Somewhere in the sky, Jet Boy is flying.
The red virus stream calls out and I'm feeling the cold nothingness of it. This is the only thing
worth putting your faith in: that everything is a horrible mistake.
And then one morning, the Head said something I wasn't ready for.
"Have you ever heard the God-Music?"
And I'm shocked, not just because the Head has finally said something new, but that it nearly whispered it.
"I don't think so," I replied.
"You'd know it if you heard it," the Head assured me (I'm pretty sure it was trying to nod, too). "You generally only hear it out of the corner of your ears at first, but then it bigger and bigger until it puffs right out right out of your chest... and that's how it feels to fly."
"And anyone can fly?"
"In the world I dream of," the Head replied.
I start to think about people's eyes and smiles and the way Jet Boy talks in exclamation points.
but it's take to shouting, which is more than a little unnerving.
"I AM PURE HATRED MADE MANIFEST! I AM THE ENGINE OF CHANGE! I AM THE FUTURE! ONLY THROUGH FIRE MAY THE NEW WORLD BE GIVEN FORM! ONLY THROUGH THE PAIN OF REVOLUTION CAN A NEW THE STATUS QUO BE TORN DOWN!" And so on.
At first, I tried arguing with it; pointing out the it could have the highest ideals for this new world, but that it would only end up being corrupted by human nature, just like everything else.
The Head, not being human, didn't understand.
I tried to prove to the Head that no one ever really changes the world... not really and certainly not for the better... but it just kept right on roaring
"I HAVE GIVEN A NAME TO RAGE! I AM THE MANDALA! I AM THE BURNING WHEEL! ANGER IS THE ONLY TRUE POWER!"
So, I guess there's really no proving someone wrong when they really believe in their own hype.
Me, I don't believe in anything. Not people and certainly not ideals.
"And why should you?" the Viral Clown voice growing in my head asked. "Nothing means anything, and if nothing means anything then you can do whatever you want."
Somewhere in the sky, Jet Boy is flying.
The red virus stream calls out and I'm feeling the cold nothingness of it. This is the only thing
worth putting your faith in: that everything is a horrible mistake.
And then one morning, the Head said something I wasn't ready for.
"Have you ever heard the God-Music?"
And I'm shocked, not just because the Head has finally said something new, but that it nearly whispered it.
"I don't think so," I replied.
"You'd know it if you heard it," the Head assured me (I'm pretty sure it was trying to nod, too). "You generally only hear it out of the corner of your ears at first, but then it bigger and bigger until it puffs right out right out of your chest... and that's how it feels to fly."
"And anyone can fly?"
"In the world I dream of," the Head replied.
I start to think about people's eyes and smiles and the way Jet Boy talks in exclamation points.
Baby Scar Tissue!
Somewhere along the line, Suicide had grown strong enough to take a physical form and sit down to have breakfast.
"I am with name," Suicide announced boldly as it eyed the empty plate on the empty table in the empty room defined before four empty walls with the occasional functional hole punched through them. "Am I now Baby Scar Tissue."
Drinker nodded. "Guess I should be proud to be part of such a successful experiment."
Suicide returned the nod gratefully. "You fed me, tended to me... I suppose the cliche would be to say that you nourished me."
"I like to think I've got a little something out of the relationship myself," Drinker said.
"Ah, you flatter me, sir," Suicide smiled. "But you're right, of course, I'll always be there for you. I'm the one that has your back, that stands behind you no matter what."
"Keeps my heart frozen," Drinker offered.
"It'll keep longer that way," Suicide offered. "And what's all this talk of hearts, anyway? I thought you realized love sits in the stomach."
"I guess that explains why girls always make me feel like I'm going to shit myself," he conceded.
"Absolutely," Suicide cheerfully replied. "Now, what time is it?"
Drinker checked the wallclock. "About four seventeen."
Suicide nodded. "Seems like a good time to rehash childhood mistakes to me. Now, do you want to start with the time you called your Preschool teacher 'mommy' or do you want to go directly to what the older boys used to do to you behind the lockers?"
"I am with name," Suicide announced boldly as it eyed the empty plate on the empty table in the empty room defined before four empty walls with the occasional functional hole punched through them. "Am I now Baby Scar Tissue."
Drinker nodded. "Guess I should be proud to be part of such a successful experiment."
Suicide returned the nod gratefully. "You fed me, tended to me... I suppose the cliche would be to say that you nourished me."
"I like to think I've got a little something out of the relationship myself," Drinker said.
"Ah, you flatter me, sir," Suicide smiled. "But you're right, of course, I'll always be there for you. I'm the one that has your back, that stands behind you no matter what."
"Keeps my heart frozen," Drinker offered.
"It'll keep longer that way," Suicide offered. "And what's all this talk of hearts, anyway? I thought you realized love sits in the stomach."
"I guess that explains why girls always make me feel like I'm going to shit myself," he conceded.
"Absolutely," Suicide cheerfully replied. "Now, what time is it?"
Drinker checked the wallclock. "About four seventeen."
Suicide nodded. "Seems like a good time to rehash childhood mistakes to me. Now, do you want to start with the time you called your Preschool teacher 'mommy' or do you want to go directly to what the older boys used to do to you behind the lockers?"
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Maybe I Should To Writing Wills...
Rei Gamora became aware of the Sickness shortly after the Funeral.
It felt as though all of his insides had been turned into petroleum jelly through a slow process of stead pulverization, while at the same time he experienced the distinct pain of that he could only associate with the precise moment of impact from being punched in the stomach. His body was digesting itself, he knew, and the resulting fever-like ailment had so devastated his mind that he was no longer capable effectively masking how addled his mind was, giving directions, or remembering the title of his favorite song.
His own Layman's diagnosis put it at either stomach cancer or true love.
He prayed to all available gods that it was just cancer.
Bitch Chechnya sauntered up to him and gave him a smile. "Lovely morning, huh?"
Lacking the energy to effectively stab the Clown through the face, Rei Gamora settled for gaping at him like a suffocating fish.
"I know," Chechnya nodded, "you're infected, aren't you?"
Which seemed as accurate as any other diagnosis.
"You did this to yourself, you know," Chechnya observed. "If you just would have lived your life right, you would have never wound up like this. Even if you die, it's your own fault."
Rei Gamora brought every one of his resources to bare, but somehow still failed to hate Chechnya more than himself.
"Look at the bright side," Chechnya offered cheerfully, "you were never going to be much of an anything, anyway, right? You're a waster, all your friends are wasters... the only thing you're ever going to achieve is to be a bigger, older waster. So, if you die now, it's really not such a big deal, right?"
Rei Gamora didn't try to argue this point, but he was fairly busy trying not to shit himself.
"Your bowel movements have been pretty unbearable lately," Chechnya observed, as though reading his mind. "Every ten minutes or so, so painful you want to kill yourself, and..." he paused for a moment to sniff the air theatrically "...they sound exactly like a waterfall! That's really horrible!" Chechnya declared merrily.
At which point, Chechnya leaned in to snuggle the sweating, shivering, Rei Gamora.
"Why don't you just go home?" he asked sweetly.
"That's all I want," Rei Gamora found the strength to stammer.
Chechnya nodded. "And where is home?"
Rei Gamora of course had no answer for that question.
Chechnya gently patted the young man on the shoulder and got up to leave. "When you need it," he offered, "I've got an army. We'll teach you how to be a man."
It felt as though all of his insides had been turned into petroleum jelly through a slow process of stead pulverization, while at the same time he experienced the distinct pain of that he could only associate with the precise moment of impact from being punched in the stomach. His body was digesting itself, he knew, and the resulting fever-like ailment had so devastated his mind that he was no longer capable effectively masking how addled his mind was, giving directions, or remembering the title of his favorite song.
His own Layman's diagnosis put it at either stomach cancer or true love.
He prayed to all available gods that it was just cancer.
Bitch Chechnya sauntered up to him and gave him a smile. "Lovely morning, huh?"
Lacking the energy to effectively stab the Clown through the face, Rei Gamora settled for gaping at him like a suffocating fish.
"I know," Chechnya nodded, "you're infected, aren't you?"
Which seemed as accurate as any other diagnosis.
"You did this to yourself, you know," Chechnya observed. "If you just would have lived your life right, you would have never wound up like this. Even if you die, it's your own fault."
Rei Gamora brought every one of his resources to bare, but somehow still failed to hate Chechnya more than himself.
"Look at the bright side," Chechnya offered cheerfully, "you were never going to be much of an anything, anyway, right? You're a waster, all your friends are wasters... the only thing you're ever going to achieve is to be a bigger, older waster. So, if you die now, it's really not such a big deal, right?"
Rei Gamora didn't try to argue this point, but he was fairly busy trying not to shit himself.
"Your bowel movements have been pretty unbearable lately," Chechnya observed, as though reading his mind. "Every ten minutes or so, so painful you want to kill yourself, and..." he paused for a moment to sniff the air theatrically "...they sound exactly like a waterfall! That's really horrible!" Chechnya declared merrily.
At which point, Chechnya leaned in to snuggle the sweating, shivering, Rei Gamora.
"Why don't you just go home?" he asked sweetly.
"That's all I want," Rei Gamora found the strength to stammer.
Chechnya nodded. "And where is home?"
Rei Gamora of course had no answer for that question.
Chechnya gently patted the young man on the shoulder and got up to leave. "When you need it," he offered, "I've got an army. We'll teach you how to be a man."
Friday, July 11, 2008
Experiments in Serialism, part one
After waiting the required seven point five minutes that ensured maximum safety, The Action Man burst out of the water and into Baron Von Barron's hidden citadel.
The room was all clear, as his intel had suggested, and with a brief push the black rat emblem on the back of his right glove, the Space Age materials of his Transit Suit were instantly warm and dry. This was, of course, of the utmost importance: the mission to come would involve rather a lot of creeping around silently, and that was the type of thing that squeaky soles tended to compromise.
"Ground Control," The Action Man said into his left wrist Action radio, "can you hear me?"
"We hear you loud and clear, Action Man," the crisp Oxford-educated, smoke and whiskey-cured voice of Colonel Stanton replied. "I trust all is going par the course."
"So far," The Action Man affirmed. "But the evening is still young."
"Our prayers are with you, Action Man," The Colonel assured him. "But keep your eyes open on the road ahead. And watch out for the Nothingface. She can talk to squirrels."
"Understood," The Action Man replied, then severed the connection.
The Action Man sent his eyes on reconnaissance. On the other side of that door were nearly a thousand of the Baron's men; each of them trained in one hundred and thirty-eight forms of unarmed combat, armed to the teeth, and professionally infected with the most vicious strain of syphilis money could buy.
The Action Man, on the other hand, had only his wits and whatever minor bits of technology he had been able to implant on his Transit Suit.
No fucking contest.
Suddenly, they were on him; thousands of them: SpiderSpies. The latest in tantra-powered laser technology, each SpiderSpy contained the whole of time and space in a frame of approximately point three ounces of self-evolving liquid latex, fully capable of reaching back to The Action Man's messenger RNA and completely reformatting his entire existence.
He had to fight them off now, or be destroyed.
Next Week: Million Dollar Weapons
The room was all clear, as his intel had suggested, and with a brief push the black rat emblem on the back of his right glove, the Space Age materials of his Transit Suit were instantly warm and dry. This was, of course, of the utmost importance: the mission to come would involve rather a lot of creeping around silently, and that was the type of thing that squeaky soles tended to compromise.
"Ground Control," The Action Man said into his left wrist Action radio, "can you hear me?"
"We hear you loud and clear, Action Man," the crisp Oxford-educated, smoke and whiskey-cured voice of Colonel Stanton replied. "I trust all is going par the course."
"So far," The Action Man affirmed. "But the evening is still young."
"Our prayers are with you, Action Man," The Colonel assured him. "But keep your eyes open on the road ahead. And watch out for the Nothingface. She can talk to squirrels."
"Understood," The Action Man replied, then severed the connection.
The Action Man sent his eyes on reconnaissance. On the other side of that door were nearly a thousand of the Baron's men; each of them trained in one hundred and thirty-eight forms of unarmed combat, armed to the teeth, and professionally infected with the most vicious strain of syphilis money could buy.
The Action Man, on the other hand, had only his wits and whatever minor bits of technology he had been able to implant on his Transit Suit.
No fucking contest.
Suddenly, they were on him; thousands of them: SpiderSpies. The latest in tantra-powered laser technology, each SpiderSpy contained the whole of time and space in a frame of approximately point three ounces of self-evolving liquid latex, fully capable of reaching back to The Action Man's messenger RNA and completely reformatting his entire existence.
He had to fight them off now, or be destroyed.
Next Week: Million Dollar Weapons
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Coulrophobia
Today the good people from the chicken shop next door brought over a giant platter of dead bird meat which they kindly donated to us for free. In their lengthy explanation, they mentioned that these were "old" chicken strips and that they were getting "new" ones in today more times than I could count, and I started to wonder just how old "old" really was. From there, it didn't take me long to start imagining everyone else in the store coming down with food poisoning and myself (as they only vegetarian) being somehow forced to single-handedly land the store as though it were an airplane.
People eat basically anything these days, even though most of them are supposed to be restricted to the twelve animals of the zodiac. Now, I can't really call that a perfect system either, since it lead the rat to go extinct, but there's something to be said about sticking to your guns.
In any case, it turns out I wasn't to far off in my predictions, although the blame was placed (rightly or otherwise) squarely on the Mexican stoplight candy that was being passed around. So, I guess my natural reticence towards questionable foodstuffs saved my from crippling intestinal discomfort, but meant that while everyone else went home early, I was there 'til nearly midnight cleaning up the place.
I guess I just can't score a real win.
By the time it was all over, I felt sick and dirty and I just wanted to go home and let myself drift into a cool, refreshing coma... but I'd been putting off doing the laundry for over two weeks now, and I just didn't have enough money in my bank account to keep buying socks. For those of you in the back, this meant I was going to have to hit the 24 hour laundromat. In the middle of the night.
Which is always about as good an idea as it sounds.
In case you've never been to one, laundromats, especially the ones that are open all night, actually exist outside time and space as they are generally known: time flows freely left, right, and center, it stops and slows down in ways that even our most talented scientists can't explain, the end result being that you can actually read an entire Murakami novel in the time it takes to finally get that load of towels dry, yet by the time its finished you won't have read a word.
Of course it's an absolute necessity to have a book when you go to the laundromat, as well as a mobile phone, an iPod, a tazer, because the people who try to talk to you at the laundromat are even worse than the people that try to talk you on the bus, and every single one of them will try to talk to you if you seem available for even a second, especially if you're female.
Which leads to the most important lesson about the laundromat: never go to the laundromat.
Of course, at this point I was so wiped out I couldn't string those basic thoughts together, and I ended up lying on top of a dryer at three in the morning, reading the same sentence in my Murakami over and over again, waiting for my socks to come out clean.
"Hello again," someone called out.
I jumped instinctively.
It was that same Clown again.
"What do you think the best word in the English language is," he asked out of nowhere. "Because I think it's 'trifecta!'"
As often happens when I meet people who have threatened my person with sexual violence, I tense up. "Get the fuck away from me."
The Clown took this all in stride, for some reason. "You know, you're very average looking," he said, not a trace of insult, just an observation.
"Just stay away," I warned him. I can still shop in the little kid's section, so I can't imagine I was all that menacing, but I wasn't about to back down.
"I don't really understand the appeal of the female body," he said, as though we'd just been having that kind of conversation that's so comfortable you can bring up things you generally don't admit to. "Don't get me wrong, I'm not a faggot... You just all like slaughtered pigs to me."
And then he pulled out the knife. "That's why I want you to understand that I'm only doing this to prove a point: I have power, you never will. All of human history has been built to design this."
"You're not going to do anything to me," I growled, trying to make myself big like a cat. "You're going to walk out that door and I'm never going to see you again."
He gave me a theatrically confused grimace. "Well, that doesn't make any sense," he said. "I've still got socks in the dryer."
What was I supposed to say to that?
"Look at it this way," the Clown mused, moving in closer, "you have no way of proving that you aren't fictional to me."
I inched my way away from him, slowly as though in a dream.
"They say all anyone can ever prove is that they're thinking," the Clown continued, gesturing emphatically with his knife in a way that didn't make me feel at all comfortable. "'I think therefore I am.'
"I know you're thinking, though," he assured me. "I can see it. Like it's printed in the air right in front of me," he explained. "Although I guess it could be a voice in the air or a puffy cloud in the air above you or a little rectangle off to your side. That much is kind of arbitrary."
"What the fuck are you talking about?" I spat.
"I'm just asking... are your thoughts your own or is someone outside ascribing them to you? And if your thoughts aren't your own, how are you real at all?" he sang with a horrible playfulness. "If you don't own your cogito, how can you ergo sum? See, you can't prove you're not fictional!"
And then he got his horrible smiling face up in mine in a way that shouldn't have been possible with his previously established length of neck. "And there's nothing wrong with hurting fictional characters."
My back hit the wall, but I wasn't giving up. "What are you going to do to me?"
Here he smiled so wide his face almost fell off like a trashcan lid. "You've got these two holes in your half," he explained, knife aloft. "Doesn't seem very efficient to me. I think I'll just stick my pretty knife in you until it's just one big hole." He nodded casually. "I think it's better if things can just be free to mix."
And I guess I'm really supposed to be freaked out now, but I'm not. In fact, I've never felt more relaxed and in control in my life. "I know what you're afraid of," I said simply. And then, with strength that a girl my waistband couldn't possibly exhibit believably, I yanked the change machine off the wall and clobbered him with it.
"Oh, God Damn it!" the Clown screamed. "Don't you realize what I have to do now?"
And he bent over and started very rapidly counting the coins the had scattered all over the floor, saying "hup! hup! hup!" as he did so. I assume he counted all of them and deposited them on the counter, but (not being an idiot), I didn't stick around to find out.
Once I was a safe distance away for the laundromat, I realized that, because of my speedy exit, my wardrobe now consisted of three tops, six pairs of panties, two bras, and the jeans currently on my ass.
And no socks.
Didn't really seem important when I was running for my life but now...
In any case, it turns out I wasn't to far off in my predictions, although the blame was placed (rightly or otherwise) squarely on the Mexican stoplight candy that was being passed around. So, I guess my natural reticence towards questionable foodstuffs saved my from crippling intestinal discomfort, but meant that while everyone else went home early, I was there 'til nearly midnight cleaning up the place.
I guess I just can't score a real win.
By the time it was all over, I felt sick and dirty and I just wanted to go home and let myself drift into a cool, refreshing coma... but I'd been putting off doing the laundry for over two weeks now, and I just didn't have enough money in my bank account to keep buying socks. For those of you in the back, this meant I was going to have to hit the 24 hour laundromat. In the middle of the night.
Which is always about as good an idea as it sounds.
In case you've never been to one, laundromats, especially the ones that are open all night, actually exist outside time and space as they are generally known: time flows freely left, right, and center, it stops and slows down in ways that even our most talented scientists can't explain, the end result being that you can actually read an entire Murakami novel in the time it takes to finally get that load of towels dry, yet by the time its finished you won't have read a word.
Of course it's an absolute necessity to have a book when you go to the laundromat, as well as a mobile phone, an iPod, a tazer, because the people who try to talk to you at the laundromat are even worse than the people that try to talk you on the bus, and every single one of them will try to talk to you if you seem available for even a second, especially if you're female.
Which leads to the most important lesson about the laundromat: never go to the laundromat.
Of course, at this point I was so wiped out I couldn't string those basic thoughts together, and I ended up lying on top of a dryer at three in the morning, reading the same sentence in my Murakami over and over again, waiting for my socks to come out clean.
"Hello again," someone called out.
I jumped instinctively.
It was that same Clown again.
"What do you think the best word in the English language is," he asked out of nowhere. "Because I think it's 'trifecta!'"
As often happens when I meet people who have threatened my person with sexual violence, I tense up. "Get the fuck away from me."
The Clown took this all in stride, for some reason. "You know, you're very average looking," he said, not a trace of insult, just an observation.
"Just stay away," I warned him. I can still shop in the little kid's section, so I can't imagine I was all that menacing, but I wasn't about to back down.
"I don't really understand the appeal of the female body," he said, as though we'd just been having that kind of conversation that's so comfortable you can bring up things you generally don't admit to. "Don't get me wrong, I'm not a faggot... You just all like slaughtered pigs to me."
And then he pulled out the knife. "That's why I want you to understand that I'm only doing this to prove a point: I have power, you never will. All of human history has been built to design this."
"You're not going to do anything to me," I growled, trying to make myself big like a cat. "You're going to walk out that door and I'm never going to see you again."
He gave me a theatrically confused grimace. "Well, that doesn't make any sense," he said. "I've still got socks in the dryer."
What was I supposed to say to that?
"Look at it this way," the Clown mused, moving in closer, "you have no way of proving that you aren't fictional to me."
I inched my way away from him, slowly as though in a dream.
"They say all anyone can ever prove is that they're thinking," the Clown continued, gesturing emphatically with his knife in a way that didn't make me feel at all comfortable. "'I think therefore I am.'
"I know you're thinking, though," he assured me. "I can see it. Like it's printed in the air right in front of me," he explained. "Although I guess it could be a voice in the air or a puffy cloud in the air above you or a little rectangle off to your side. That much is kind of arbitrary."
"What the fuck are you talking about?" I spat.
"I'm just asking... are your thoughts your own or is someone outside ascribing them to you? And if your thoughts aren't your own, how are you real at all?" he sang with a horrible playfulness. "If you don't own your cogito, how can you ergo sum? See, you can't prove you're not fictional!"
And then he got his horrible smiling face up in mine in a way that shouldn't have been possible with his previously established length of neck. "And there's nothing wrong with hurting fictional characters."
My back hit the wall, but I wasn't giving up. "What are you going to do to me?"
Here he smiled so wide his face almost fell off like a trashcan lid. "You've got these two holes in your half," he explained, knife aloft. "Doesn't seem very efficient to me. I think I'll just stick my pretty knife in you until it's just one big hole." He nodded casually. "I think it's better if things can just be free to mix."
And I guess I'm really supposed to be freaked out now, but I'm not. In fact, I've never felt more relaxed and in control in my life. "I know what you're afraid of," I said simply. And then, with strength that a girl my waistband couldn't possibly exhibit believably, I yanked the change machine off the wall and clobbered him with it.
"Oh, God Damn it!" the Clown screamed. "Don't you realize what I have to do now?"
And he bent over and started very rapidly counting the coins the had scattered all over the floor, saying "hup! hup! hup!" as he did so. I assume he counted all of them and deposited them on the counter, but (not being an idiot), I didn't stick around to find out.
Once I was a safe distance away for the laundromat, I realized that, because of my speedy exit, my wardrobe now consisted of three tops, six pairs of panties, two bras, and the jeans currently on my ass.
And no socks.
Didn't really seem important when I was running for my life but now...
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
We Took Dormont
That morning in the shower Drinker Hopkins had noted that his skin felt far softer than was characteristic. At first he was ready to ascribe credit to his new bodywash, but he as he was applying the lather he realized the truth: he had been tenderized. The softness he was feeling crept right through the skin and deep into each and every internal organ, with the added bonus of his brain being inexplicably filled with bees. He was feeling every second since that day in the lunch room like it was stone around his neck.
That was the source of his problems, Hopkins knew; and he knew the solution just as well: suicide.
This was, fortunately enough, a cheap, simple solution that would resolve all of his problems permanently, but it was also not without its drawbacks. For instance, suicide (despite what anyone might have told you) was incredibly painful. Death of any stripe was, by natural design, painful in order to discourage animals everywhere from trying it. Then there was the simple matter of him being dead, which decidedly limited his future options, perhaps even more than they were now and, as shocking a revelation as it was, Drinker realized that he didn't want to die (which meant most of his lifeplans were all-for-naught, but that's neither here nor there.)
Drinker's problem was likewise incredibly simple. The fact that his bank account had somehow transformed into a miniature black hole that managed to successfully devour everything he threw its way was less a part of it than he'd generally admit (even to himself), ditto the fact that he was basically unemployable. No, all of Drinker's current woes could be attributed to himself, but instead he chose to attribute them to a certain female.
She had been a coworker of his for no longer than a few weeks, which wasn't unusual as the Big Rubber Plastic Baby-Head factory (so-named for the manager, not the product) had a remarkable high turnover. She had also taken an immediate interest in Drinker, which was highly unusual, to the point that he could only regard it with hostility.
From the moment she first met him, she had made a point of engaging him at every opportunity, bombarding him with prying questions like what his name was and what he was planning on doing after work. Even worse than the words themselves was the tone she took when she spoke to him, which he found himself horrified to realize could only be described as coy.
The only refuge he could take was to secretly impugn her character, both to himself and others, when she wasn't around. Certainly, if she was willing to flirt with him, she must be willing to flirt with anyone, an opinion his male coworkers (who were all jealous that she wasn't sending any attention their way) would habitually lap up like mongrel dogs.
It was the most popular Drinker had ever been at work.
One day in the lunchroom, she went so far as to commit the ultimate unthinkable transgression: without warning or provocation, she sat down right in front of him and struck up a conversation.
"So, how come you never talk to me at work?" she asked with crippling directness.
Despite having planned for this moment, Drinker had absolutely no idea how to react. "I don't really talk to anyone at work," he replied.
He would spend the rest of his life crafting better answers to this and the rest of her questions; ultimately filling libraries of potential revisionist histories in his mind; but at the moment it took every single synapse to produce the most rudimentary language.
She laughed, which he was used to, but there wasn't a trace of mocking or irony to it, which was new. "Yeah, I really hate this place. Don't you?"
"It's a job," said Drinker, who didn't have it in him to hate anything. That would take too much energy and commitment.
She laughed that same seductive little laugh again. Drinker privately started to wonder if when they took the girls aside and showed them the other film strip, there wasn't a special segment that stressed that all men needed to believe they were completely hilarious. "Sometimes I really want to quit," she said teasingly.
Drinker would always wonder what she had meant by that; whether she had been trying to get him to ask her to stay or whether it had been completely innocent. "Probably a good idea," he murbled.
She laughed again, and the look in her eyes was so clear and sky blue and pure and honest, that Drinker couldn't believe it was allowed to live in the same universe as him.
And it was an invitation.
"So, uh," he fumbled, "what's your ring mean?" This seemed like a safe enough subject, partly because rings always meant something, but mostly because her ring was the first thing he saw when he shamefully failed to meet her gaze.
"It's a promise," she said proudly.
"Yeah?" Drinker asked. "To who?"
"God," she said with the same teasing sexuality she brought to everything she said to him.
"Which god?" he continued, not really thinking through the questions. "The One That Lives Underwater or..."
She shook her head briskly. "Only one God. And after Heaven was destroyed he came from the skies to save all of us."
The part of Drinker that was Drinker almost pointed out that if her God was indeed sent to save the world, he could only be considered a ridiculous failure; but he knew she wouldn't understand his Cynicism anymore than he could understand her Monotheism. And she, at least, had the advantage of actually believing in something. So instead he asked "And what did you promise God?"
"That I wouldn't have sex until I met the Man I Was Made For," she told him with the usual playful honesty.
And in that horrible moment, Drinker Hopkins grappled with horrible enormity of his situation for the first time: at that moment, he could put his hands anywhere on this girl's person... he could touch and explore and perhaps even suggest they adjourn to the supply closet and she would only encourage him not because she was a slut or harlot or woman of loose morals, but because there was something about him that she was genuinely interested in.
And she was interested in him as a long-term venture.
He passed the rest of the conversation while trying to conceal his intestinal discomfort, then politely excused himself to the lavatory, where he produced to shit a new ulcer into existence.
The remaining short weeks of her employment passed in much the same fashion, with her hitting Drinker repeatedly over the head with her interest in him while he continued to feign impossible ignorance. He would give birth to numerous justifications for this: most of them stemming from the fact that she was nearly a year and a half younger than him and just about to go off to college (Drinker himself having dropped out after a single semester), which meant that she would ultimately move beyond him and break his heart or alternately he didn't want her to miss out on experimenting and trying new things, just like he hadn't done. There was little to no reasoning behind which he favored at any given time, not even mood, if he was completely honest.
When she finally left, she said "So, Baby-Head said he'd love to hire me for next Summer, too," she began, biting her lip. "Are you still going to be here then?"
Drinker replied in the usual manner. "God, I hope not."
She laughed, then handed him a small card. He could tell it was one of Baby-Head's business cards, but she had scratched out his information and written her own on the back. He was struck dumb by the significance of it.
"Thanks," he said, in his mind's eye seeing the giant speech balloon with his tiny words hanging in the air between them.
"You're gonna call, right?" she asked with vulnerable urgency.
"Absolutely, I am," he promised.
She nodded cheerfully, her natural-blonde ponytail bouncing up and down.
Drinker slid the card into his shirt pocket. Over the next few years, he'd carry it with him wherever he went (bringing out in his greatest moments of emotional exhaustion), commit it to memory, and even program it into his mobile phone.
But he knew he was never going to dial it.
Now two years had burned past and with each one he felt her moving beyond him. The Promised Summer had come and gone without a sighting and, while he had been unable to keep her out of his thoughts for an entire day, he was certain she hadn't thought of him once.
And then yesterday the worst of all possible events had finally come to pass.
"What the hell is your problem?" Despite his many shortcomings, Rei Gamora could be a good friend to have.
"What makes you think I have a problem?" Drinker asked.
"Well, you're sitting on the Suicide Wall," Rei Gamora pointed out, "which... most people don't, you know."
Drinker took in his surroundings and realized Rei Gamora was right. "Huh," said Drinker, who had even remembered getting dressed (let alone in so many layers) or leaving his house.
"So, what are you doing up there?" Rei Gamora demanded.
"I guess I was planning on killing myself," Drinker logically concluded.
Rei Gamora talked him down like an expert. "Well, forget that shit. I need your help."
Drinker scratched his neck. "What's this about?"
"I finally got an answer of Hinton Bible!" Rei Gamora called.
Drinker looked down at his friend. Before breakfast he had decided against suicide, apparently some time between then and now he'd reversed that decision. And now...
"So, what did Hinton Bible tell Jet Boy?" Drinker asked, climbing down the wall through the relative safety of the uneven stones on the back.
"He told me that the world would end in five years and that he should never fly again," Rei Gamora informed, bouncing up and down on his heels. "It came to him in a dream."
Drinker went with his stock response and remained completely motionless. "And you think this means..."
"We go ahead with it," Rei Gamora insisted. "We kill him."
Drinker turned to Suicide. Suicide seemed to think it was a good idea.
"Sure," Drinker agreed. "Let's go for it."
Rei Gamora slapped him on the back and said many beautiful things about love and friendship and the One That Got Away.
Drinker said little of the past or the future, and absolutely nothing about what had happened yesterday.
"Hi, Daniel," she smiled sweetly and said. She had grown up a lot in the last eighteen months. Her life was clearly well on its way.
"Hey," he grunted back. He was wearing a nametag, so he could easily pretend he didn't know her.
She, however, through off his brilliant plan with simple honesty. "So, do you remember me at all from when I worked here?"
There had probably been a hundred new employees in the time since she'd left, and he remembered 100% pure nothing about them. "Absolutely, I do."
She smiled and he just wanted to be able to eat himself from the inside just to get out of the moment.
"Just don't ask me your name," he quipped without humor.
And then she laughed that same laugh, that very same little invitation she had given him two years ago... and he realized it was so much worse than if she'd just left him in the dust and forgotten about him.
"Hey, I've got a lot of work to do here," and he did, it couldn't seem less important at the moment. "I guess you're probably here to see Baby-Head."
"I just did, actually," she replied. "I'm starting a new job in Oakland and I need my..."
"Well, good luck!" he called, which is the second stupidest thing you can ever say to anyone, so he inexplicably decided to follow it with the first. "See you soon!"
And he watched her disappear from view again. It was the second Last Time He'd Ever See Her Again.
This time he'd have to do a better job of it.
That was the source of his problems, Hopkins knew; and he knew the solution just as well: suicide.
This was, fortunately enough, a cheap, simple solution that would resolve all of his problems permanently, but it was also not without its drawbacks. For instance, suicide (despite what anyone might have told you) was incredibly painful. Death of any stripe was, by natural design, painful in order to discourage animals everywhere from trying it. Then there was the simple matter of him being dead, which decidedly limited his future options, perhaps even more than they were now and, as shocking a revelation as it was, Drinker realized that he didn't want to die (which meant most of his lifeplans were all-for-naught, but that's neither here nor there.)
Drinker's problem was likewise incredibly simple. The fact that his bank account had somehow transformed into a miniature black hole that managed to successfully devour everything he threw its way was less a part of it than he'd generally admit (even to himself), ditto the fact that he was basically unemployable. No, all of Drinker's current woes could be attributed to himself, but instead he chose to attribute them to a certain female.
She had been a coworker of his for no longer than a few weeks, which wasn't unusual as the Big Rubber Plastic Baby-Head factory (so-named for the manager, not the product) had a remarkable high turnover. She had also taken an immediate interest in Drinker, which was highly unusual, to the point that he could only regard it with hostility.
From the moment she first met him, she had made a point of engaging him at every opportunity, bombarding him with prying questions like what his name was and what he was planning on doing after work. Even worse than the words themselves was the tone she took when she spoke to him, which he found himself horrified to realize could only be described as coy.
The only refuge he could take was to secretly impugn her character, both to himself and others, when she wasn't around. Certainly, if she was willing to flirt with him, she must be willing to flirt with anyone, an opinion his male coworkers (who were all jealous that she wasn't sending any attention their way) would habitually lap up like mongrel dogs.
It was the most popular Drinker had ever been at work.
One day in the lunchroom, she went so far as to commit the ultimate unthinkable transgression: without warning or provocation, she sat down right in front of him and struck up a conversation.
"So, how come you never talk to me at work?" she asked with crippling directness.
Despite having planned for this moment, Drinker had absolutely no idea how to react. "I don't really talk to anyone at work," he replied.
He would spend the rest of his life crafting better answers to this and the rest of her questions; ultimately filling libraries of potential revisionist histories in his mind; but at the moment it took every single synapse to produce the most rudimentary language.
She laughed, which he was used to, but there wasn't a trace of mocking or irony to it, which was new. "Yeah, I really hate this place. Don't you?"
"It's a job," said Drinker, who didn't have it in him to hate anything. That would take too much energy and commitment.
She laughed that same seductive little laugh again. Drinker privately started to wonder if when they took the girls aside and showed them the other film strip, there wasn't a special segment that stressed that all men needed to believe they were completely hilarious. "Sometimes I really want to quit," she said teasingly.
Drinker would always wonder what she had meant by that; whether she had been trying to get him to ask her to stay or whether it had been completely innocent. "Probably a good idea," he murbled.
She laughed again, and the look in her eyes was so clear and sky blue and pure and honest, that Drinker couldn't believe it was allowed to live in the same universe as him.
And it was an invitation.
"So, uh," he fumbled, "what's your ring mean?" This seemed like a safe enough subject, partly because rings always meant something, but mostly because her ring was the first thing he saw when he shamefully failed to meet her gaze.
"It's a promise," she said proudly.
"Yeah?" Drinker asked. "To who?"
"God," she said with the same teasing sexuality she brought to everything she said to him.
"Which god?" he continued, not really thinking through the questions. "The One That Lives Underwater or..."
She shook her head briskly. "Only one God. And after Heaven was destroyed he came from the skies to save all of us."
The part of Drinker that was Drinker almost pointed out that if her God was indeed sent to save the world, he could only be considered a ridiculous failure; but he knew she wouldn't understand his Cynicism anymore than he could understand her Monotheism. And she, at least, had the advantage of actually believing in something. So instead he asked "And what did you promise God?"
"That I wouldn't have sex until I met the Man I Was Made For," she told him with the usual playful honesty.
And in that horrible moment, Drinker Hopkins grappled with horrible enormity of his situation for the first time: at that moment, he could put his hands anywhere on this girl's person... he could touch and explore and perhaps even suggest they adjourn to the supply closet and she would only encourage him not because she was a slut or harlot or woman of loose morals, but because there was something about him that she was genuinely interested in.
And she was interested in him as a long-term venture.
He passed the rest of the conversation while trying to conceal his intestinal discomfort, then politely excused himself to the lavatory, where he produced to shit a new ulcer into existence.
The remaining short weeks of her employment passed in much the same fashion, with her hitting Drinker repeatedly over the head with her interest in him while he continued to feign impossible ignorance. He would give birth to numerous justifications for this: most of them stemming from the fact that she was nearly a year and a half younger than him and just about to go off to college (Drinker himself having dropped out after a single semester), which meant that she would ultimately move beyond him and break his heart or alternately he didn't want her to miss out on experimenting and trying new things, just like he hadn't done. There was little to no reasoning behind which he favored at any given time, not even mood, if he was completely honest.
When she finally left, she said "So, Baby-Head said he'd love to hire me for next Summer, too," she began, biting her lip. "Are you still going to be here then?"
Drinker replied in the usual manner. "God, I hope not."
She laughed, then handed him a small card. He could tell it was one of Baby-Head's business cards, but she had scratched out his information and written her own on the back. He was struck dumb by the significance of it.
"Thanks," he said, in his mind's eye seeing the giant speech balloon with his tiny words hanging in the air between them.
"You're gonna call, right?" she asked with vulnerable urgency.
"Absolutely, I am," he promised.
She nodded cheerfully, her natural-blonde ponytail bouncing up and down.
Drinker slid the card into his shirt pocket. Over the next few years, he'd carry it with him wherever he went (bringing out in his greatest moments of emotional exhaustion), commit it to memory, and even program it into his mobile phone.
But he knew he was never going to dial it.
Now two years had burned past and with each one he felt her moving beyond him. The Promised Summer had come and gone without a sighting and, while he had been unable to keep her out of his thoughts for an entire day, he was certain she hadn't thought of him once.
And then yesterday the worst of all possible events had finally come to pass.
"What the hell is your problem?" Despite his many shortcomings, Rei Gamora could be a good friend to have.
"What makes you think I have a problem?" Drinker asked.
"Well, you're sitting on the Suicide Wall," Rei Gamora pointed out, "which... most people don't, you know."
Drinker took in his surroundings and realized Rei Gamora was right. "Huh," said Drinker, who had even remembered getting dressed (let alone in so many layers) or leaving his house.
"So, what are you doing up there?" Rei Gamora demanded.
"I guess I was planning on killing myself," Drinker logically concluded.
Rei Gamora talked him down like an expert. "Well, forget that shit. I need your help."
Drinker scratched his neck. "What's this about?"
"I finally got an answer of Hinton Bible!" Rei Gamora called.
Drinker looked down at his friend. Before breakfast he had decided against suicide, apparently some time between then and now he'd reversed that decision. And now...
"So, what did Hinton Bible tell Jet Boy?" Drinker asked, climbing down the wall through the relative safety of the uneven stones on the back.
"He told me that the world would end in five years and that he should never fly again," Rei Gamora informed, bouncing up and down on his heels. "It came to him in a dream."
Drinker went with his stock response and remained completely motionless. "And you think this means..."
"We go ahead with it," Rei Gamora insisted. "We kill him."
Drinker turned to Suicide. Suicide seemed to think it was a good idea.
"Sure," Drinker agreed. "Let's go for it."
Rei Gamora slapped him on the back and said many beautiful things about love and friendship and the One That Got Away.
Drinker said little of the past or the future, and absolutely nothing about what had happened yesterday.
"Hi, Daniel," she smiled sweetly and said. She had grown up a lot in the last eighteen months. Her life was clearly well on its way.
"Hey," he grunted back. He was wearing a nametag, so he could easily pretend he didn't know her.
She, however, through off his brilliant plan with simple honesty. "So, do you remember me at all from when I worked here?"
There had probably been a hundred new employees in the time since she'd left, and he remembered 100% pure nothing about them. "Absolutely, I do."
She smiled and he just wanted to be able to eat himself from the inside just to get out of the moment.
"Just don't ask me your name," he quipped without humor.
And then she laughed that same laugh, that very same little invitation she had given him two years ago... and he realized it was so much worse than if she'd just left him in the dust and forgotten about him.
"Hey, I've got a lot of work to do here," and he did, it couldn't seem less important at the moment. "I guess you're probably here to see Baby-Head."
"I just did, actually," she replied. "I'm starting a new job in Oakland and I need my..."
"Well, good luck!" he called, which is the second stupidest thing you can ever say to anyone, so he inexplicably decided to follow it with the first. "See you soon!"
And he watched her disappear from view again. It was the second Last Time He'd Ever See Her Again.
This time he'd have to do a better job of it.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
She took off like a jet girl
For those among you who've never been flying... without wings or a plane or anything, I mean... it's pretty different than what you night have been lead to believe.
It is, for instance, absolutely nothing like suspended animation. Actually pretty strenuous; like you're really pushing all these muscles that aren't really there; that feel like they're located just outside of the body. At the same time, every action is instant and autonomic. For as much as it was taking out of me, I didn't having to think about flying anymore than I had to think about pumping blood or circulating oxygen; my body knew exactly what it was doing. It was like a born flying.
It's also absolutely nothing like swimming, despite seeming like it should be.
I reveled in it. I flew low and watched tracts of identical suburban homes flash past me, only to climb back up into the clouds and watch it all fade into a indiscernible blur. I saw it all from a new angle; all those streets I'd been walking down my whole life, I was finally seeing them for the first time.
They seemed pretty small.
Eventually, I spotted Drinker Hopkins dangling his legs off the side of Suicide Wall, so I swooped down low enough to speak to him. "Hi."
"How far up do you think I am?" he asked.
"High enough to break yourself," I said certainly.
Drinker seemed mildly irritated by this answer. "That wasn't the question."
"Right, uh... we're pretty high."
"Thank you," Drinker said darkly.
And another one of life's awkward silence popped into existence.
"So, um," I said in an effort to avoid discussing the obvious, "why do you think they put this wall here, anyway?"
"I don't know," Drinker said. "I haven't really thought about it."
"I mean, it was never part of a building and it doesn't fence anything off," I realized, "and it's basically just inviting trouble."
"Maybe it's always been here," he murbled. "Longer than mankind itself."
"No," I disagreed. "I'm no mason, but I know modern brick-working techniques when I'm hovering over them."
"It isn't important," Drinker said. "Doesn't matter why it came from."
"Why is it that everyone keeps telling me that my questions aren't important?" I demanded.
Drinker stared at the question like it was buzzing around his head. For a long time, I thought he was trying to find answer, but when he finally spoke, all he said was "You shouldn't be so hard on him."
"What 'him?'" I asked, taken aback as usual.
"Rei Gamora," Drinker said, as though it should be obvious. "He's got good reasons for being the way he is."
"Okay," I accepted, "but who doesn't?"
Drinker considered that for a moment. "Yeah, I guess that's true," he accepted. "He misses you, though."
"How can he miss me?" I asked in understandable confusion. "We were never together."
Drinker shrugged. "He thought you were."
"I've met him, like, twice." Apparently Rei Gamora was crazier than I thought. "He doesn't even know my real name."
"Girls never understand love," he muttered morosely.
I almost said something in my own defense, if not that of my entire gender, but then I realized: I couldn't understand calling that love, and that really didn't seem like a bad thing to me. "It doesn't seem at all odd to you that I'm flying, does it?"
"Well, you're Jet Girl, so..." he said, clearly feeling this was not a question worth even pondering.
"Right," I nodded. "Forget I even asked."
And another moment died awkwardly bled out in the back of an ambulance.
"Look," I sighed, "are you going to let me help you down or not?"
"Oh, is that why you've been hanging around here?" he asked, genuinely (though quietly) surprised.
"Yeah, of course," I replied, slightly frustrated.
Drinker shrugged shoulders again. "You never said."
"I thought it was understood," I grunted.
"Yeah, it's always a problem of understanding," Drinker reflected.
"He's not really going to jump, you know," a voice called up from below me.
"What?" I called back.
"I've been waiting for it all day," the voice replied, "and most of the day before yesterday, but he never jumped."
"I'll do it tomorrow," Drinker said resolutely.
"Tttk, it's always to-morrow," the voice chastised.
I let myself float down a little lower, and I could clearly it was the same clown I'd met on the street by my house a few days ago. "Uh, hi," said I.
The Clown kept right on staring past me at the sky and, presumably, Drinker. "What a glorious morning," he mused.
"It's, uh, it's three in the afternoon," I shrugged. "And it's actually, it's kind of overcast."
"All murky and gray and poorly defined and heartless," the Clown decided, apparently completely without my input at all. "But we've had worse weather."
"I guess so," I said.
"One time it rained human bodies," he announced.
"Right..." And here I decided I wanted to get as far away as possible as quickly as possible.
"Oh, it was horrible," he reminisced wistfully. "They all exploded on impact and it got in everywhere! We were hosing intestines and particulate matter out for months. So say nothing of the property damage."
Who the hell was this guy supposed to be anyway?
"If this were a movie," he mused cheerfully, "this would be the part when I ask you if you're ready."
"Ready?" I asked dubiously.
"For what's coming," he explained. "But this isn't a book or a movie. This is the only thing that is real," he seemed pretty sure about this. "And you won't be ready."
"I won't?"
And he smiled a little wider. "They will come for you," he said, as if we were talking about about his grandkids or something. "They will come for and they will hold you down and drive it deep into your body again and again, until they finally decide to let you die."
I wanted to pull back my fist and knock his teeth out. I wanted to stab him in his eyes. Who did he think he was to say that to me after everything that happened? "Dick."
He looked me up and down and nearly laughed. "You won't be ready," he said again. And then he walked off, whistling.
And I just watched him.
What does it all mean?
It is, for instance, absolutely nothing like suspended animation. Actually pretty strenuous; like you're really pushing all these muscles that aren't really there; that feel like they're located just outside of the body. At the same time, every action is instant and autonomic. For as much as it was taking out of me, I didn't having to think about flying anymore than I had to think about pumping blood or circulating oxygen; my body knew exactly what it was doing. It was like a born flying.
It's also absolutely nothing like swimming, despite seeming like it should be.
I reveled in it. I flew low and watched tracts of identical suburban homes flash past me, only to climb back up into the clouds and watch it all fade into a indiscernible blur. I saw it all from a new angle; all those streets I'd been walking down my whole life, I was finally seeing them for the first time.
They seemed pretty small.
Eventually, I spotted Drinker Hopkins dangling his legs off the side of Suicide Wall, so I swooped down low enough to speak to him. "Hi."
"How far up do you think I am?" he asked.
"High enough to break yourself," I said certainly.
Drinker seemed mildly irritated by this answer. "That wasn't the question."
"Right, uh... we're pretty high."
"Thank you," Drinker said darkly.
And another one of life's awkward silence popped into existence.
"So, um," I said in an effort to avoid discussing the obvious, "why do you think they put this wall here, anyway?"
"I don't know," Drinker said. "I haven't really thought about it."
"I mean, it was never part of a building and it doesn't fence anything off," I realized, "and it's basically just inviting trouble."
"Maybe it's always been here," he murbled. "Longer than mankind itself."
"No," I disagreed. "I'm no mason, but I know modern brick-working techniques when I'm hovering over them."
"It isn't important," Drinker said. "Doesn't matter why it came from."
"Why is it that everyone keeps telling me that my questions aren't important?" I demanded.
Drinker stared at the question like it was buzzing around his head. For a long time, I thought he was trying to find answer, but when he finally spoke, all he said was "You shouldn't be so hard on him."
"What 'him?'" I asked, taken aback as usual.
"Rei Gamora," Drinker said, as though it should be obvious. "He's got good reasons for being the way he is."
"Okay," I accepted, "but who doesn't?"
Drinker considered that for a moment. "Yeah, I guess that's true," he accepted. "He misses you, though."
"How can he miss me?" I asked in understandable confusion. "We were never together."
Drinker shrugged. "He thought you were."
"I've met him, like, twice." Apparently Rei Gamora was crazier than I thought. "He doesn't even know my real name."
"Girls never understand love," he muttered morosely.
I almost said something in my own defense, if not that of my entire gender, but then I realized: I couldn't understand calling that love, and that really didn't seem like a bad thing to me. "It doesn't seem at all odd to you that I'm flying, does it?"
"Well, you're Jet Girl, so..." he said, clearly feeling this was not a question worth even pondering.
"Right," I nodded. "Forget I even asked."
And another moment died awkwardly bled out in the back of an ambulance.
"Look," I sighed, "are you going to let me help you down or not?"
"Oh, is that why you've been hanging around here?" he asked, genuinely (though quietly) surprised.
"Yeah, of course," I replied, slightly frustrated.
Drinker shrugged shoulders again. "You never said."
"I thought it was understood," I grunted.
"Yeah, it's always a problem of understanding," Drinker reflected.
"He's not really going to jump, you know," a voice called up from below me.
"What?" I called back.
"I've been waiting for it all day," the voice replied, "and most of the day before yesterday, but he never jumped."
"I'll do it tomorrow," Drinker said resolutely.
"Tttk, it's always to-morrow," the voice chastised.
I let myself float down a little lower, and I could clearly it was the same clown I'd met on the street by my house a few days ago. "Uh, hi," said I.
The Clown kept right on staring past me at the sky and, presumably, Drinker. "What a glorious morning," he mused.
"It's, uh, it's three in the afternoon," I shrugged. "And it's actually, it's kind of overcast."
"All murky and gray and poorly defined and heartless," the Clown decided, apparently completely without my input at all. "But we've had worse weather."
"I guess so," I said.
"One time it rained human bodies," he announced.
"Right..." And here I decided I wanted to get as far away as possible as quickly as possible.
"Oh, it was horrible," he reminisced wistfully. "They all exploded on impact and it got in everywhere! We were hosing intestines and particulate matter out for months. So say nothing of the property damage."
Who the hell was this guy supposed to be anyway?
"If this were a movie," he mused cheerfully, "this would be the part when I ask you if you're ready."
"Ready?" I asked dubiously.
"For what's coming," he explained. "But this isn't a book or a movie. This is the only thing that is real," he seemed pretty sure about this. "And you won't be ready."
"I won't?"
And he smiled a little wider. "They will come for you," he said, as if we were talking about about his grandkids or something. "They will come for and they will hold you down and drive it deep into your body again and again, until they finally decide to let you die."
I wanted to pull back my fist and knock his teeth out. I wanted to stab him in his eyes. Who did he think he was to say that to me after everything that happened? "Dick."
He looked me up and down and nearly laughed. "You won't be ready," he said again. And then he walked off, whistling.
And I just watched him.
What does it all mean?
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Rei Gamora's moment of shame
Drinker Hopkins was not at all surprised to find that Rei Gamora had chosen once again to spend his entire shift smoking in the back out by the dumpsters.
"Explain to me again how you still have a job?" Drinker asked earnestly.
Rei Gamora shrugged. "I've been trying to get fired since I took the job."
Drinker slumped down next to him and accepted a puff. "Just wanted to give you a friendly heads-up: some detective's been asking after you."
"Heads-up received," Rei Gamora confirmed with an utter lack of affect.
Drinker passed over to Rei Gamora, who took another puff.
"Hey," Rei Gamora began hesitantly began, "do you know that girl I was talking to the other day? She's got that same hand-eye symbol on all her clothes or something?"
"Hamsa with a sideways 'evil eye,' yeah," Hopkins nodded. "Everyone just calls her 'Jet Girl.'"
"Hrg," Rei Gamora chewed his lip in disdain.
"I've seen her around," Drinker confirmed.
Rei Gamora cocked his head to side hopefully. "And?"
"I can't much see her going with you," Drinker said, staring off into the nothing.
Rei Gamora took a moment to fume. "Why do they call her 'Jet Girl?'"
"You see her and Jet Boy talking a lot, I guess," Drinker shrugged. "I mean, Jet Boy talks to everyone, but..."
"I hate Jet Boy," Rei Gamora muttered.
"No one hates Jet Boy," Drinker countered.
"I know," Rei Gamora accepted. "That's why I hate him."
"Well, I've heard worse excuses," the Detective granted as walked up to face them.
Rei Gamora turned angrily to Drinker, who wrapped himself up in his coat and sunk further and further into it in the vain hope of disappearing completely.
"I'm looking for Ray Gamerah," the Detective said. "I'm guessing that's you."
"More or less," Rei Gamora replied, irritated.
"And yet your helpful little name-tag labels you as 'Jovino,'" the Detective pointed out.
"'Ray' isn't a name, it's a title," Rei Gamora spat derisively.
"But 'Gamora' is your real last name, right?" she inquired playfully.
"'Gamora' is a portmanteau of 'amor' and 'cobra,'" Gamora explained. He could tell she was about to correct him, so he preemptively explained further "Well, that would actually be 'camora,' so I changed the first letter."
The Detective nodded. "And I assume the name 'Satsuriku Kagirinai' is also an alias?"
"Your Japanese sucks worse than your Brazilian," Gamora snapped.
The Detective gave a tweaked half-smile. "Yes, I really should hire a more talented wax specialist. Now, if I could ask you about Satsuriku Kagirinai."
Rei Gamora drew himself up to his full height and tried to look as menacing as possible for a man ten pounds underweight. "Ask all you want, but I don't know anything true."
The Detective raised a gentle eyebrow. "Do you know her real name?"
"I only knew her as Infinite Hell Murder," Rei Gamora snorted. "The name I gave her is more important than whatever her dad wrote on a piece of paper."
"Did she name you Rei Gamora?" she inquired.
Rei Gamora shook his head. "I named myself."
"And you don't see disparity there?" she asked.
"What happened to her happened because of Jet Boy and Bitch Chechnya," Rei Gamora murbled. "I've got an alibi for that night."
The Detective nodded. "I'll need to speak to him."
"That'd be this fuck right here," he said kicking Drinker solidly in the stomach.
And then he was gone.
---
Once he was safe in the relative solitude of the men's restroom, Rei Gamora finally had time to drink in the fresh red hatred he felt for everyone else on the entire planet.
He stared down at the crumpled picture of Jet Boy he'd taken to habitually carrying. "God, I hate you. I hate you so damn much... I'm gonna kill you. I'm gonna fucking kill you!" he screamed.
It was then he released that he'd just came all over his hand.
"Oh, damn," he sighed in disgust. "Not again."
"Explain to me again how you still have a job?" Drinker asked earnestly.
Rei Gamora shrugged. "I've been trying to get fired since I took the job."
Drinker slumped down next to him and accepted a puff. "Just wanted to give you a friendly heads-up: some detective's been asking after you."
"Heads-up received," Rei Gamora confirmed with an utter lack of affect.
Drinker passed over to Rei Gamora, who took another puff.
"Hey," Rei Gamora began hesitantly began, "do you know that girl I was talking to the other day? She's got that same hand-eye symbol on all her clothes or something?"
"Hamsa with a sideways 'evil eye,' yeah," Hopkins nodded. "Everyone just calls her 'Jet Girl.'"
"Hrg," Rei Gamora chewed his lip in disdain.
"I've seen her around," Drinker confirmed.
Rei Gamora cocked his head to side hopefully. "And?"
"I can't much see her going with you," Drinker said, staring off into the nothing.
Rei Gamora took a moment to fume. "Why do they call her 'Jet Girl?'"
"You see her and Jet Boy talking a lot, I guess," Drinker shrugged. "I mean, Jet Boy talks to everyone, but..."
"I hate Jet Boy," Rei Gamora muttered.
"No one hates Jet Boy," Drinker countered.
"I know," Rei Gamora accepted. "That's why I hate him."
"Well, I've heard worse excuses," the Detective granted as walked up to face them.
Rei Gamora turned angrily to Drinker, who wrapped himself up in his coat and sunk further and further into it in the vain hope of disappearing completely.
"I'm looking for Ray Gamerah," the Detective said. "I'm guessing that's you."
"More or less," Rei Gamora replied, irritated.
"And yet your helpful little name-tag labels you as 'Jovino,'" the Detective pointed out.
"'Ray' isn't a name, it's a title," Rei Gamora spat derisively.
"But 'Gamora' is your real last name, right?" she inquired playfully.
"'Gamora' is a portmanteau of 'amor' and 'cobra,'" Gamora explained. He could tell she was about to correct him, so he preemptively explained further "Well, that would actually be 'camora,' so I changed the first letter."
The Detective nodded. "And I assume the name 'Satsuriku Kagirinai' is also an alias?"
"Your Japanese sucks worse than your Brazilian," Gamora snapped.
The Detective gave a tweaked half-smile. "Yes, I really should hire a more talented wax specialist. Now, if I could ask you about Satsuriku Kagirinai."
Rei Gamora drew himself up to his full height and tried to look as menacing as possible for a man ten pounds underweight. "Ask all you want, but I don't know anything true."
The Detective raised a gentle eyebrow. "Do you know her real name?"
"I only knew her as Infinite Hell Murder," Rei Gamora snorted. "The name I gave her is more important than whatever her dad wrote on a piece of paper."
"Did she name you Rei Gamora?" she inquired.
Rei Gamora shook his head. "I named myself."
"And you don't see disparity there?" she asked.
"What happened to her happened because of Jet Boy and Bitch Chechnya," Rei Gamora murbled. "I've got an alibi for that night."
The Detective nodded. "I'll need to speak to him."
"That'd be this fuck right here," he said kicking Drinker solidly in the stomach.
And then he was gone.
---
Once he was safe in the relative solitude of the men's restroom, Rei Gamora finally had time to drink in the fresh red hatred he felt for everyone else on the entire planet.
He stared down at the crumpled picture of Jet Boy he'd taken to habitually carrying. "God, I hate you. I hate you so damn much... I'm gonna kill you. I'm gonna fucking kill you!" he screamed.
It was then he released that he'd just came all over his hand.
"Oh, damn," he sighed in disgust. "Not again."
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Jet Girl takes control
Here's where my story changes
I had one of those dreams last night, the kind where you're going through your dreamlife and suddenly realize you're dreaming and that you can change the dream any way you want.
And I thought about all the different ways I could change the dream... a lot of them are pretty embarrassing... until I realize that here I can actually fly like Jet Boy.
So I take up off the ground and float over the Western Pennsylvania, it's just so beautiful. But at the same time, it's incredibly fragile, because I know it's a dream, which means I know I can wake up, and the moment I accept that as a possibility, is the moment it becomes reality.
Usually when I wake up from dreams like that, I just want to die. It's that hard to fall to the earth. But not this time, because I finally know the secret. So I walked over to my bedroom window, looked down at my backyard and my giant metal robothead and the strange man who's still asleep on it, and I know that I'm right.
Slowly I opened the window, took a deep breath, and I took off like a jet girl.
I had one of those dreams last night, the kind where you're going through your dreamlife and suddenly realize you're dreaming and that you can change the dream any way you want.
And I thought about all the different ways I could change the dream... a lot of them are pretty embarrassing... until I realize that here I can actually fly like Jet Boy.
So I take up off the ground and float over the Western Pennsylvania, it's just so beautiful. But at the same time, it's incredibly fragile, because I know it's a dream, which means I know I can wake up, and the moment I accept that as a possibility, is the moment it becomes reality.
Usually when I wake up from dreams like that, I just want to die. It's that hard to fall to the earth. But not this time, because I finally know the secret. So I walked over to my bedroom window, looked down at my backyard and my giant metal robothead and the strange man who's still asleep on it, and I know that I'm right.
Slowly I opened the window, took a deep breath, and I took off like a jet girl.
A visit to the therapist
"And there's so much I'm just now finding out about him," Ravi lamented, slumping against a convenient wall. "Who the fuck was Danny anyway?"
He paused for a moment to rub the bridge of his nose in frustration.
"I guess the worst is how numb I am about it," Ravi admitted. "I mean, my best friend died in my arms, shouldn't I feel something?"
He took a deep breath.
"A lot of the other guys are talking about revenge or someshit, like we weren't all from the suburbs..." he scoffed.
"Danny's dead, the rest of us getting killed isn't going to help anything," Ravi mused.
Ravi looked around for a moment, as though to make sure the two of them were really alone.
"You know what I keep thinking about?" Ravi asked. "How much he used to piss me off. He was like a big, stupid kid, always thinking about his, you know? Whether he was hungry or horny or whatever... I really hated him," Ravi admitted.
"My best friend is dead and all I can think about is how much I really didn't like him," Ravi puffed.
When there was finally a long enough pause that he realized it was his turn to talk, Jet Boy spoke up. "Have you thrown up yet?"
Ravi shook his head. "There's always hope, though."
"Yes, there is," Jet Boy replied, missing the sarcasm again.
He paused for a moment to rub the bridge of his nose in frustration.
"I guess the worst is how numb I am about it," Ravi admitted. "I mean, my best friend died in my arms, shouldn't I feel something?"
He took a deep breath.
"A lot of the other guys are talking about revenge or someshit, like we weren't all from the suburbs..." he scoffed.
"Danny's dead, the rest of us getting killed isn't going to help anything," Ravi mused.
Ravi looked around for a moment, as though to make sure the two of them were really alone.
"You know what I keep thinking about?" Ravi asked. "How much he used to piss me off. He was like a big, stupid kid, always thinking about his, you know? Whether he was hungry or horny or whatever... I really hated him," Ravi admitted.
"My best friend is dead and all I can think about is how much I really didn't like him," Ravi puffed.
When there was finally a long enough pause that he realized it was his turn to talk, Jet Boy spoke up. "Have you thrown up yet?"
Ravi shook his head. "There's always hope, though."
"Yes, there is," Jet Boy replied, missing the sarcasm again.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
He means "fear," obviously
"It's right out here," I said, leading Hinton Bible and Space Elvis out to my backyard and wondering once again why I invited them back here.
By this point, the machinehead had grown so large that it took up most of my backyard. This made little-to-no sense to me, given that numerous other machines and metallic objects, ranging from bicycles to gas-powered grills to lawnmowers have been left out here for days at a time while maintaining a consistent size... which I guess is why I bit the bullet and brought these two in.
"This is the head," I explained, which was probably unnecessary.
Space Elvis and Bible turned to each other and nodded.
"You were right to call us," Bible said with complete self-assurance.
Which, needless to say, increased my doubts tenfold.
"This is Dr. Simon Dorchester," Bible explained, indicating a small, rodent-like man that I was fairly certain wasn't there a second ago.
"Hi," I said awkwardly.
Dorchester gave no outward sign of recognition, which seemed about right.
"He investigates these things," Bible explained helpfully.
I nodded condescendingly, which seemed like the thing to do. "You see a lot of giant metal futureheads?"
Dorchester thought about this for a solid twenty-eight minutes before deciding "not as such, no, but I am eager to examine this curiosity."
"You're not going to claim it's God or anything are you?" Space Elvis asked discretely. "'Cos there's a fair chunk of people still pissed off about the Mouse."
"Try not to speak ill of the Mouse... he had a lot on his hands being both Prophet and Super-organism," Dorchester confided.
"Let me thank you again for coming," Bible told him, apparently having made himself feel right at home by assuming my house as his own. "Our Jet Girl..." Bible began.
I turned to face him with disdain. "I have a name, you know."
"Absolutely you do," Bible readily agreed, "and it's Jet Girl."
"I'm not Jet Girl," said I. "I wasn't Jet Girl when I woke up yesterday..."
"But you are today," Space Elvis observed.
"See how that works?" Bible chimed in. I was about to sigh in exasperation, but he started talking again before I had the chance. "Our Jet Girl has..."
"And even if I am somehow Jet Girl," I began, "how am I your Jet Girl?"
"Hardly this seems important in the face of a giant metal robot skull," Bible muttered.
"I just feel if you suddenly feel you've claimed me to the point that you've named me, I should have been consulted at some point," I argued.
"If you want your questions answered, I suggest you focus on what's really important here," Space Elvis said icily.
"Okay," I agreed. "I'll only ask head questions."
"Excellent," Bible said, then elbowed Dorchester, who had fallen asleep.
"Who built the head?" I asked.
If I could have seen Space Elvis's eyes at that point, I'm pretty sure I would have seen them narrow. "Wrong question."
"No good asking the wrong question from the beginning," Bible opined.
"Okay," I said again, swallowing an annoyed grunt. "Whose head is it?"
Bible shook his head. "No, that's not what you should be asking at all."
And then I just let the annoyed grunt out. When I was finally done, full minutes later, I turned back to Bible. "Well, what should I be asking?"
"Well, it's really a question of epistemology," Space Elvis said, to which Bible added his vigorous nods of assent.
I took the opportunity to offer a counter-argument. "It's was a big metal machinehead."
"Well, it is that too, but..." Space Elvis granted reluctantly.
Bible, however, pounced back immediately. "The head itself is what's important, not whether or not it was ever connected to anything else."
"That's insane," I pointed out. "You're deliberately avoiding looking at the big picture."
"It's not important," Bible insisted.
"Then why don't I cut off your big toe and tell you it doesn't matter that it was ever connected to your foot?"
"I lost my big toe trying to impress a girl when I was fifteen," Bible inserted.
"Well, I hope it worked," I sarcasted. "And why hasn't your expert said anything yet?"
Bible and Space Elvis were both fairly surprised by that, and I had to conduct a thorough investigation of Dorchester before concluding that he'd fallen asleep on the head. "He does this everywhere we go," Space Elvis muttered.
"No, no," Bible shook his head. "Mostly he steals panties."
"Right," Space Elvis remembered.
Bible thought about for a moment, before turning back to me. "Probably you should check your laundry bushels after we leave," he confided.
"Wonderful," I sighed in disgust. I suddenly found myself wondering how this whole thing had been my idea.
Abruptly, Dorchester began to stir awake of his own accord. "I'm sorry, Kenneth. I knew it was wrong."
"Who's Kenneth?" I inquired, by this time realizing I wasn't likely to get much of an answer. "And even if you lost a big toe when you were fifteen, shouldn't still have another one?"
"Kenneth is no one," Space Elvis warned.
"And while you may believe having two big toes is unalienable right, not everyone in the world is so lucky," Bible silently snapped.
"She's quite rude," Dorchester murbled.
Bible nodded. "As is so often the case." Before I could say anything in my own defense, he added "what is your opinion of the head?"
Dorchester turned his bleary eyes to the head and stared at it as though for the first time. He then proceeded to study it from every angle, measure it with several pieces of string, write extensive notes in the lawn with his finger, and, finally, nod in satisfaction to himself.
"Well?" I asked.
"I believe it's some kind of metal head," he coughed with authority.
"Okay, granted," I granted him. "But can you tell me anything useful? Like where it comes from, whose head it is, how it got to be so big?"
He turned back to the head. "It wasn't always this size?"
"Of course not," I replied with justifiable rage. "I carried it home. How could I carry it home if it were there that big?"
Dorchester blinked at me several times in rapid succession. "So, it wasn't always this size?"
"No," I snapped.
Bible and Space Elvis were both looking at me like was their cough syrup-addicted stepdaughter, but I honestly didn't care at that point.
"Hmm," Dorchester said, nodding his head thoughtfully. After a few more minutes of nodding thoughtfully, he finally thought himself back to sleep.
We all just watched him for a time, a little embarrassed to be witness to it, a little in awe that someone could sleep so soundly on a giant metal human skull.
Finally, it was Bible who spoke again. "Well, I trust this answers all of your questions."
And, again, I could only look at him in baffled rage. "What?"
Space Elvis nodded. "Yes, I feel our work here is done."
And they actually started to leave, so I called after them "What about him?" I asked, pointing to Dorchester.
They shared another glance.
"Best let him sleep," Bible advised.
"Believe me, it's a lot better than having him wake up," Space Elvis cautioned.
And then they were gone. I was an idiot to ask for their help in the first place.
"It's beyond the realm of the human touch," Dorchester mumbled in his sleep. "It's made of fire, you see."
By this point, the machinehead had grown so large that it took up most of my backyard. This made little-to-no sense to me, given that numerous other machines and metallic objects, ranging from bicycles to gas-powered grills to lawnmowers have been left out here for days at a time while maintaining a consistent size... which I guess is why I bit the bullet and brought these two in.
"This is the head," I explained, which was probably unnecessary.
Space Elvis and Bible turned to each other and nodded.
"You were right to call us," Bible said with complete self-assurance.
Which, needless to say, increased my doubts tenfold.
"This is Dr. Simon Dorchester," Bible explained, indicating a small, rodent-like man that I was fairly certain wasn't there a second ago.
"Hi," I said awkwardly.
Dorchester gave no outward sign of recognition, which seemed about right.
"He investigates these things," Bible explained helpfully.
I nodded condescendingly, which seemed like the thing to do. "You see a lot of giant metal futureheads?"
Dorchester thought about this for a solid twenty-eight minutes before deciding "not as such, no, but I am eager to examine this curiosity."
"You're not going to claim it's God or anything are you?" Space Elvis asked discretely. "'Cos there's a fair chunk of people still pissed off about the Mouse."
"Try not to speak ill of the Mouse... he had a lot on his hands being both Prophet and Super-organism," Dorchester confided.
"Let me thank you again for coming," Bible told him, apparently having made himself feel right at home by assuming my house as his own. "Our Jet Girl..." Bible began.
I turned to face him with disdain. "I have a name, you know."
"Absolutely you do," Bible readily agreed, "and it's Jet Girl."
"I'm not Jet Girl," said I. "I wasn't Jet Girl when I woke up yesterday..."
"But you are today," Space Elvis observed.
"See how that works?" Bible chimed in. I was about to sigh in exasperation, but he started talking again before I had the chance. "Our Jet Girl has..."
"And even if I am somehow Jet Girl," I began, "how am I your Jet Girl?"
"Hardly this seems important in the face of a giant metal robot skull," Bible muttered.
"I just feel if you suddenly feel you've claimed me to the point that you've named me, I should have been consulted at some point," I argued.
"If you want your questions answered, I suggest you focus on what's really important here," Space Elvis said icily.
"Okay," I agreed. "I'll only ask head questions."
"Excellent," Bible said, then elbowed Dorchester, who had fallen asleep.
"Who built the head?" I asked.
If I could have seen Space Elvis's eyes at that point, I'm pretty sure I would have seen them narrow. "Wrong question."
"No good asking the wrong question from the beginning," Bible opined.
"Okay," I said again, swallowing an annoyed grunt. "Whose head is it?"
Bible shook his head. "No, that's not what you should be asking at all."
And then I just let the annoyed grunt out. When I was finally done, full minutes later, I turned back to Bible. "Well, what should I be asking?"
"Well, it's really a question of epistemology," Space Elvis said, to which Bible added his vigorous nods of assent.
I took the opportunity to offer a counter-argument. "It's was a big metal machinehead."
"Well, it is that too, but..." Space Elvis granted reluctantly.
Bible, however, pounced back immediately. "The head itself is what's important, not whether or not it was ever connected to anything else."
"That's insane," I pointed out. "You're deliberately avoiding looking at the big picture."
"It's not important," Bible insisted.
"Then why don't I cut off your big toe and tell you it doesn't matter that it was ever connected to your foot?"
"I lost my big toe trying to impress a girl when I was fifteen," Bible inserted.
"Well, I hope it worked," I sarcasted. "And why hasn't your expert said anything yet?"
Bible and Space Elvis were both fairly surprised by that, and I had to conduct a thorough investigation of Dorchester before concluding that he'd fallen asleep on the head. "He does this everywhere we go," Space Elvis muttered.
"No, no," Bible shook his head. "Mostly he steals panties."
"Right," Space Elvis remembered.
Bible thought about for a moment, before turning back to me. "Probably you should check your laundry bushels after we leave," he confided.
"Wonderful," I sighed in disgust. I suddenly found myself wondering how this whole thing had been my idea.
Abruptly, Dorchester began to stir awake of his own accord. "I'm sorry, Kenneth. I knew it was wrong."
"Who's Kenneth?" I inquired, by this time realizing I wasn't likely to get much of an answer. "And even if you lost a big toe when you were fifteen, shouldn't still have another one?"
"Kenneth is no one," Space Elvis warned.
"And while you may believe having two big toes is unalienable right, not everyone in the world is so lucky," Bible silently snapped.
"She's quite rude," Dorchester murbled.
Bible nodded. "As is so often the case." Before I could say anything in my own defense, he added "what is your opinion of the head?"
Dorchester turned his bleary eyes to the head and stared at it as though for the first time. He then proceeded to study it from every angle, measure it with several pieces of string, write extensive notes in the lawn with his finger, and, finally, nod in satisfaction to himself.
"Well?" I asked.
"I believe it's some kind of metal head," he coughed with authority.
"Okay, granted," I granted him. "But can you tell me anything useful? Like where it comes from, whose head it is, how it got to be so big?"
He turned back to the head. "It wasn't always this size?"
"Of course not," I replied with justifiable rage. "I carried it home. How could I carry it home if it were there that big?"
Dorchester blinked at me several times in rapid succession. "So, it wasn't always this size?"
"No," I snapped.
Bible and Space Elvis were both looking at me like was their cough syrup-addicted stepdaughter, but I honestly didn't care at that point.
"Hmm," Dorchester said, nodding his head thoughtfully. After a few more minutes of nodding thoughtfully, he finally thought himself back to sleep.
We all just watched him for a time, a little embarrassed to be witness to it, a little in awe that someone could sleep so soundly on a giant metal human skull.
Finally, it was Bible who spoke again. "Well, I trust this answers all of your questions."
And, again, I could only look at him in baffled rage. "What?"
Space Elvis nodded. "Yes, I feel our work here is done."
And they actually started to leave, so I called after them "What about him?" I asked, pointing to Dorchester.
They shared another glance.
"Best let him sleep," Bible advised.
"Believe me, it's a lot better than having him wake up," Space Elvis cautioned.
And then they were gone. I was an idiot to ask for their help in the first place.
"It's beyond the realm of the human touch," Dorchester mumbled in his sleep. "It's made of fire, you see."
Friday, April 11, 2008
Checking in with Tommy and Aggro
"I was tired of playing the idiot, it's as simple as that," Tommy Two-Tone explained.
"As simple as an idiot," Aggro inquired.
"Just so," Tommy Two-Tone agreed. "When Tommy Two-Tone Tatamoto is treated terribly and tactlessly, Tommy Two-Tone Tatamoto talks."
Aggro nodded. "So you sold us out."
"Nothing like that," Tommy Two-Tone replied, shaking his head. "I spoke to the cops, not the Hive Mind or anyone else who could deal real damage."
"Everything that happens from here on in is on your head," Aggro melodically cursed.
Tommy didn't even look up from his hedgehog sandwich. "Danny was dead before I said word one," he said darkly. "Nothing I do is going to make him any deader."
For a moment, Aggro thought he might just let his anger fume internally.
But only for a moment.
"Something like this, it causes an explosion backwards, forwards, and sidewise through time... gets so people can't remember the way things were before you betrayed them... and so you always did," Aggro elucidated.
"Now," Aggro continued, edging near the seated Tommy Two-Tone so that he towered over him. "Maybe this Detective can be trusted... maybe she can't... but, I guarantee you she has the Rat."
Tommy Two-Tone shrugged it off. "Extinct or not, a rat is a rat. Nothing worth losing sleep over."
Aggro eyed him coldly. "One of your friends lost his life over it.
"Not by choice," Tommy Two-Tone mutter.
Aggro shook his head in disgust and started to walk away. "Before anything can ever happen, there's gotta be a prophecy," he explained. "And the one with your name on it is predicting a fall."
Tommy said nothing.
"I'm telling you this as a friend, Tommy," Aggro warned. "You need to get your head in the game."
Tommy just sat there as he left, holding his tongue and trying to remember where his head was last time he saw it. It was ten minutes after Aggro finally departed that he finally released the words he'd been holding on to.
"What a faggot."
"As simple as an idiot," Aggro inquired.
"Just so," Tommy Two-Tone agreed. "When Tommy Two-Tone Tatamoto is treated terribly and tactlessly, Tommy Two-Tone Tatamoto talks."
Aggro nodded. "So you sold us out."
"Nothing like that," Tommy Two-Tone replied, shaking his head. "I spoke to the cops, not the Hive Mind or anyone else who could deal real damage."
"Everything that happens from here on in is on your head," Aggro melodically cursed.
Tommy didn't even look up from his hedgehog sandwich. "Danny was dead before I said word one," he said darkly. "Nothing I do is going to make him any deader."
For a moment, Aggro thought he might just let his anger fume internally.
But only for a moment.
"Something like this, it causes an explosion backwards, forwards, and sidewise through time... gets so people can't remember the way things were before you betrayed them... and so you always did," Aggro elucidated.
"Now," Aggro continued, edging near the seated Tommy Two-Tone so that he towered over him. "Maybe this Detective can be trusted... maybe she can't... but, I guarantee you she has the Rat."
Tommy Two-Tone shrugged it off. "Extinct or not, a rat is a rat. Nothing worth losing sleep over."
Aggro eyed him coldly. "One of your friends lost his life over it.
"Not by choice," Tommy Two-Tone mutter.
Aggro shook his head in disgust and started to walk away. "Before anything can ever happen, there's gotta be a prophecy," he explained. "And the one with your name on it is predicting a fall."
Tommy said nothing.
"I'm telling you this as a friend, Tommy," Aggro warned. "You need to get your head in the game."
Tommy just sat there as he left, holding his tongue and trying to remember where his head was last time he saw it. It was ten minutes after Aggro finally departed that he finally released the words he'd been holding on to.
"What a faggot."
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
He gives me Head (Jet Boy)
"So are you going to the big exorcism later?" Rei Gamora asked me. He'd been walking next to me for the last four or five blocks, making a general asshole out of himself, which was different because he was usually more specific. "It should be pretty cool."
"Yeah... I don't think I'm going," carefully letting my tone tell the rest of the story.
"But you haven't lived until you've seen a live exorcism," he insisted. He does a lot of insisting, actually. "The green smoke, horrible unearthly wailing, any drug you can possibly being handed out like it's candy... it's a good time."
If I could have opened up a hole in the cement below him, I would have been done with it then and there, but sadly I'm stuck giving 'Look Speeches.' "Look, Rei..." I began, only to be thankfully interrupted by the always timely intervention of Jet Boy.
"Hey, I've been looking for you everywhere," he says like he's known my since preschool.
"Yeah?" I was really trying not to cock my head to side or raise my voice just a little at the end, but the fates were against me. And while Jet Boy doesn't even begin to notice, Rei Gamora does and he duly takes the opportunity to become increasingly smaller until he disappears from our dimension entirely.
"Yeah," Jet Boy replied exuberantly, completely ignoring Rei, which somehow worked out much better for him than me. "I've been keeping this in my refrigerator for awhile, but I thought you might like it."
And he handed my this big, severed machinehead with all kinds of thick cables jutting out from it and little blinking red and green lights... the kind of thing an eight year old boy might think was the physical manifestation of awesome. "Um, thanks," I mumbled.
"You're welcome!" he replied brightly.
"Is this from some kid of epic battle you fought or something?" I asked, still trying to decipher what, if any, meaning there could be behind this huge, horrible, oily metal head I'd just had bestowed on me.
"No, some guy just gave it me," he said modestly. "People just kind of give me things."
"Right," I said. Of course they do.
"Yeah, I guess some people thought it was some kind of machine god that we're going to built in the future to rule us all," he explained with cartoonish over-brightness.
"Didn't seem kind of stupid to you?" I asked honestly.
"Well, maybe," he admitted, "but people should be able to believe what they want to."
He really was a flying grade school civics class. "I guess so."
"Anyway, I saw the head and I thought about you right away," he said cheerfully. "It's apparently made out of fear... which I didn't think was possible but there it is in your hand, so I guess it must be."
"Thank you," I said, trying to keep the head aloft, which wasn't easy since it was really heavy and the chin was pointier than the Media would have you expect from a standard-issue machinehead. "So... um... do you know what happened to the rest of it?"
Jet Boy had to stare at the head for a moment to get my meaning. "Wow, you're right, there probably was more of it. I hadn't even thought about it."
"What do you think about?" I asked, honestly (albeit morbidly) interested to know.
Jet Boy had to really think about what he really thought about. "Sometimes people die and their houseplants grow out of control," Jet Boy decided.
"I think the houseplants generally die, too," I pointed out. "'Cos no one waters them."
"No, I do," Jet Boy corrected me gently.
At that point I did what I think most of us would do and quietly pretended not to hear what he just said. "And that's what you think about when you do your really deep thinking? House plants?"
"You think I should be thinking deeper?" he asked, seeming genuinely nervous.
"Well, I think most people expect their heroes to be constantly torn apart by existential angst," I informed him.
Jet Boy rubbed the back of his neck shyly. "I guess there's a lot about the world I don't understand," Jet Boy admitted. "Like sex. I mean, how does that not completely blow everyone's mind? You're actually putting a part of yourself into another human being. Or they're putting a part of themselves in you... how is it that everyone doesn't just think about that all the time and feel incredibly amazed?"
"Well..." I began, quickly realizing I had absolutely no idea how to explain sport-fucking to someone so utterly innocent.
He shrugged his shoulders slightly. "I mean, I'm no expert of anything, but you said something about angst... Everywhere I go I see people taking about how they're looking for this big, meaningful connection with another person that they just can't make happen. How is that not it?" he asked with just heartbreaking honesty. "Are they doing it wrong?"
And this whole time I was just staring at him. "I don't think many people look at it like you do."
"Why not?" And the look in his eyes was like I was trying to explain astrophysics in Phoenician.
"I don't know," I admitted, "it's mostly something people do when they're bored or drunk, then feel really bad about later."
"Maybe I'm missing something," Jet Boy decided. "What you're saying doesn't make sense to me, but I don't think the rest of the world could be wrong and I'd be right." He seemed to give a moment or two of serious thought. "I mean, I don't really understand math, but I think the odds would be all wrong."
"I guess so," I shrugged.
He nodded to himself before turning his attention back to me. "Well, in any case, do your best to take care of the Head," he said. "Even if it's not God or anything, I really think it's really a good head, it just needs some love."
"I'll certainly do my best," I assured him, wondering what on Earth made him think I was the type of girl who could anything, let alone a machinehead that has clearly been dead for some time.
Jet Boy gave me a little salute, then shot off into the sky like a rocket. And then the tiniest, palest, most chipper cheerleaderish girl I've ever seen in my life walked right up to be and, coyly clutching her schoolbooks to her chest, asked "Was that Jet Boy I just saw you talking to?"
"Yeah," I admitted. "I guess I kind of know him."
"Wow," she sighed dreamily. "I love to thrust my big black cock into him until his asshole bleeds."
And I looked down at her in what I thought was understandable bafflement, but she just stood there sighing at his vapor trail.
"Yeah... I don't think I'm going," carefully letting my tone tell the rest of the story.
"But you haven't lived until you've seen a live exorcism," he insisted. He does a lot of insisting, actually. "The green smoke, horrible unearthly wailing, any drug you can possibly being handed out like it's candy... it's a good time."
If I could have opened up a hole in the cement below him, I would have been done with it then and there, but sadly I'm stuck giving 'Look Speeches.' "Look, Rei..." I began, only to be thankfully interrupted by the always timely intervention of Jet Boy.
"Hey, I've been looking for you everywhere," he says like he's known my since preschool.
"Yeah?" I was really trying not to cock my head to side or raise my voice just a little at the end, but the fates were against me. And while Jet Boy doesn't even begin to notice, Rei Gamora does and he duly takes the opportunity to become increasingly smaller until he disappears from our dimension entirely.
"Yeah," Jet Boy replied exuberantly, completely ignoring Rei, which somehow worked out much better for him than me. "I've been keeping this in my refrigerator for awhile, but I thought you might like it."
And he handed my this big, severed machinehead with all kinds of thick cables jutting out from it and little blinking red and green lights... the kind of thing an eight year old boy might think was the physical manifestation of awesome. "Um, thanks," I mumbled.
"You're welcome!" he replied brightly.
"Is this from some kid of epic battle you fought or something?" I asked, still trying to decipher what, if any, meaning there could be behind this huge, horrible, oily metal head I'd just had bestowed on me.
"No, some guy just gave it me," he said modestly. "People just kind of give me things."
"Right," I said. Of course they do.
"Yeah, I guess some people thought it was some kind of machine god that we're going to built in the future to rule us all," he explained with cartoonish over-brightness.
"Didn't seem kind of stupid to you?" I asked honestly.
"Well, maybe," he admitted, "but people should be able to believe what they want to."
He really was a flying grade school civics class. "I guess so."
"Anyway, I saw the head and I thought about you right away," he said cheerfully. "It's apparently made out of fear... which I didn't think was possible but there it is in your hand, so I guess it must be."
"Thank you," I said, trying to keep the head aloft, which wasn't easy since it was really heavy and the chin was pointier than the Media would have you expect from a standard-issue machinehead. "So... um... do you know what happened to the rest of it?"
Jet Boy had to stare at the head for a moment to get my meaning. "Wow, you're right, there probably was more of it. I hadn't even thought about it."
"What do you think about?" I asked, honestly (albeit morbidly) interested to know.
Jet Boy had to really think about what he really thought about. "Sometimes people die and their houseplants grow out of control," Jet Boy decided.
"I think the houseplants generally die, too," I pointed out. "'Cos no one waters them."
"No, I do," Jet Boy corrected me gently.
At that point I did what I think most of us would do and quietly pretended not to hear what he just said. "And that's what you think about when you do your really deep thinking? House plants?"
"You think I should be thinking deeper?" he asked, seeming genuinely nervous.
"Well, I think most people expect their heroes to be constantly torn apart by existential angst," I informed him.
Jet Boy rubbed the back of his neck shyly. "I guess there's a lot about the world I don't understand," Jet Boy admitted. "Like sex. I mean, how does that not completely blow everyone's mind? You're actually putting a part of yourself into another human being. Or they're putting a part of themselves in you... how is it that everyone doesn't just think about that all the time and feel incredibly amazed?"
"Well..." I began, quickly realizing I had absolutely no idea how to explain sport-fucking to someone so utterly innocent.
He shrugged his shoulders slightly. "I mean, I'm no expert of anything, but you said something about angst... Everywhere I go I see people taking about how they're looking for this big, meaningful connection with another person that they just can't make happen. How is that not it?" he asked with just heartbreaking honesty. "Are they doing it wrong?"
And this whole time I was just staring at him. "I don't think many people look at it like you do."
"Why not?" And the look in his eyes was like I was trying to explain astrophysics in Phoenician.
"I don't know," I admitted, "it's mostly something people do when they're bored or drunk, then feel really bad about later."
"Maybe I'm missing something," Jet Boy decided. "What you're saying doesn't make sense to me, but I don't think the rest of the world could be wrong and I'd be right." He seemed to give a moment or two of serious thought. "I mean, I don't really understand math, but I think the odds would be all wrong."
"I guess so," I shrugged.
He nodded to himself before turning his attention back to me. "Well, in any case, do your best to take care of the Head," he said. "Even if it's not God or anything, I really think it's really a good head, it just needs some love."
"I'll certainly do my best," I assured him, wondering what on Earth made him think I was the type of girl who could anything, let alone a machinehead that has clearly been dead for some time.
Jet Boy gave me a little salute, then shot off into the sky like a rocket. And then the tiniest, palest, most chipper cheerleaderish girl I've ever seen in my life walked right up to be and, coyly clutching her schoolbooks to her chest, asked "Was that Jet Boy I just saw you talking to?"
"Yeah," I admitted. "I guess I kind of know him."
"Wow," she sighed dreamily. "I love to thrust my big black cock into him until his asshole bleeds."
And I looked down at her in what I thought was understandable bafflement, but she just stood there sighing at his vapor trail.
Monday, April 7, 2008
numb
It was just Another Night for Infinite Hell Murder and Rei Gamora, two bored suburban kids in love. Jumping over the fences set up like hurdles throughout their neighborhood, stealing whatever they could reach out of open windows, and starting fights with other people's dogs on chains. Many a bottle of Orangina was put to illicit use that evening, and yet they both knew a harsh comedown was inevitable.
"I want to do something to you so that everyone knows you're mine," Hell Murder squealed with delight as she squeezed Rei's arm, "like a tattoo on your face or something."
Rei shook his head. "Better than matching t-shirts," he conceded.
"Or a collar with my name on it or..." she paused for a moment than looked at him seriously, "can I knock all your teeth out?"
"No, you can't knock my teeth out," he replied in monotone.
"I'll think of something," she snuggled herself ever tighter to him, resting the crown of her head perfectly under his chin.
"I'm sure you will," he smiled and kissed the top of her head.
They walked silently through the sterile suburban night, until Rei Gamora spotted a lit-up house with an half-open door, and was struck by an idea of sorts.
"Stick close to me," Rei Gamora chuckled.
Hell Murder eagerly followed suit, chuckling gleefully burst into the house.
"Hello," Rei Gamora said sweetly, "we'd like to procure your bed for purposes fucking."
The guy who happened to live there seemed uncomfortable with this idea for some reason.
"You should know, then, we're the type that like to slit throats and crush tracheas," Hell Murder cautioned.
And then, after a lengthy period of debate during which many fantasies and causes of apprehension were brought to light, the guy that owned the house was finally able to see their point and left in terror, with the compromise that any and all fucking would be confined to the bedroom and general bed-area.
Of course, even this proved too constricting for Infinite Hell Murder and Rei Gamora, who soon found themselves sprawled sleepily on the dessicated remains of the kitchen table.
"One day we'll find the Superman," Hell Murder mumbled sleepily, her single wave of dark hair trying to force itself down her throat. "We'll find him and he'll spin the World back around the other way around and fix everything..." she mumbled before finally slipping into unconsciousness.
Safe in the knowledge that she was well and fully asleep, Rei Gamora shut himself in the bathroom and pulled out his phone. "Hey, I kinda figured I'd be getting your mission, but..." he took a dramatic pause, feeling that he'd earned one. "...She's deceiving me. Fucking around. I don't know how many guys."
He shook his head, although he logically should have known it wouldn't carry over the phonelines especially well. "I honestly don't know what to do, Drinker. My head's so scrambled right now all my ideas center on me having electric powers. Or the really good ones I have invisible powers."
He took a deep breath of desperation. "You gotta help me out, dude," he breathed. "I going going absolute bugfuck."
Rei severed another connection, helped himself to another power sigh, then let his head slump back against the wall so hard it drew blood.
"God," he sighed.
"I want to do something to you so that everyone knows you're mine," Hell Murder squealed with delight as she squeezed Rei's arm, "like a tattoo on your face or something."
Rei shook his head. "Better than matching t-shirts," he conceded.
"Or a collar with my name on it or..." she paused for a moment than looked at him seriously, "can I knock all your teeth out?"
"No, you can't knock my teeth out," he replied in monotone.
"I'll think of something," she snuggled herself ever tighter to him, resting the crown of her head perfectly under his chin.
"I'm sure you will," he smiled and kissed the top of her head.
They walked silently through the sterile suburban night, until Rei Gamora spotted a lit-up house with an half-open door, and was struck by an idea of sorts.
"Stick close to me," Rei Gamora chuckled.
Hell Murder eagerly followed suit, chuckling gleefully burst into the house.
"Hello," Rei Gamora said sweetly, "we'd like to procure your bed for purposes fucking."
The guy who happened to live there seemed uncomfortable with this idea for some reason.
"You should know, then, we're the type that like to slit throats and crush tracheas," Hell Murder cautioned.
And then, after a lengthy period of debate during which many fantasies and causes of apprehension were brought to light, the guy that owned the house was finally able to see their point and left in terror, with the compromise that any and all fucking would be confined to the bedroom and general bed-area.
Of course, even this proved too constricting for Infinite Hell Murder and Rei Gamora, who soon found themselves sprawled sleepily on the dessicated remains of the kitchen table.
"One day we'll find the Superman," Hell Murder mumbled sleepily, her single wave of dark hair trying to force itself down her throat. "We'll find him and he'll spin the World back around the other way around and fix everything..." she mumbled before finally slipping into unconsciousness.
Safe in the knowledge that she was well and fully asleep, Rei Gamora shut himself in the bathroom and pulled out his phone. "Hey, I kinda figured I'd be getting your mission, but..." he took a dramatic pause, feeling that he'd earned one. "...She's deceiving me. Fucking around. I don't know how many guys."
He shook his head, although he logically should have known it wouldn't carry over the phonelines especially well. "I honestly don't know what to do, Drinker. My head's so scrambled right now all my ideas center on me having electric powers. Or the really good ones I have invisible powers."
He took a deep breath of desperation. "You gotta help me out, dude," he breathed. "I going going absolute bugfuck."
Rei severed another connection, helped himself to another power sigh, then let his head slump back against the wall so hard it drew blood.
"God," he sighed.
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Factory47
The biggest problem with being stabbed in the chest is that it's incredibly painful.
Sure, there are plenty of other problems inherently involved, notably the concern that your insides will collapse once you're no longer being stabbed in the chest, and, of course, there's always the realization that you must have made the person stabbing you terribly angry or else, you know, they probably wouldn't be stabbing (or at least stabbing less often or viciously).
Still, I challenge anyone of you to attempt to hold your focus on these admittedly relevant concerns while getting stabbed in the chest yourself. Or, if this seems unappealing to you, trying asking the person you're currently stabbing in the chest to try it for you. They might be less than cooperative, but that's probably why you were stabbing them in the chest in the first place.
Or maybe it was about money or women or even men... I don't know about any of that, it's your affair. All I know is what hurts and I can tell you for a fact, getting stabbed in the chest hurts plenty.
It's kind of a stabbing pain, actually.
Anyway, I'm getting off topic. Let me you about my morning.
It had started off badly, for one, as I was stabbed repeatedly in the chest.
And I don't mean that metaphorically, of course, I was actually being physically stabbed in the chest repeatedly.
I looked up at the guy stabbing me. The look in his eyes told me that he really seemed to hate me, but that was kind of implied by the fact that he was stabbing me in the chest. And while I'm no stranger to being hated, I was a stranger to the guy who was stabbing me, which made the actual stabbing something of a mystery.
I thought about asking him if this was about money or maybe women, but when I tried to speak all I could manage was "HYYAAAAARRGGGHHH!!" Which made little to no sense, except in context.
Of course, he somehow anticipated my question. "You wanna know why I'm stabbing you in the chest?"
I did, of course, but somehow his reasons for stabbing me took backseat to my concerns about the stabbing itself.
"This is for what you did to me!" he screamed between stabs.
I, of course, had no idea what I had done to him, but I was fairly certain it was something pretty damned awful to warrant this level of chest-stabbing. Frankly, I was drawing a blank. What I did no was that I was being stabbed repeatedly, and the only thing for it was get him to stop stabbing me. I tried to get my hands free, but he saw the move coming and stabbed them. I tried to kick his screwdriver away, but he just stabbed them both at the last second. In preparation of a possibly headbutt, he stabbed me in the face. Finally, I came up with a plan of escape: I lost consciousness.
When I came to, he was gone, leaving only a note saying he'd be back to finish the job and enough duct tape to hold my organs together as far as the hospital.
Looks like it was time swing out of action.
Sure, there are plenty of other problems inherently involved, notably the concern that your insides will collapse once you're no longer being stabbed in the chest, and, of course, there's always the realization that you must have made the person stabbing you terribly angry or else, you know, they probably wouldn't be stabbing (or at least stabbing less often or viciously).
Still, I challenge anyone of you to attempt to hold your focus on these admittedly relevant concerns while getting stabbed in the chest yourself. Or, if this seems unappealing to you, trying asking the person you're currently stabbing in the chest to try it for you. They might be less than cooperative, but that's probably why you were stabbing them in the chest in the first place.
Or maybe it was about money or women or even men... I don't know about any of that, it's your affair. All I know is what hurts and I can tell you for a fact, getting stabbed in the chest hurts plenty.
It's kind of a stabbing pain, actually.
Anyway, I'm getting off topic. Let me you about my morning.
It had started off badly, for one, as I was stabbed repeatedly in the chest.
And I don't mean that metaphorically, of course, I was actually being physically stabbed in the chest repeatedly.
I looked up at the guy stabbing me. The look in his eyes told me that he really seemed to hate me, but that was kind of implied by the fact that he was stabbing me in the chest. And while I'm no stranger to being hated, I was a stranger to the guy who was stabbing me, which made the actual stabbing something of a mystery.
I thought about asking him if this was about money or maybe women, but when I tried to speak all I could manage was "HYYAAAAARRGGGHHH!!" Which made little to no sense, except in context.
Of course, he somehow anticipated my question. "You wanna know why I'm stabbing you in the chest?"
I did, of course, but somehow his reasons for stabbing me took backseat to my concerns about the stabbing itself.
"This is for what you did to me!" he screamed between stabs.
I, of course, had no idea what I had done to him, but I was fairly certain it was something pretty damned awful to warrant this level of chest-stabbing. Frankly, I was drawing a blank. What I did no was that I was being stabbed repeatedly, and the only thing for it was get him to stop stabbing me. I tried to get my hands free, but he saw the move coming and stabbed them. I tried to kick his screwdriver away, but he just stabbed them both at the last second. In preparation of a possibly headbutt, he stabbed me in the face. Finally, I came up with a plan of escape: I lost consciousness.
When I came to, he was gone, leaving only a note saying he'd be back to finish the job and enough duct tape to hold my organs together as far as the hospital.
Looks like it was time swing out of action.
Friday, March 28, 2008
Jet Girl is Alice
Then one day I came home after school to find Hinton Bible and some guy I'd never met before sitting taking tea on the little patio table in my entrance way, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. They must have brought the table with them because we don't own one.
As soon as he noticed me, Bible rose from his chair. "Ah, here she is now."
"Um, hi," I managed to say.
"Would you care for some tea?" he offered with more real warmth than I felt he had any right to. "I have all the flavors: mallow, thistle, Jenkem... what ever you'd like."
"No, I'm really okay," I assured him, trying to subconsciously indicated that I was more concerned with his peculiar home invasion."
He smiled to get the hint and gave me a smile and nod. "I suppose you're wondering why we called you here today."
"This is my house," I pointed out. Sagely, I thought.
"Is it really?" he said in the kind of tone that made me doubt it myself. The two of us have come here to take tea with you and have a little chat. I believe you know Space Elvis," he said, gesturing to the man on his right.
I didn't know Space Elvis, but between his name and the way he was dressed, I figured him out pretty quickly. He looked like he'd been a Black Panther when he was younger. Not a revolutionary, an actual panther. He had that air about him.
"Now, child," Bible began, "I know that you've been asking a lot of questions lately, and that's never a good thing."
"Tends to get you answers," Space Elvis drawled laconically, adjusting the hem of his expensive-looking humanskin coat.
"Precisely," Bible agreed. "Now, we obviously are your only friends in the world, and we simply want to protect you. But first we need to know where to start, so why don't you tell us exactly what you know?"
I thought about it for a moment before concluding "I don't really know anything."
Space Elvis turned to Bible and if he had it in him to look impressed, I'm sure he would have done it then. "She's smart," he granted.
Bible nodded. "Yes, it makes for a dreadful inconvenience, I'm afraid."
Somehow, Space Elvis nodded without moving his head.
"And, in that time we have learned a good deal about the world and those that spin 'round on it," Bible continued crisply.
"We have heard the voices of the Dead," Space Elvis inserted.
"Right," Bible agreed readily, "so when we speak, it is with the highest authority. The value of language is something that we have come to grasp intrinsically. We don't waste language, we speak only when necessary."
"You're remarkably verbose, actually..." I mutter, but it goes largely ignored.
"Now," Bible pontificated, "we could sit around here discussing what is and isn't God until all the salt in the world is spent, but I thik"
"You 'thik?'" I broke in.
"Now, hold on," Space Elvis cautioned.
"I meant 'think,' obviously," Bible attempted to recover.
"No, I think you just let something slip," I grinned.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Bible insisted. "I never say anything that isn't intentional. That was a completely meaningful ur-syllable."
If Space Elvis had it in him to gave an angry glare, he would have done it at that point.
And suddenly, I started to feel like I had control again. "See, I don't think it is. I think you came here to make sure I didn't know anything dangerous, and then you went and told me something dangerous."
"Now, that's patently false," Bible swore. "Everything of real value is measured in blood."
"I think you better quit talkin'," Space Elvis uttered.
For a moment, the whole of time was a frozen Hinton Bible.
"Yes, I imagine so," he concurred.
And then he folded up his table (which wasn't the kind that folded) and all his teacups and saucers, and he and Space Elvis left without saying another word, leaving me all alone to wonder what "thik" meant.
As soon as he noticed me, Bible rose from his chair. "Ah, here she is now."
"Um, hi," I managed to say.
"Would you care for some tea?" he offered with more real warmth than I felt he had any right to. "I have all the flavors: mallow, thistle, Jenkem... what ever you'd like."
"No, I'm really okay," I assured him, trying to subconsciously indicated that I was more concerned with his peculiar home invasion."
He smiled to get the hint and gave me a smile and nod. "I suppose you're wondering why we called you here today."
"This is my house," I pointed out. Sagely, I thought.
"Is it really?" he said in the kind of tone that made me doubt it myself. The two of us have come here to take tea with you and have a little chat. I believe you know Space Elvis," he said, gesturing to the man on his right.
I didn't know Space Elvis, but between his name and the way he was dressed, I figured him out pretty quickly. He looked like he'd been a Black Panther when he was younger. Not a revolutionary, an actual panther. He had that air about him.
"Now, child," Bible began, "I know that you've been asking a lot of questions lately, and that's never a good thing."
"Tends to get you answers," Space Elvis drawled laconically, adjusting the hem of his expensive-looking humanskin coat.
"Precisely," Bible agreed. "Now, we obviously are your only friends in the world, and we simply want to protect you. But first we need to know where to start, so why don't you tell us exactly what you know?"
I thought about it for a moment before concluding "I don't really know anything."
Space Elvis turned to Bible and if he had it in him to look impressed, I'm sure he would have done it then. "She's smart," he granted.
Bible nodded. "Yes, it makes for a dreadful inconvenience, I'm afraid."
Somehow, Space Elvis nodded without moving his head.
"And, in that time we have learned a good deal about the world and those that spin 'round on it," Bible continued crisply.
"We have heard the voices of the Dead," Space Elvis inserted.
"Right," Bible agreed readily, "so when we speak, it is with the highest authority. The value of language is something that we have come to grasp intrinsically. We don't waste language, we speak only when necessary."
"You're remarkably verbose, actually..." I mutter, but it goes largely ignored.
"Now," Bible pontificated, "we could sit around here discussing what is and isn't God until all the salt in the world is spent, but I thik"
"You 'thik?'" I broke in.
"Now, hold on," Space Elvis cautioned.
"I meant 'think,' obviously," Bible attempted to recover.
"No, I think you just let something slip," I grinned.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Bible insisted. "I never say anything that isn't intentional. That was a completely meaningful ur-syllable."
If Space Elvis had it in him to gave an angry glare, he would have done it at that point.
And suddenly, I started to feel like I had control again. "See, I don't think it is. I think you came here to make sure I didn't know anything dangerous, and then you went and told me something dangerous."
"Now, that's patently false," Bible swore. "Everything of real value is measured in blood."
"I think you better quit talkin'," Space Elvis uttered.
For a moment, the whole of time was a frozen Hinton Bible.
"Yes, I imagine so," he concurred.
And then he folded up his table (which wasn't the kind that folded) and all his teacups and saucers, and he and Space Elvis left without saying another word, leaving me all alone to wonder what "thik" meant.
Monday, March 24, 2008
The Big Question About Jet Boy
It was the twelfth time Tommy "Two-Tone" Tatamoto tested his telepathic talents; tasting the trepidation, Tommy's taut thoughts tackled the thoughts of the two teenage trollops talking tenaciously ten tiny ticks towards Terry's 'Tatter Tent, terribly tense lest something go awry. The results were, frankly, typical.
Every story he'd every heard of a human coming into contact with a divine being, be it the well-established God That Lives Underwater, one of the lesser deities, or any of the innumerable Monotheistic gods that dotted the face of the Earth like the zits on his ass, was instantly bequeathed with some magical boon of kickass proportions. However, preliminary tests revealed that he had not been cured of his slight nearsightedness, his allergy to cloves, or the zits on his face; which could only mean that the boon had taken the form of some type of superhuman ability.
This, too, had proven to be a bust. His vision and hearing were clearly at the normal levels (a solid C+, as mentioned before), he couldn't fly (or if he could, he was bad at it), his attempts at using his super-strength had proven emasculating (although apparently hysterical), and any sexual boon he might have received was negated by the previously mentioned attempt at super-strength. Mental telepathy had been his last hope, but unless the two girls he was spying on were themselves trying to read the minds of two other girls, he wasn't making much progress.
"Hello, Citizen," Jet Boy called down to him with the usual briskness. "Is there a problem I can help you with?"
"Nah," Tommy sighed with regret, "I've just been cheated by a Mouse God, is all."
Jet Boy offered him a sympathetic head tilt. "I'm sorry, that sounds really unfair."
"Absolutely," Tommy agreed. "I mean, where I come from, when a totemic animal bites you, they're signing an agreement to bestow all their powers and abilities upon you. I mean, I don't know what kind of Mouse powers the Mouse God could give me, but... that's just good form."
"Where do you come from?" Jet Boy asked with innocent confusion.
"I was born half a mile from here, why?" Tommy asked, just as confused.
"You said..." Jet Boy began.
"Oh... right," Tommy realized. "No, I was just being dramatic."
"Oh, that makes more sense," Jet Boy nodded jovially.
"Yeah, so... do you think I could take Him to court or try to beat Him into giving me powers or something?" Tommy asked. "I mean, He bit me and he took a dump in my jacket, so..."
"Well... it's probably not a good idea to enrage a God Beast," Jet Boy offered sagely.
"Right," Tommy conceded.
"And violence is never the answer," Jet Boy pointed out.
"No, no... you're right," Tommy reluctantly agreed.
They stood there for an awkward moment (well, Tommy stood, Jet Boy sort of hovered), neither one quite sure what to say next.
"Was it a nice jacket?" Jet Boy finally asked.
"Sorry?" Tommy asked.
"That the Mouse ruined," Jet Boy reminded him.
"Nice enough," Tommy shrugged.
Jet Boy took a moment to process this, before deciding "Well, if nothing else, maybe the Mouse God will pay for the suit. Do you know where He is now?"
Tommy shook his head. "Ehh... he bit me and ran off."
"Well, I'll keep an eye out for him on my regular patrol," Jet Boy promised.
Tommy gave him a weak warm smile. "Thanks, Jet Boy."
"I'm here to help," Jet Boy assured him. Then, with a mighty boom and friendly puff of smoke, he was gone, safe in the knowledge that he'd done everything he could to help another grateful citizen.
One of the girls Tommy had been trying to mind-probe early ran up to him. "Hey, was that Jet Boy you were just talking to?"
"Yep," he replied with beaming gratitude. "How can you not want to fuck that?"
Every story he'd every heard of a human coming into contact with a divine being, be it the well-established God That Lives Underwater, one of the lesser deities, or any of the innumerable Monotheistic gods that dotted the face of the Earth like the zits on his ass, was instantly bequeathed with some magical boon of kickass proportions. However, preliminary tests revealed that he had not been cured of his slight nearsightedness, his allergy to cloves, or the zits on his face; which could only mean that the boon had taken the form of some type of superhuman ability.
This, too, had proven to be a bust. His vision and hearing were clearly at the normal levels (a solid C+, as mentioned before), he couldn't fly (or if he could, he was bad at it), his attempts at using his super-strength had proven emasculating (although apparently hysterical), and any sexual boon he might have received was negated by the previously mentioned attempt at super-strength. Mental telepathy had been his last hope, but unless the two girls he was spying on were themselves trying to read the minds of two other girls, he wasn't making much progress.
"Hello, Citizen," Jet Boy called down to him with the usual briskness. "Is there a problem I can help you with?"
"Nah," Tommy sighed with regret, "I've just been cheated by a Mouse God, is all."
Jet Boy offered him a sympathetic head tilt. "I'm sorry, that sounds really unfair."
"Absolutely," Tommy agreed. "I mean, where I come from, when a totemic animal bites you, they're signing an agreement to bestow all their powers and abilities upon you. I mean, I don't know what kind of Mouse powers the Mouse God could give me, but... that's just good form."
"Where do you come from?" Jet Boy asked with innocent confusion.
"I was born half a mile from here, why?" Tommy asked, just as confused.
"You said..." Jet Boy began.
"Oh... right," Tommy realized. "No, I was just being dramatic."
"Oh, that makes more sense," Jet Boy nodded jovially.
"Yeah, so... do you think I could take Him to court or try to beat Him into giving me powers or something?" Tommy asked. "I mean, He bit me and he took a dump in my jacket, so..."
"Well... it's probably not a good idea to enrage a God Beast," Jet Boy offered sagely.
"Right," Tommy conceded.
"And violence is never the answer," Jet Boy pointed out.
"No, no... you're right," Tommy reluctantly agreed.
They stood there for an awkward moment (well, Tommy stood, Jet Boy sort of hovered), neither one quite sure what to say next.
"Was it a nice jacket?" Jet Boy finally asked.
"Sorry?" Tommy asked.
"That the Mouse ruined," Jet Boy reminded him.
"Nice enough," Tommy shrugged.
Jet Boy took a moment to process this, before deciding "Well, if nothing else, maybe the Mouse God will pay for the suit. Do you know where He is now?"
Tommy shook his head. "Ehh... he bit me and ran off."
"Well, I'll keep an eye out for him on my regular patrol," Jet Boy promised.
Tommy gave him a weak warm smile. "Thanks, Jet Boy."
"I'm here to help," Jet Boy assured him. Then, with a mighty boom and friendly puff of smoke, he was gone, safe in the knowledge that he'd done everything he could to help another grateful citizen.
One of the girls Tommy had been trying to mind-probe early ran up to him. "Hey, was that Jet Boy you were just talking to?"
"Yep," he replied with beaming gratitude. "How can you not want to fuck that?"
Space Elvis!!
Despite appearances, Space Elvis had not the slightest ounce of contempt towards his fellow human beings. In fact, he had absolutely no emotions at all towards his fellow human beings; he didn't consider himself a human being, preferring to the broader and more apt classification "Pan-Gender Cosmic Love Messiah."
So, as he looked at all the little human beings he found himself walking among for the first time in decades: the monstrously bulbous woman in the anti-abortion t-shirt beating her screaming child senseless, the fifty-something accountant with an eye for twelve year-old girls, the bored-looking kids with blue hair and trust funds; he gave no more thought to any of them than they did to the universes of microbes populating their hands.
It wasn't that he was an elitist, it was more that he had come into direct contact with the Divine and dominated the Grammies fifteen years in a row, while the odds were that these most of these people had done neither. Statistically speaking, at least.
What he couldn't help but be notice (and assaulted by) was the smell.
Back in his wing of the Complex, he had complete control over all in-coming olfactory data. Every smell he might come into contact with was familiar, welcome, and already duly cataloged in his detailed record of the 252,892 workplace smells (with items as diverse and beautiful as Number Seventy-Two: A Well-Preserved Digital Audio Tape to Number One Eight Seven: The Fresh Squechy Smell of A Still-Born Fetus to Number Six Twelve Four Nine: The Nectar-Like Treacle of a Human Brainstem). In the years since he moved beyond the need for food, these smells had come to develop a savory richness that he could both taste and feel tactilely. It was beautiful, but it was also controlled. The smells that surrounded him now, in addition to be indescribably horrible, were assaulting him brutally in a way that he simply couldn't escape, despite the fact that he hadn't breathed in the last three hours.
Suddenly, his ruminations were disturbed by a bewildered white face and a mop of unruly black hair. "Hey..." the messy ur-human stammered "you're Him, aren't you?"
Space Elvis made no movement, but confirms his adherent. "I am the One You Seek," he said with alien lack of emotion.
The true believer gazed up at him with a mindless canine worship. "I thought you were dead."
"I walk this plane to ease your suffering, child," Space Elvis replied with rapid iciness. "Spread my message of Love to all you should meet and you shall be remembered."
The no one nodded loyally.
"Go with Sex," Space Elvis commanded, ushering him away with a touch, a motion, or even a subconscious signal.
If Space Elvis ever let his composure slip for a moment, this would have been the time. Every second he was away for the Complex, he grew weaker and weaker. If he didn't find what he was looking for soon, the strain of being seen by too many pre-post-humans would destroy him completely. Without moving, he glanced down at his hand to see if the aging process had begun. So far it still reflected the age it always had: Unplaceable. He was safe for now, but you can never put too much faith in Now.
So, as he looked at all the little human beings he found himself walking among for the first time in decades: the monstrously bulbous woman in the anti-abortion t-shirt beating her screaming child senseless, the fifty-something accountant with an eye for twelve year-old girls, the bored-looking kids with blue hair and trust funds; he gave no more thought to any of them than they did to the universes of microbes populating their hands.
It wasn't that he was an elitist, it was more that he had come into direct contact with the Divine and dominated the Grammies fifteen years in a row, while the odds were that these most of these people had done neither. Statistically speaking, at least.
What he couldn't help but be notice (and assaulted by) was the smell.
Back in his wing of the Complex, he had complete control over all in-coming olfactory data. Every smell he might come into contact with was familiar, welcome, and already duly cataloged in his detailed record of the 252,892 workplace smells (with items as diverse and beautiful as Number Seventy-Two: A Well-Preserved Digital Audio Tape to Number One Eight Seven: The Fresh Squechy Smell of A Still-Born Fetus to Number Six Twelve Four Nine: The Nectar-Like Treacle of a Human Brainstem). In the years since he moved beyond the need for food, these smells had come to develop a savory richness that he could both taste and feel tactilely. It was beautiful, but it was also controlled. The smells that surrounded him now, in addition to be indescribably horrible, were assaulting him brutally in a way that he simply couldn't escape, despite the fact that he hadn't breathed in the last three hours.
Suddenly, his ruminations were disturbed by a bewildered white face and a mop of unruly black hair. "Hey..." the messy ur-human stammered "you're Him, aren't you?"
Space Elvis made no movement, but confirms his adherent. "I am the One You Seek," he said with alien lack of emotion.
The true believer gazed up at him with a mindless canine worship. "I thought you were dead."
"I walk this plane to ease your suffering, child," Space Elvis replied with rapid iciness. "Spread my message of Love to all you should meet and you shall be remembered."
The no one nodded loyally.
"Go with Sex," Space Elvis commanded, ushering him away with a touch, a motion, or even a subconscious signal.
If Space Elvis ever let his composure slip for a moment, this would have been the time. Every second he was away for the Complex, he grew weaker and weaker. If he didn't find what he was looking for soon, the strain of being seen by too many pre-post-humans would destroy him completely. Without moving, he glanced down at his hand to see if the aging process had begun. So far it still reflected the age it always had: Unplaceable. He was safe for now, but you can never put too much faith in Now.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
From Experiments Arrive Results
The history of Pittsburgh begins with British Prime Minister William H Pitt, who acquired a large sum of land in what was then known as Virginia in one of America's earliest shady land deals. With little interest in the property himself, Pitt the Elder turned the bulk of the land over to his son, William W Pitt, in the hopes that having a full ocean and much as-yet-uncultivated land between him and son might spare the Elder Pitt a good deal of scandal, while at the time same time ensuring his son would retain the lifestyle of opium-induced debauchery that was his birthright. And so, the colony of Pittsburgh was founded.
Meanwhile, Henry Clay Bessemer likewise came to the New World fleeing religious tolerance. Bessemer believed that it was possible to achieve perfection in the world, which was a minority viewpoint at the time, but he also believed this was only possible through the dedicated worship of him, personally, which was largely regarded as outright heresy. Bessemer was never quite at home in England, what with everyone constantly asking him to leave, and, while he had no trouble gathering unto himself a wealth of believers (there's never a shortage of people willing to surrender their humanity, after all), the government kept butting its figurative nose in, trying to claim his followers for their own and (therefor) fascistically forcing them to accept needless crosses of life, liberty, and property. Needless to say, Bessemer was feeling cramped.
Bessemer and Pitt the Younger met quite by accident, but were embracing each other as brothers within seconds of their first meeting. It was the most serendipitous encounter either man could have hoped for: Pitt had vast stretches of land were a Utopian community could be installed without fear of government interference, while Pitt found himself suddenly blessed with an abundance of fresh servants and victims for his various unnatural appetites.
Pitt was a ready student for Bessemer's theories, especially his views on gender relations, which were considered radical for their time. It was, of course, taken as a given that at the time of marriage, a woman became to sole property of her husband, to do with whatever he pleased; Bessemer, however saw this as being grossly unjust, and made it the first rule of his society that all women were jointly owned by all the men in the community. Likewise, he made it a commandment that all members of the community needed to give themselves over completely to work as a path to salvation... adding, of course, that the work he and the others Elders (including Elder Pitt the Younger, obviously) was not only work, but was miles harder than any actual physical labor and the rest of you had better get to work soon if they wanted to keep up. Within months, the Bessemer Community was renowned throughout Virginia for its quality wallets and leather goods, which Bessemer sold at a profit to fund his extensive eugenic program. He also began to publish materials speculating on new processes in metallurgy.
The seeds of the modern Pittsburgh had begun to take root.
Meanwhile, Henry Clay Bessemer likewise came to the New World fleeing religious tolerance. Bessemer believed that it was possible to achieve perfection in the world, which was a minority viewpoint at the time, but he also believed this was only possible through the dedicated worship of him, personally, which was largely regarded as outright heresy. Bessemer was never quite at home in England, what with everyone constantly asking him to leave, and, while he had no trouble gathering unto himself a wealth of believers (there's never a shortage of people willing to surrender their humanity, after all), the government kept butting its figurative nose in, trying to claim his followers for their own and (therefor) fascistically forcing them to accept needless crosses of life, liberty, and property. Needless to say, Bessemer was feeling cramped.
Bessemer and Pitt the Younger met quite by accident, but were embracing each other as brothers within seconds of their first meeting. It was the most serendipitous encounter either man could have hoped for: Pitt had vast stretches of land were a Utopian community could be installed without fear of government interference, while Pitt found himself suddenly blessed with an abundance of fresh servants and victims for his various unnatural appetites.
Pitt was a ready student for Bessemer's theories, especially his views on gender relations, which were considered radical for their time. It was, of course, taken as a given that at the time of marriage, a woman became to sole property of her husband, to do with whatever he pleased; Bessemer, however saw this as being grossly unjust, and made it the first rule of his society that all women were jointly owned by all the men in the community. Likewise, he made it a commandment that all members of the community needed to give themselves over completely to work as a path to salvation... adding, of course, that the work he and the others Elders (including Elder Pitt the Younger, obviously) was not only work, but was miles harder than any actual physical labor and the rest of you had better get to work soon if they wanted to keep up. Within months, the Bessemer Community was renowned throughout Virginia for its quality wallets and leather goods, which Bessemer sold at a profit to fund his extensive eugenic program. He also began to publish materials speculating on new processes in metallurgy.
The seeds of the modern Pittsburgh had begun to take root.
Friday, February 8, 2008
While You Were Dying
Tommy Two-Tone, self-proclaimed God of Ska on this plane, took a side-step back. Every motion he even thought of taking was nearly a dance move, even when he was trying to avoid stepping in human waste (which he was) or if he was getting bitten on the hand by the rodent he was clutching inside the secret inner pocket of his sharkskin assault jacket (which, of course, he was also doing); but since his moves were designed around displaying power and expressing fury rather than, say, anything approaching grace or coordination, Tommy had a lengthy history of taking out tables, accidentally knocking over his fellow human beings, or simply overshooting his spins and crashing violently into that self-same waste... which is, of course, what happened here.
He cursed violently as he pulled his head of the drink. "I'm starting to hate this whole mouse mission," he fumed.
"Daring escape through raw sewage was your idea," Aggro pointed out rationally.
"Hey, I've got absolute zero problem with raw sewage," Tommy countered, completely serious. "If I did, I want try half the smut I pull with the ladies. But the god I've got shoved in my pocket just took half my pinkie. And I don't want to think about what kind of nameless and terrible god disease he might have."
Jun Goro shot a passive glance. "If this creature is truly a god, you should take the bit as a blessing."
Tommy cocked an eyebrow. "And if it's just a mouse?"
Goro shrugged. "Then whatever disease it's carrying can't be any worse than what you've been spreading all over town the last few months."
Aggro snickered, there was certainly little argument on that point.
For his part, Tommy was too proud of himself to raise objection. Instead, he helped himself to his feet, groping his suit idly to make sure none of his well-concealed pharmaceuticals had become displaced in the fall. "Yazpazl," he cursed softly.
Both of the other men turned to face him. "What?" Goro asked.
Tommy took a moment to think about how large and threatening his companions suddenly seemed. Certainly he was among the best fighters of his circle, but so were Aggro and Goro and there were they had him pretty well flanked in the small space. "Nothing," he muttered.
Aggro raised a menacing eyebrow.
"I lost the mouse," Tommy admitted.
Both men let out an exhausted sigh. "You didn't crush him, did you?"
Tommy shook his head. "No, he should be fine. I landed safely on my testicles."
"I thought we already established that mouse was more important to us than your testicles," Aggro grunted angrily.
"We can't really worry about it," Goro pointed out. "Finding a mouse in this mess would be virtually impossible and we still have to worry about making our escape."
Aggro nodded. "Yeah, I guess you're right," he conceded. "Only saving grace is that they'll have as much trouble trying to find him in all this as we would." He shoot a meaningful glance to Tommy.
"Look look look," he defended, "I'm just as concerned about our rodential companion as the rest of you. It was an accident."
Aggro nodded, not letting his anger dissipate even slightly. Goro's phone went off.
"Hello?" he answered, trying to hear through the static "Ravi? Is that you?"
Meanwhile, the Rat desperately weaved its way upwards, trying just to escape to daylight, knowing in its rat-heart that there was only way for all this to end.
He cursed violently as he pulled his head of the drink. "I'm starting to hate this whole mouse mission," he fumed.
"Daring escape through raw sewage was your idea," Aggro pointed out rationally.
"Hey, I've got absolute zero problem with raw sewage," Tommy countered, completely serious. "If I did, I want try half the smut I pull with the ladies. But the god I've got shoved in my pocket just took half my pinkie. And I don't want to think about what kind of nameless and terrible god disease he might have."
Jun Goro shot a passive glance. "If this creature is truly a god, you should take the bit as a blessing."
Tommy cocked an eyebrow. "And if it's just a mouse?"
Goro shrugged. "Then whatever disease it's carrying can't be any worse than what you've been spreading all over town the last few months."
Aggro snickered, there was certainly little argument on that point.
For his part, Tommy was too proud of himself to raise objection. Instead, he helped himself to his feet, groping his suit idly to make sure none of his well-concealed pharmaceuticals had become displaced in the fall. "Yazpazl," he cursed softly.
Both of the other men turned to face him. "What?" Goro asked.
Tommy took a moment to think about how large and threatening his companions suddenly seemed. Certainly he was among the best fighters of his circle, but so were Aggro and Goro and there were they had him pretty well flanked in the small space. "Nothing," he muttered.
Aggro raised a menacing eyebrow.
"I lost the mouse," Tommy admitted.
Both men let out an exhausted sigh. "You didn't crush him, did you?"
Tommy shook his head. "No, he should be fine. I landed safely on my testicles."
"I thought we already established that mouse was more important to us than your testicles," Aggro grunted angrily.
"We can't really worry about it," Goro pointed out. "Finding a mouse in this mess would be virtually impossible and we still have to worry about making our escape."
Aggro nodded. "Yeah, I guess you're right," he conceded. "Only saving grace is that they'll have as much trouble trying to find him in all this as we would." He shoot a meaningful glance to Tommy.
"Look look look," he defended, "I'm just as concerned about our rodential companion as the rest of you. It was an accident."
Aggro nodded, not letting his anger dissipate even slightly. Goro's phone went off.
"Hello?" he answered, trying to hear through the static "Ravi? Is that you?"
Meanwhile, the Rat desperately weaved its way upwards, trying just to escape to daylight, knowing in its rat-heart that there was only way for all this to end.
My Suburbia, part six
Ving wasn't kidding when he said he'd been held hostage. I don't think he really kids at all, but that's another story.
I happened a few years ago... it probably would have made national news if the rest of the country cared about Pittsburgh at all. It was back when he was the child prodigy of the world of professional skateboarding; setting the bar for the older pros and basically keeping Kowalski Decks afloat, despite what anybody says now. His signature move was called the Hand of God, which was, for all intents and purposes, his middle finger to the laws of physics: you tell all he really wanted to do was fly away, and, every time you watched him, you couldn't help but wonder if this was going to be the time he finally did it. Maybe that sounds stupid, but we really needed him.
There weren't any witnesses when they stole him, but everyone could feel it; they'd been waiting for this for years. Ving was gone and the city immediately sprung into silence and inaction. Oh, the event was talked about, but most people were secretly glad that Ving was missing and that they could start building statues and naming things after him. More than a few prominent Pittsburghers were caught trying to mourn him before he was officially pronounced dead and when he was found alive after the inexhaustive manhunt, the general tone was one of restrained disappointment.
Ving himself said almost nothing to anyone about his experience. He provided exactly one soundbyte to the Media, immediately after he was found, he said "no, they were really decent, actually. They'd always go out to get me that veggie sandwich I like from the bagel bar on the corner." The experts on that kind of thing said he had Stockholm syndrome. The people closest to him said it was probably just that he finally been able to get some sleep.
All we knew in town was that we used to have an boisterous insane boy skate-punk keeping us all awake and now we had an incredibly closed-off prophet trying to get by without leaving his house whenever possible.
People actually looked to Ving more than ever, sometimes camping outside his house for days, but he did his best to avoid them as politely as possible.
I guess they just reminded him too much of what happened.
I happened a few years ago... it probably would have made national news if the rest of the country cared about Pittsburgh at all. It was back when he was the child prodigy of the world of professional skateboarding; setting the bar for the older pros and basically keeping Kowalski Decks afloat, despite what anybody says now. His signature move was called the Hand of God, which was, for all intents and purposes, his middle finger to the laws of physics: you tell all he really wanted to do was fly away, and, every time you watched him, you couldn't help but wonder if this was going to be the time he finally did it. Maybe that sounds stupid, but we really needed him.
There weren't any witnesses when they stole him, but everyone could feel it; they'd been waiting for this for years. Ving was gone and the city immediately sprung into silence and inaction. Oh, the event was talked about, but most people were secretly glad that Ving was missing and that they could start building statues and naming things after him. More than a few prominent Pittsburghers were caught trying to mourn him before he was officially pronounced dead and when he was found alive after the inexhaustive manhunt, the general tone was one of restrained disappointment.
Ving himself said almost nothing to anyone about his experience. He provided exactly one soundbyte to the Media, immediately after he was found, he said "no, they were really decent, actually. They'd always go out to get me that veggie sandwich I like from the bagel bar on the corner." The experts on that kind of thing said he had Stockholm syndrome. The people closest to him said it was probably just that he finally been able to get some sleep.
All we knew in town was that we used to have an boisterous insane boy skate-punk keeping us all awake and now we had an incredibly closed-off prophet trying to get by without leaving his house whenever possible.
People actually looked to Ving more than ever, sometimes camping outside his house for days, but he did his best to avoid them as politely as possible.
I guess they just reminded him too much of what happened.
Found Out About You
"Look," Drinker Hopkins released what had become a characteristic sigh, "if this is such a problem for you, why don't you just start wearing looser-fitting pants?"
"Just hold my gun while I do it, okay?" Rei Gamora demanded. Hopkins complied reluctantly. "Thank you," Gamora said with comical overemphasis.
As Gamora made his way through the funeral parlor men's room, he couldn't help but step over the fetal form of Ravi Kapoor, which he did with uncharacteristic gingerness.
"God, always something," Gamora winced, privately wishing Ravi had chosen another place to die.
"I'm just saying, you shouldn't have to take care of this so often," Hopkins called over from the doorway.
"Don't talk to me while I'm doing it. I can't do it if you talk to me," Gamora snapped. He took a deep sigh and angrily began to expel. In the corner of his eye, he couldn't help but catch a glimpse of Ravi's writhing, zombie-like hand, which he duly kicked away. "I'm trying to concentrate here," he snarled.
After a few more seconds, he vigorous shook himself out and re-secured himself in his restraints. "Okay, I guess that's about it," he announced, reaching to reclaim his gun.
Hopkins wrinkled his nose in disgust. "Dude, you didn't even wash your hand," he said before disappearing after Gamora.
Which left Ravi where he'd been for what was probably close to an hour now: all alone, shivering and sweating on the floor of the funeral parlor men's room, still clutching the hashtin Danny's mother had given him.
"Please..." he groaned.
He felt instinctively that if he could just throw up once he'd feel a thousand time better than he did right then, he'd actually been praying for it to every deity he could think of, but it just didn't seem to be happening.
"Please..."
"...and all everyone wanted me to be was the crazy young Black man," Space Elvis lamented as he made his sauntered through the door, over Ravi's prone form, and over to the urinal. "I mean, this one photoshoot they told me not to smile. They said they didn't think it was believable to have a Black person smile."
Hinton Bible shook his head sympathetically as he set about methodically washing his hands. "They all want you to be a cartoon character."
"I know you've been there yourself, but at least you got to have some dimension," Space Elvis continued. "There are thirty-one flavors of crazy White celebrity they could have assigned you; me, there was exactly one choice: Black. End of story."
Bible silently declared his hands sufficiently sterilized, and pulled down a single reached for the papertowel. "That, sadly, is the Media."
"It's Society, too," Space Elvis amended. "It's the whole damn culture, there's no escaping it. So, I decided if all I'm ever gonna be to them is some crazy nigger, than I'm gonna be the craziest fucking nigger they've ever seen. I came out on stage with my dick hanging out, I breast-fed two Bengal kittens... I blew some British guy on national television."
"That was me, yes," Bible chimed in.
"Oh, yeah," Space Elvis remembered. "You taste like Gatorade."
"Well, I monitored my diet in preparation for the event," Bible admitted.
"That's actually a good idea," Space Elvis observed. "Thank you."
Bible took a small bow. "It was really nothing."
"Anyway," Space Elvis resumed as he swaggered over to the sink, "the Media loved it. Could not get enough of it, and I... hated everyone. All of them... my fans, the fat White kids that were eating me up like cocaine smoothies and all the Black kids that were shooting each other in the face to be a bigger asshole than me. And I just thought 'this is it?'"
"Well, we've have made our sacrifices, haven't we?" Bible smiled warmly, holding the door open for him.
"You really come to love the smell of human embryos" he reflected. "I've never been more at peace in my life."
Bible nodded and they both turned to leave. At the last second, Space Elvis walked over to Ravi and whispered "hey, we've all been there, Blood," before following Bible back into the world.
"Please..." Ravi groaned.
Enter Doug, who was far too busy singing a bouncy tune to notice one of his oldest friend's suffering on the floor. "And I know you feel the same (baum! baum!) it's in the way that you say my na-ay-ay-ame..." and at this point, he had to sidestep Ravi like an ottoman in a sitcom. "It's in the way that look at me... tonight..." By this point, he had danced his way up to the urinal and, while he had ceased singing in the traditional sense, he compensated by tapping out the beat on every nearby surface.
Midway into the fourth chorus, Gregory entered slyly and sidled up to Doug. "Say," he began, speaking as though he were in a high school production of a Wilde play, "that's quite a penis you've got there."
"Why thank you," Doug replied, mirroring his tone. "I work out."
"Well, it quite shows," Gregory agreed agreeably. "Your penis is magnificent... if you don't mind me saying so."
"Oh, no, not at all," Doug replied firmly.
For a moment, Gregory simply continued watching Doug urinate.
"Say," he said finally, "I've got a madcap notion."
"Why, whatever could it be?" Doug inquired jauntily.
"Why don't you take that magnificent penis of yours and drive it into my body over and over and over again,"Gregory suggested suggestively.
"A truly splendid idea!" Doug declared. "But won't that cause a scandal?"
"Well, I should certainly hope so," Gregory seconded.
"Then I shall penetrate you forthwith," Doug broadcasted.
True to his word, there followed such a bout of violent lovemaking that not one inch of the tastefully-appointed bathroom was not smashed open, thrown down, covered in phantom stains, or clawed to shreds.
Ravi was an obstacle through it all, of course, being kicked accidentally, tripped over, or knocked headfirst into the toilet. At one point, they actually doubled over and started vehemently trying to hammer each other right into his back. Neither of the participants really acknowledged Ravi's presence or the bruises and scrapes they were leaving on him, which was one thing, but Ravi still couldn't find it in himself to expurge the toxins in his body, which was much worse.
"Please..." he groaned, but it was lost amid the sumptuous sounds of squelching.
Finally, on a big pile of garbage, Doug and Gregory found their climax.
"Now, that's what I call fucking," Gregory declared.
"Yeah," Doug gasped in near-religious awe. "I'm Doug, by the way," he said, offering his hand.
"Allan Gregory," Gregory replied, accepting the hand and shaking it with business-like firmness.
"So," Doug began as he straightened himself up as much as possible, "I'm here for the Boyle funeral. You?"
"Oh, I'm here on work," Gregory explained as he fixed his suit in what was left of the mirror. "Someone got murdered."
"Oh, I'm sorry," Doug offered, placing a conciliatory hand on Gregory's shoulder.
"Yeah... well it was no one I really knew," Gregory shrugged.
There followed an awkward silence.
"So, I, uh, I guess I'll see you around," Doug said as he made for the exit.
"Hey, yeah," Gregory agreed as he followed suit. "Actually, can I get your email address?"
"Well, I don't really..." But whatever else Doug said was lost when the door swung shut behind them.
"Please..." Ravi groaned, "just let me die..."
"Really the lowest moment for any human being," Bitch Chechnya mused aloud.
Ravi rolled over the face Chechnya. Was he really even there?
"I mean, you at look," Chechnya philosophized, "strewn across the filthy, filthy floor of a public expository, spooning the toilet with one hand clutching your testicles. This is pretty pathetic."
Ravi thought he was probably supposed to speak at this point, but the only reactions he had in him were blinking and sweating, and he already has those covered in spades.
"I mean, if there is where your life is taking you, you really need to had a hard look at your choices. You won't be young forever and this will stop seeming like acceptable behavior real soon," Chechnya expounded.
Then Chechnya reached down and gingerly took the hashtin from Ravi's hand. Ravi tried to stop him, of course, but in any struggle between someone crippled by fatigue and delirium and someone not, the healthier person will come out on top.
Try it at home and see if you don't find the same results.
"You flushed all of it," Chechnya observed. "Now, that's just stupid. Don't you realize this stuff has a thousand uses? See, this is exactly what I'm talking about. You're more concerned with what you perceive as right and wrong then you are with your own well being. That's why you're on the floor getting kicked in the gut and I'm running a rape-gang."
Then he stopped and thought for a moment. "That reminds me," Chechnya said, then he kicked Ravi sharply in the gut.
Ravi recoiled and grabbed his stomach, which seemed like the thing to do. He followed that with a bout of coughing up blood, which proved to be another crowd pleaser.
"Now, think about this: while you're lying here trying to follow your friend to the grave, there's a Jet Boy flying around saving kittens from ravenous puppies," said Chechnya. "He can do everything you ever wanted to do without trying... even the things you never had time to realize you wanted to do... and that's how he wastes his time," Chechnya shook his head.
Then he gave Ravi another kick.
"Doesn't that just completely make you want to kill him? I mean, really" Chechnya mused. "I mean, sure there's also the problem that you're dying and no one will ever love you and I keep kicking you in the stomach, but..."
Chechnya punctuated this point with another kick.
And then, amid the great globs of blood and stomach matter he was coughing up, Ravi found something approaching a voice. "I just want..."
Chechnya leaned in, unable to mask his surprise. "What do you want?"
"I just want to hear the Music..." he wheezed.
Instantly, Chechnya furiously rose to his furious feet and made for the door in a fury. "You're a lost cause," he denounced angrily.
Ravi felt his head slip to the tile, a smile curling onto his lips. "Finally wished for the right damn thing," he mused dazedly as the familiar intro drifted into his ears.
"Just hold my gun while I do it, okay?" Rei Gamora demanded. Hopkins complied reluctantly. "Thank you," Gamora said with comical overemphasis.
As Gamora made his way through the funeral parlor men's room, he couldn't help but step over the fetal form of Ravi Kapoor, which he did with uncharacteristic gingerness.
"God, always something," Gamora winced, privately wishing Ravi had chosen another place to die.
"I'm just saying, you shouldn't have to take care of this so often," Hopkins called over from the doorway.
"Don't talk to me while I'm doing it. I can't do it if you talk to me," Gamora snapped. He took a deep sigh and angrily began to expel. In the corner of his eye, he couldn't help but catch a glimpse of Ravi's writhing, zombie-like hand, which he duly kicked away. "I'm trying to concentrate here," he snarled.
After a few more seconds, he vigorous shook himself out and re-secured himself in his restraints. "Okay, I guess that's about it," he announced, reaching to reclaim his gun.
Hopkins wrinkled his nose in disgust. "Dude, you didn't even wash your hand," he said before disappearing after Gamora.
Which left Ravi where he'd been for what was probably close to an hour now: all alone, shivering and sweating on the floor of the funeral parlor men's room, still clutching the hashtin Danny's mother had given him.
"Please..." he groaned.
He felt instinctively that if he could just throw up once he'd feel a thousand time better than he did right then, he'd actually been praying for it to every deity he could think of, but it just didn't seem to be happening.
"Please..."
"...and all everyone wanted me to be was the crazy young Black man," Space Elvis lamented as he made his sauntered through the door, over Ravi's prone form, and over to the urinal. "I mean, this one photoshoot they told me not to smile. They said they didn't think it was believable to have a Black person smile."
Hinton Bible shook his head sympathetically as he set about methodically washing his hands. "They all want you to be a cartoon character."
"I know you've been there yourself, but at least you got to have some dimension," Space Elvis continued. "There are thirty-one flavors of crazy White celebrity they could have assigned you; me, there was exactly one choice: Black. End of story."
Bible silently declared his hands sufficiently sterilized, and pulled down a single reached for the papertowel. "That, sadly, is the Media."
"It's Society, too," Space Elvis amended. "It's the whole damn culture, there's no escaping it. So, I decided if all I'm ever gonna be to them is some crazy nigger, than I'm gonna be the craziest fucking nigger they've ever seen. I came out on stage with my dick hanging out, I breast-fed two Bengal kittens... I blew some British guy on national television."
"That was me, yes," Bible chimed in.
"Oh, yeah," Space Elvis remembered. "You taste like Gatorade."
"Well, I monitored my diet in preparation for the event," Bible admitted.
"That's actually a good idea," Space Elvis observed. "Thank you."
Bible took a small bow. "It was really nothing."
"Anyway," Space Elvis resumed as he swaggered over to the sink, "the Media loved it. Could not get enough of it, and I... hated everyone. All of them... my fans, the fat White kids that were eating me up like cocaine smoothies and all the Black kids that were shooting each other in the face to be a bigger asshole than me. And I just thought 'this is it?'"
"Well, we've have made our sacrifices, haven't we?" Bible smiled warmly, holding the door open for him.
"You really come to love the smell of human embryos" he reflected. "I've never been more at peace in my life."
Bible nodded and they both turned to leave. At the last second, Space Elvis walked over to Ravi and whispered "hey, we've all been there, Blood," before following Bible back into the world.
"Please..." Ravi groaned.
Enter Doug, who was far too busy singing a bouncy tune to notice one of his oldest friend's suffering on the floor. "And I know you feel the same (baum! baum!) it's in the way that you say my na-ay-ay-ame..." and at this point, he had to sidestep Ravi like an ottoman in a sitcom. "It's in the way that look at me... tonight..." By this point, he had danced his way up to the urinal and, while he had ceased singing in the traditional sense, he compensated by tapping out the beat on every nearby surface.
Midway into the fourth chorus, Gregory entered slyly and sidled up to Doug. "Say," he began, speaking as though he were in a high school production of a Wilde play, "that's quite a penis you've got there."
"Why thank you," Doug replied, mirroring his tone. "I work out."
"Well, it quite shows," Gregory agreed agreeably. "Your penis is magnificent... if you don't mind me saying so."
"Oh, no, not at all," Doug replied firmly.
For a moment, Gregory simply continued watching Doug urinate.
"Say," he said finally, "I've got a madcap notion."
"Why, whatever could it be?" Doug inquired jauntily.
"Why don't you take that magnificent penis of yours and drive it into my body over and over and over again,"Gregory suggested suggestively.
"A truly splendid idea!" Doug declared. "But won't that cause a scandal?"
"Well, I should certainly hope so," Gregory seconded.
"Then I shall penetrate you forthwith," Doug broadcasted.
True to his word, there followed such a bout of violent lovemaking that not one inch of the tastefully-appointed bathroom was not smashed open, thrown down, covered in phantom stains, or clawed to shreds.
Ravi was an obstacle through it all, of course, being kicked accidentally, tripped over, or knocked headfirst into the toilet. At one point, they actually doubled over and started vehemently trying to hammer each other right into his back. Neither of the participants really acknowledged Ravi's presence or the bruises and scrapes they were leaving on him, which was one thing, but Ravi still couldn't find it in himself to expurge the toxins in his body, which was much worse.
"Please..." he groaned, but it was lost amid the sumptuous sounds of squelching.
Finally, on a big pile of garbage, Doug and Gregory found their climax.
"Now, that's what I call fucking," Gregory declared.
"Yeah," Doug gasped in near-religious awe. "I'm Doug, by the way," he said, offering his hand.
"Allan Gregory," Gregory replied, accepting the hand and shaking it with business-like firmness.
"So," Doug began as he straightened himself up as much as possible, "I'm here for the Boyle funeral. You?"
"Oh, I'm here on work," Gregory explained as he fixed his suit in what was left of the mirror. "Someone got murdered."
"Oh, I'm sorry," Doug offered, placing a conciliatory hand on Gregory's shoulder.
"Yeah... well it was no one I really knew," Gregory shrugged.
There followed an awkward silence.
"So, I, uh, I guess I'll see you around," Doug said as he made for the exit.
"Hey, yeah," Gregory agreed as he followed suit. "Actually, can I get your email address?"
"Well, I don't really..." But whatever else Doug said was lost when the door swung shut behind them.
"Please..." Ravi groaned, "just let me die..."
"Really the lowest moment for any human being," Bitch Chechnya mused aloud.
Ravi rolled over the face Chechnya. Was he really even there?
"I mean, you at look," Chechnya philosophized, "strewn across the filthy, filthy floor of a public expository, spooning the toilet with one hand clutching your testicles. This is pretty pathetic."
Ravi thought he was probably supposed to speak at this point, but the only reactions he had in him were blinking and sweating, and he already has those covered in spades.
"I mean, if there is where your life is taking you, you really need to had a hard look at your choices. You won't be young forever and this will stop seeming like acceptable behavior real soon," Chechnya expounded.
Then Chechnya reached down and gingerly took the hashtin from Ravi's hand. Ravi tried to stop him, of course, but in any struggle between someone crippled by fatigue and delirium and someone not, the healthier person will come out on top.
Try it at home and see if you don't find the same results.
"You flushed all of it," Chechnya observed. "Now, that's just stupid. Don't you realize this stuff has a thousand uses? See, this is exactly what I'm talking about. You're more concerned with what you perceive as right and wrong then you are with your own well being. That's why you're on the floor getting kicked in the gut and I'm running a rape-gang."
Then he stopped and thought for a moment. "That reminds me," Chechnya said, then he kicked Ravi sharply in the gut.
Ravi recoiled and grabbed his stomach, which seemed like the thing to do. He followed that with a bout of coughing up blood, which proved to be another crowd pleaser.
"Now, think about this: while you're lying here trying to follow your friend to the grave, there's a Jet Boy flying around saving kittens from ravenous puppies," said Chechnya. "He can do everything you ever wanted to do without trying... even the things you never had time to realize you wanted to do... and that's how he wastes his time," Chechnya shook his head.
Then he gave Ravi another kick.
"Doesn't that just completely make you want to kill him? I mean, really" Chechnya mused. "I mean, sure there's also the problem that you're dying and no one will ever love you and I keep kicking you in the stomach, but..."
Chechnya punctuated this point with another kick.
And then, amid the great globs of blood and stomach matter he was coughing up, Ravi found something approaching a voice. "I just want..."
Chechnya leaned in, unable to mask his surprise. "What do you want?"
"I just want to hear the Music..." he wheezed.
Instantly, Chechnya furiously rose to his furious feet and made for the door in a fury. "You're a lost cause," he denounced angrily.
Ravi felt his head slip to the tile, a smile curling onto his lips. "Finally wished for the right damn thing," he mused dazedly as the familiar intro drifted into his ears.
Monday, February 4, 2008
A Moment With Ravi Kapoor
Ravi Kapoor was nearly universally recognized (or so he liked to think) as being the member of his circle most down-to-earth and capable of dealing with the real world. He'd never bothered to question anyone on the matter, but he assumed it was so.
Still, given the events he'd gone through lately, it was understandable that he'd need some distance, some brief escape, and for Ravi, that meant either mixing some new tracks on his notebook or buying yet another in an increasing series of track jackets. And how many track jackets could one person need? he asked himself.
An infinite number, he promptly replied, but since that's hardly financially achievable, let's focus on the music for now.
All of his life, Ravi had been searching for the Sound; that great, undefinable form of music that only seemed to happen in his head late at night and never seemed survive description in the outside world. He himself seemed to incapable of articulating it in any form, and all attempts to unearth it in earthly sources merely left him feeling empty and defeated. After pissing away his entire childhood studying one instrument or musical trend or other, he had eventually turned to mixing together wildly different styles of music; never believing for a second that he would stumble upon the perfect Sound, but somehow hoping that he would be able to trigger something.
Lately, he taken finding lesser known composition by John Philip Sousa, the great, uncredited inventor of Punk Rock and throwing hard, thumping Jungle beats over them. The pieces were all rendered vastly more listenable, that's what Dance remixes were for, after all, but it was still as far from reaching the divine Sounds of his dreams than he himself was from speaking to the Gods.
"In my dreams, there's four of them there," Danny had said. "I don't know their names, so I call them Iggy, Henry, Johnny, and Glenn. And I know these are the Guys. These are the guys to watch out for." He nodded, completely sure of himself as always. "And I say to them, 'so, where's the Fifth Man, you know, 'cos... wait band only had four member, right? I've seen two and three... and then there's five. After that, things kind of get out of hand and, before you know it, you've got twenty guys up there and a full brass section, but..." At that point, he would always shrug. "I mean, you never see four."
Back in the present, Ravi felt himself slump back in his chair. It was damned messy numerology, that much was true.
Still, given the events he'd gone through lately, it was understandable that he'd need some distance, some brief escape, and for Ravi, that meant either mixing some new tracks on his notebook or buying yet another in an increasing series of track jackets. And how many track jackets could one person need? he asked himself.
An infinite number, he promptly replied, but since that's hardly financially achievable, let's focus on the music for now.
All of his life, Ravi had been searching for the Sound; that great, undefinable form of music that only seemed to happen in his head late at night and never seemed survive description in the outside world. He himself seemed to incapable of articulating it in any form, and all attempts to unearth it in earthly sources merely left him feeling empty and defeated. After pissing away his entire childhood studying one instrument or musical trend or other, he had eventually turned to mixing together wildly different styles of music; never believing for a second that he would stumble upon the perfect Sound, but somehow hoping that he would be able to trigger something.
Lately, he taken finding lesser known composition by John Philip Sousa, the great, uncredited inventor of Punk Rock and throwing hard, thumping Jungle beats over them. The pieces were all rendered vastly more listenable, that's what Dance remixes were for, after all, but it was still as far from reaching the divine Sounds of his dreams than he himself was from speaking to the Gods.
"In my dreams, there's four of them there," Danny had said. "I don't know their names, so I call them Iggy, Henry, Johnny, and Glenn. And I know these are the Guys. These are the guys to watch out for." He nodded, completely sure of himself as always. "And I say to them, 'so, where's the Fifth Man, you know, 'cos... wait band only had four member, right? I've seen two and three... and then there's five. After that, things kind of get out of hand and, before you know it, you've got twenty guys up there and a full brass section, but..." At that point, he would always shrug. "I mean, you never see four."
Back in the present, Ravi felt himself slump back in his chair. It was damned messy numerology, that much was true.
Saturday, February 2, 2008
Space Elvis!
"Yeah, we have a problem with the corpses," Space Elvis admitted. His unusual moniker was unchallenged as he was one of the few men to return from space and perhaps the only living being to successfully communicate with the SpaceFrankenstein. His three-foot tall tower of hair and banana hammock, however, were holdovers from his younger days as Mobile Reggae Sound System DJ Prince Far-I-See. "Not nearly enough room for them for one," he said, adjusting his black plastic lab coat meaningfully.
Vice Supervisor Dixon winced his nostrils in disgust. "I never knew anything could smell so bad."
Space Elvis seemed to give a subliminal shrug; given the fantastic amount motion he was able to somehow avoid, it was difficult to say for certain. "We render human beings here. That's the kind of thing that's bound to stink a place up."
Dixon's young secretary blanched. "You do what?"
Space Elvis and Dixon shared what was probably a significant glance, it was difficult to tell as both men were wearing completely blacked-over goggles, but it was apparently enough for Space Elvis to feel comfortable initiating the young woman.
"We render the fat and extract the vital human oils, sell the rest to outside contractors... pretty much everything you buy, eat, wear is has human blood somewhere on it," Space Elvis drawled laconically. "I don't stay so trim just to get a little more action."
Dixon cut right to heart of the matter. "Look, no one cares about a little ritual desecration so long as they don't have to hear about it," he pointed out wisely. "The problem here is that one of your projects got up and walked away. Now, I know this isn't something you're used to..."
"Oh, you'd be surprised," Future Elvis said smugly.
"...But we can't accept a failure of this caliber," Dixon continued, undeterred. "If that Rat gets loose..."
"Doesn't much matter," Space Elvis cut through.
Dixon was clearly flummoxed, his secretary had never seen him so furious, despite Dixon's nearly exclusive history of fury. "How's that?"
Space Elvis gazed down at him with what the secretary could only describe a benevolent disdain. "I ran every test I could on him and he's just a rat."
Dixon's eyes went wide. "Inconceivable."
"I would have dissected him live myself, but I just don't have the stomach for that kind of thing," Space Elvis warmly countered.
A cart full of what appeared to human reproductive organs wheeled by, manned, as everything in Space Elvis' lab was, by a scantily-clad girl in chains.
The secretary was fairly certain she was going to be violently ill.
Space Elvis caught the source of her gaze. "Ingredients for all the finest perfumes," he explained.
Vice Supervisor Dixon winced his nostrils in disgust. "I never knew anything could smell so bad."
Space Elvis seemed to give a subliminal shrug; given the fantastic amount motion he was able to somehow avoid, it was difficult to say for certain. "We render human beings here. That's the kind of thing that's bound to stink a place up."
Dixon's young secretary blanched. "You do what?"
Space Elvis and Dixon shared what was probably a significant glance, it was difficult to tell as both men were wearing completely blacked-over goggles, but it was apparently enough for Space Elvis to feel comfortable initiating the young woman.
"We render the fat and extract the vital human oils, sell the rest to outside contractors... pretty much everything you buy, eat, wear is has human blood somewhere on it," Space Elvis drawled laconically. "I don't stay so trim just to get a little more action."
Dixon cut right to heart of the matter. "Look, no one cares about a little ritual desecration so long as they don't have to hear about it," he pointed out wisely. "The problem here is that one of your projects got up and walked away. Now, I know this isn't something you're used to..."
"Oh, you'd be surprised," Future Elvis said smugly.
"...But we can't accept a failure of this caliber," Dixon continued, undeterred. "If that Rat gets loose..."
"Doesn't much matter," Space Elvis cut through.
Dixon was clearly flummoxed, his secretary had never seen him so furious, despite Dixon's nearly exclusive history of fury. "How's that?"
Space Elvis gazed down at him with what the secretary could only describe a benevolent disdain. "I ran every test I could on him and he's just a rat."
Dixon's eyes went wide. "Inconceivable."
"I would have dissected him live myself, but I just don't have the stomach for that kind of thing," Space Elvis warmly countered.
A cart full of what appeared to human reproductive organs wheeled by, manned, as everything in Space Elvis' lab was, by a scantily-clad girl in chains.
The secretary was fairly certain she was going to be violently ill.
Space Elvis caught the source of her gaze. "Ingredients for all the finest perfumes," he explained.
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