My Mind

During boring classes, espically when the prof is a mumbler, I "doodle". I don't consider them doodles, but they draw attention. When asked what I'm doing, I say that I am illustrating my state of mind. This is not far from the truth. I have been known to be totally "out of it" and tend to lose a conversation and start babbling about something totally unrelated to the current subject. People are amazed at the drawings I make (I don't know why, but they are). They are quite silly.

Here is an example (pardon the menu thingy cutting some of it off):

Rebel Earth

This is something I started last night at around 2am. It was late/early, so please excuse cheesyness. This is more like a guideline for a future story rather than a story in itself. It needs to be improved and expanded. It travels too quickly, and I need to work on some names.

It opens with a letter.

Here it goes:

The following is a letter from Edward Gamdana, Minister of Foreign Affairs of the Earth Republic, to the Imperial Senate.

We, the people of a free and independent Earth do address the Senate of the Jacksonian Empire:
The government of the Empire has a long history of racism and bigotry which has culminated into genocidal policies of hatred and murder during the late plagues. It has forgotten its guiding principles laid out in the Declaration of Principles of 2099. It has, during the late plagues most egregiously forgotten its own origins on this pristine planet. It seems only just that we, the Free Peoples of Earth do declare our intent to establish a free and independent world. One not guided by a lust for power and expansion, but by compassion for our fellows and a true belief in the Guiding Principles.
As you, the elected officials of the Empire, read this message, a negotiating party is en route to Jacksonia. We hope and pray to the Almightys that you will see our intentions to be peaceful and agree to a negotiated understanding.

*
The papers blared the news “Rebels in Eurasia and Africa Declare Independence”. It didn’t mean much, considering the size of the Empire and the fact that most of the Earth was still officially loyal. Rebellion had been brewing in North America for over a hundred years; the first open revolts were on the Eastern Seaboard, in New York and Philadelphia. The rebels had run to Africa when Imperial units came down from their garrison post on the moon. It was there that they found popular support.
It didn’t mean much to Jon and his older brother, Tim. Why should it? Two High School students in the Mid-Northern region of North America didn’t concern themselves with the goings on in the East, especially those that happened when they had been infants.
Jon was a Junior in High School, and his brother was a second-year Senior. When the news of Independence came to the school, the response was a mixed clatter of “Who gives a flying fuck?” and “I give them a week”. Then came the recruiters. With war coming, the in-system garrison needed bolstering, and the 18-24 year olds of North America were the perfect candidates. Big men in tight fitting uniforms descended on campuses and challenged students to chin-up and push-up contests, giving away stickers, shirts with unit logos and writing pens.
Jon was walking down the hall alone. Ahead of him stood a towering hulk in a yellow shirt. “You!” the hulk seemed to quiver as he turned to face the student. “How are you doing son?”
Jon tried to ignore and walked on toward the towering mass of yellow like it didn’t exist. He was unsuccessful as the recruiter placed his massive hand on Jon’s shoulder. “Did ya hear me, son?” He tried to sound concerned, but failed.
Yes, I heard you. I was hoping you were a lot dumber than your shirt, but I figured that would be pushing it.
“I’m sorry, Sir, I must have been daydreaming.” Jon was a better actor than the recruiter.
“No, problem there, son,” the recruiter spoke in with a lilt that could only come from Texas. “I was just asking you how you’re doing.”
I was doing fine until you bothered me.
“I’m OK.”
“I’m glad. How old are you, son?”
“I’m 16, almost 17.”
“Almost 17, huh?” the recruiter thought about it with his hand on his chin. “Have you given any thought to the delayed entry program?”
Before Jon could answer he continued. “Well, what we do is on your seventeenth birthday you sing up. You don’t go to basic or anything yet, but you spend the mandatory reserve time of weekends and summers with a garrison unit; in this case, it would be the Sol System Garrison on the Moon or on Io. You receive full reserve pay and benefits and learn the ropes. Then, when you turn 18, you will be sent to basic training at one of the nearer schools. Obviously, I can’t tell which, since it’s rather random. After basic, you will have the choice between active duty and returning to reserve duty. Do you have any questions?”
Yeah, how many donuts can you fit in your gigantic fucking mouth while you shovel so much bullshit?
“No, sir. It’s fascinating.”
“Well, I’m glad you think that way. Lemme give you this,” he pulled a plastic card from his pocket, “this is me.” It was a business card, it has his name, SSgt Melvin Duplex, his address and communication number. “If you need to reach me for anything- questions, if you need advice, if you just want to talk- anything, don’t hesitate. Ok?”
Sure, but where the hell did you get as retarded a name as “Duplex”?
“Ok.” Jon broke eye contact and continued on his way.
*
“You’re such a jerk off. You wouldn’t do any push-ups?”
“He didn’t ask. He just talked down to me.”
“He probably knew you wouldn’t be able to do any.” Tim laughed at that.
Jon replied in kind, “Fuck you.”
This was a victory for Tim. He and his brother had a custom of trading jabs. Tim 1, Jon 0.
Jon began to formulate his retaliatory jab. “How was football practice?”
Yeah, how was practice, you fat slug?
Tim beat his chest. “I sacked the QB!”
“You sacked him?”
“Yeah.”
“How did it feel? I’m not one for tea bagging. I wonder if Rudy likes it.”
*WAM!* the pain was a sure sign that he had won.
Tim 1, Jon 1 – Tim forfeits.
*
Dinner was usually a trifling affair. Grab what you can, take it out to the living room and watch the news. It was full of reports on atrocities committed by the rebels. Their father shook his head, “Damn propaganda. Less than 10% of the things we see on this channel are real.” Their father had served a full 20 year career in active duty with the Army. “I never saw any atrocities committed by any enemy I fought, although the news always came up with them.”
Their mother had served for 20 in the Womens’ Military Service Corps, so she nodded in sincere agreement.
Their father spoke again, “Not that I support the rebels, but the Empire did very little for this system during the plagues. I suppose Sol has become a backwater system and is so unimportant that 20% of the Empire’s military manpower comes from here. Use up the Earthers, they are a drain on the economy. Goddamn Army.”
Tim coughed and quietly said, “There was a recruiter at school today.”
“Don’t listen to his lies. He’ll tell you that your feces will turn into precious metal in order to get you to join.” Their father chuckled at his own joke.
“I’m thinking of joining. What with the rebellion, I might get to see some action in my four years service.”
“Four years is all? Jeez, when I joined it was a minimum of eight.”
“Of course, that was how many years ago?” their mother chimed in.
“Let me think. Well, it was 2168. Um, 32 years ago?”
“Exactly.”
*
The next day, at lunch, Jon did not see Tim at the diner they both started going to with their friends. After, he walked the long way to his class and peeked in the recruiter’s makeshift office and saw his brother in an arm wrestling contest with another student. He wore the same yellow shirt that the recruiter wears.
*
After school, Tim boasted about his new shirt and his choice. “This is the unit I’ll be with- the 12th Infantry Division. Their history goes all the way back to the 20th Century. They won great victories in the Second World War and the Korean Wars. Kick ass, huh?” All his friends nodded and whooped in celebration, but Jon only nodded quietly.
“When are you joining?” Their mom asked.
“I already have. I signed today.”
She sighed, “You shouldn’t have signed anything until I looked at it. They are going to screw you and you should have seen it coming.”
“Mom, I read it.”
“How well?”
“Well enough. It’s my decision.”
“Yeah, it is, but you made a stupid blunder and I hope you won’t have to pay for it.”
“Why the fuck do you care?”
“Don’t you use that language in front of me!” She made to slap him, but he backed away. “I care because I am your mother. You should have at least waited until you finish school.”
“I’ll finish during training. It’s in the program.”
“What program?”
“I tested into officer candidate school for infantry.”
“Your brother tested into intelligence and counter intelligence, but you don’t see him running off to join.”
“He’s too young.”
“You know what I mean. He’s got too much sense.”
“Yeah, whatever.”
“When are you leaving?”
“This evening.”
“Keep your head down. And leave a holo for your father. He’ll be back from his advising job on Monday.”
Tim rolled his eyes.
Jon listened from the next room.
Good, this means I get his bedroom.
*
Edward Gamdana sat on the side of a large rectangle desk. He was surrounded by career politicians. He was the only one with a military background. And they made him Minister of Foreign Affairs. What made him so qualified for foreign relations? It must be because he had killed so many. Why not make him Supreme Commander of the Republic Military, or what was supposed to be a military. That must be it. The old guy was so used to a modern and efficient fighting force that the adhoc fleet and military would be foreign to him. But, if that was the case, foreign affairs would cover the military.
He sat staring at a yellow legal pad, contemplating his life. Born in Africa, educated in America, served in 37 different star systems, commanded over a million soldiers at a time and now he was a rebel without a clue how to do his job. The psychos now ran the nuthouse and they wanted the former guard to negotiate with the outside world. Eventually, the world would come for them and the man who believes his finger is a pencil will try to command a space fleet and defeat the most highly trained and technologically advanced armada the universe had ever known.
“Minister Gamdana? Minister Gamdana?”
Edward perked his head up.
“Your report please.”
Edward stood and walked to one side of the table where a podium was set up.
“Madam Premier, my fellow Ministers and Generals, let me be succinct. The diplomatic mission sent out has been out of contact since they landed on Jacksonia. This can only mean that they have been arrested or killed. I would expect us to receive a response any day now. It will be followed shortly by an invasion by the system garrison and will be reinforced by elements of the main fleet within a day.”
He stepped away from the podium and began walking to his seat when the Premier asked, “What strength will the invasion come in and where are they likely to land?”
Minister Gamdana paused but continued to walk to his seat. He slowly pulled out his chair and sat. He organized his notebook and said, “That is a job for General Phelps to assess.”
“Gamdana, you know full well that the General is just settling in with his new position and could use some guidance derived from your vast experience.” The Premier chided.
“You mean they don’t teach military theory in Law School?” Gamdana said innocently.
General Phelps shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
*
“Traitors!” shouted General Jackson Thomas. “Kellen, allow me to crush them. For old times sake.”
Chancellor Kellen Rodriguez faced out his massive office window. “Jack, you know your record. There is no why you’ll be accepted into such a high command position. You are lucky I could keep you a General.”
“Please. Make it an executive order or a Senate resolution; I have enough friends in the Senate.”
“Look, I’ll see what I can do. I’m only the Chancellor, I’m not a god.”
“Please do. I need to redeem my career some way. I should be Chief of the Army by now.”
“Jack, you ordered your ships to open fire on an unarmed alien craft. You killed the ruler of another Empire. Your mistaken judgment cost this empire over a million lives in the war.”
“But, because of me, the Empire is larger. My mistake was beneficial.”
“Ok, Jack. I told you I’ll see what I can do. For the time being, the 12th Infantry needs a commanding General.”
“Isn’t the 12th the local unit in the Sol System?”
“Yes, it is. They will be the first into combat.”
“Ok, Kellen, until you get me overall command, I’ll take the Division.”
*

I need to vent

Yeah, I think you want to read my complaints. I live a touched life.

I wake up.
I shower.
I go to school.
I listen to professors drone on about things I have very little interest in.
I go home.
I start dinner.
I go on the internet and go to www.fenomas.com/tomatobb
I indulge my horrible self-image.
I eat.
I open a bottle.
I cry for an hour at how I cannot produce acceptable ideas for writing.
I fall asleep on a wet pillow.

Then, I wake up.

My life is slightly more complex.

I go to UWP (University of Wisconsin-Parkside). I drive my car to school, with my brother and neighbor coming along. I hate both of them. I do so hate them. My neighbor figures that since I'm going to Parkside anyway, he can bring along his friend who doesn't even go there. He doesn't ask if his friend can come along, no. He relies on my social awareness and me not wanting to be the asshole. I hate his friend 10 times worse than I hate him. I also hate his dog, who owns a chunk of my arm and a piece of my left knee.

All I want is to go to school and home again in reflective silence. But, no. My brother, who is two years older than me can't drive and my neighbor has pushy parents and I'm a wuss.

I don't want pity. I just want to vent my frustration.

I want to slash my own tires so I can sleep in.

I want to sleep and be alone so I can think clearly.

The Sleep Deprived

I have not been able to write anything worthy of posting for some time.

In case you actually have read my stuff and come back every so often to see if I post other stuff, this is not a dead effort... Just waiting for sleep.

The start of something

I haven't posted here in a month or so, so I bet lots of people thought this blog was dead. This is the start of something.

-----------------


Far from the town, the river bends in the shape of a snake and the hills rise from gentle rolling barrows to steep foothills. It is the start of the mountain range that separates the two great empires. Armies have, for centuries, attempted campaign after campaign through its tall passes only to meet with cold, starvation and defeat. There are actually two ranges, one after the other, separated by a deep water-carved canyon. This is where each successive army has met its match.
The inclines in this valley are so utterly defensible that no snow weary army has been able to gain even a foothold on the opposite side of the river. Each spring, the armies of the warring empires would gather on the borders and await the first movements of the enemy. They would send scouting parties into the mountains to try to decipher the opposing commanders’ strategy. As technology advanced, the scouts were first on horseback and eventually graduated to early motorized vehicles and soon found more advanced and more heavily armored vehicles and helicopters.
Technology advanced to the point that humans were no longer necessary and robots were programmed and sent to scout, find, and destroy the enemy. Humans were taken out of the equation. An over-zealous program (if a program can be considered over-zealous) on one side, it is not known which, decided to end the wars forever. It launched a surprise attack with the most devastating weapons known, the other side, having fail-safes for just such an occurrence launched a retaliatory attack within moments of the first strikes.
This lead to the utter destruction of both sides and reduced populations and technological sophistication to a minimum; as some might say, both opponents were “bombed into the stone age”. However, some technology survived and the century old blood feud was only intensified by each side believing the other launched the first strike. The valley again was the sight of blood-shed. For the first time, an army was able to take the opposing side of the valley and make headway into enemy territory.
The enemy swept down from the west and the town became the scene of a counter-attack. The enemy was sent away in retreat and the town was destroyed. Pickets were set in the valley with high-power scanning equipment and relay stations were set in the foothills at the base of the mountain range.
The enemy wasn’t totally gone, however. Rouge groups roamed the countryside, performing unspeakable acts of cruelty and barbarism. The groups gradually settled with locals and began to assimilate. As a result, the government established a military post a few miles from the town, to keep order if the rouges acted up again.

I

“Robot!” Shouted the crowd. Dozens of people were crowding outside a small house near the center of the town. Clubs and knives were the weapons of choice, although some had antique firearms which had been dutifully cared for through several generations. The house belonged to a wealthy trader who made his home in Relaya. Word had spread quickly that he had received a package from the “Machine Domain”, the area of the world ruled by machines, where humans are enslaved.
A man stood on the porch of the house and held his ancient shotgun high in the air and pulled the trigger. The weapon discharged and yanked his arm down in a direction that an arm shouldn’t be going. He seemed unfazed by the pain and shouted to the crowd, “Two hundred years ago, robots doomed our people to this life! Robots created by the goddamned poxed bastards across the mountains! Right now, there are millions of humans enslaved to robot masters! And, this bastard here, this trader, this traitor, brings one of those things into this town! Will you stand for it?” As one, the crowd erupted in a resounding, “No!” The man raised his shotgun again and shouted, “Are you going to do something about it?” The crowd again screamed as one, “Yes!” The man motioned to someone in the crowd and was handed a lit torch. He swung it and broke a window and threw the flaming torch through it and almost instantaneously flames shot through the broken glass.
The crowd cheered at the act and more torches began flying through the air and broke through windows and landed on the roof, igniting more small blazes. Very quickly, the small fires joined into a blazing inferno. Screams were heard from inside the house as the crowd watched it burn, but no one came out. The crowd, weary of watching the fire, gradually faded away until only a few onlookers were left.
“Damn, this was all?” Edward Duarte, Sheriff of Relaya held a hunk of metal and burnt plastic up for his deputy to see. “Just a programmable vacuum, is all. Lord knows we sure could use things like this here. It’s damn hard to get most consumer goods this far from the cities.” His deputy spat into the ashes and debris of what once was. “Well, Sheriff, do ya wanna file charges?”
Duarte chuckled. “Why do that? No jury will convict.”
From behind the deputy, an officer in an olive uniform stepped through the charred remains of a doorway, one of the few parts of the house that still stood. “So let us handle it. We’ll put the agitators up against a wall.”
“Nope, Captain, can’t do that. We got here first, so legally, we have to handle it.”
The officer put his hands on his belt and looked down at the ground, his mouth scrunched. “Well,” he spoke, “you got three dead here, another dead at this poor bastard’s shop…” He nudged the remains of a human, black and shrunken. “…and the worst punishment your “justice system” can give is life in prison; which, by the way, involves turning them over to us for imprisonment. Why not say that I got here first?”
“I would if I could. But, too many people saw me here before you got up this morning. No way could I control the riot. You only have to worry about controlling people. I have to worry about living with them.”
“So,” the officer raised his head, “you’ll let the murderers get away with it? They deserve to die. An eye for an eye!”
Duarte turned to face the officer. “No person, no matter what they have done, deserves to die.”
“Whatever you say, Sheriff,” The officer said with a smirk, “But I wouldn’t cast my lot with your jurisprudence.”

II.
Now, watching the border with the enemy, as mentioned before, was a series of stations with high power scanning equipment. They were automated and solar powered, but still required regular maintenance.
Slowly, up the slope walked a dusty man leading his horse. The easy trail wasn’t obvious to the naked eye, but the man knew his way. He lead his horse because of the load it carried- it’s back carried immense mass of equipment covered with a canvas tarp.
Ahead of the man was a wire fence around a small shed and a tall metal pole, thirty feet tall with an array at the top. A humming sound came from within the shed. “WARNING! ELECTRIFIED FENCE!” was plastered on all sides.
The man spoke to his horse, “Oh, electrified, eh? Oh, I better not touch it, eh?” He turned to the horse who grunted and tosses its head. “No touch, eh? Hmmm, I better turn it off, eh?” The horse nodded. “Maybe just a little touch, eh?” The horse tossed its head, saying no. “No touch?” The horse said no. “Hmmm, I won’t touch it then, eh?” The man walked around the fence to the gate. Took a metal card out of his pocket and pushed it into a slot in a metal device next to the gate. The box clicked.
The man turned to the horse. “You think it’s turned off, eh?” The horse moved its head to signify that it didn’t know. “Well, I better try it, eh?” The horse backed up a few paces and turned its head away. The man took a deep breath and grabbed the gate. “GAAAAAAAAAAAA!” he screamed and fell to the ground in spasm. The horse reared up on its hind legs, it’s cargo coming undone and falling to the ground with a clatter. It reared up again and came down to see the man standing. “Hey there, I was just kidding. Don’t take everything to serious.”
The horse turned and walked away. “Aw, now come on there Chester. This is no time to leave. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings!” Chester stopped and turned his head to look, sadly, at the man. “Come back here, please. I won’t kid with you no more, I promise.” Chester whinnied and walked back to the man, who pulled a carrot from his back pocket and fed it to him. Finished, the horse went to graze on some scrub.
“Now, let’s get to work.” The man opened the gate and began working on the devices within.
His load lessened by the repair work he completed, he was able to ride the horse back to his station. “Yep, yep, that was an easy job, eh?” The horse guffawed. “Sure, you had it easy, munching on sweet plants for three hours. I had to do actual work.” The horse guffawed again. “It was hard work, it was. How would you know, anyway?” Chester grunted. “So what if I didn’t have to climb the tower? That just shows how good I am, that nothing up there had to be replaced.” Chester sighed deeply. “Sure, you’re just a horse. And don’t get sarcastic with me.”
A vibration came from his saddlebags. The man dug in and brought out a portable radio. He depressed the talk button. “Yeah.” He said. The voice on the other end said, “You there, Chuck?” Chuck responded, “Yup, I’m here. What can I do you for, Sheriff?”

Been real busy

I have not had time to update in a while. I'll probably get this thing updated after next week.

The Sexual Proclivities of Aliens

You never realize just how dark space is until you experience it. On a planet, the stars seem so bright. They seem to illuminate the sky and ground. Of course, that is just an illusion. What’s really illuminating the planet is the moon, or moons. The moon actually isn’t bright either; the light is just a reflection of the sun. But, on a planet, you still get the impression that the stars make things bright. Near a city, you can’t see the stars usually and the nights are really dark. But, out in the country there can be so many stars that they blot out the black and the nights are somehow pretty bright. Of course, that again is the sun kicking in via the moon. We humans are be so foolish sometimes.
At least, I can be foolish sometimes. I pulled that lever and blew myself into the depths of space. I’d be better off dead than lost, drifting forever in an ocean of darkness. It’s really dark. The only thing providing light are the dimmed lights from the instrument panel. There are so many stars that you think they really should provide enough light to read by. But, they don’t. And the glow off the instrument panel only makes impenetrable shadows on the pages.
Why the fuck did I bring a book? I have always brought a book with me. My mom always did too. That must be why- a habit passed down from one generation from the last. Most people don’t read books anymore. Sure, they read fiction and non-fiction- but electronically. They called them “e-books” when they first came out. Damn, I’m that old. Most of my peers had never seen a book. The electronic replacements had taken over the market a hundred years before. About the same time that I got my age reduced.
Why did I do that? Stupid thing to do, it was just a fad. All the trendy people were doing it. I added possibly two hundred years onto my life. Which means I have around a hundred years to sit here, in this cockpit, eating recycled and replicated nutrients and being chemically kept in perfect health by the faithful and trusty computer.
And now we come to the computer. She’s located behind me. At least I made her a she. You see, a pilot can program his computer to be any creature and any gender. So, I made mine a human female. You can also give it a more human voice and accent. This is where I fucked up. Being a newly young and vibrant and cocky pilot, I decided to make my computer in to a bit of a joke. I made her have the voice of Frances McDormand from the movie “Fargo”. You know, a stereotypical and exaggerated North Dakota or Minnesota accent. Why did I do that? Now I am forced to sit here for the next hundred years listening to “Oh, yeah, then?” “Ya.” “Hey der!” “Yaderhey!” And other such crap.
I wonder if the computer will allow me to have a mental breakdown so my last hundred years can at least seem like fun. Probably won’t, the fucking machine. Things weren’t like that when I was a kid. “Fargo” was cool when I was a kid. No one reading this would know what “Fargo” was, aside from a city. Trust me, “Fargo” was a funny movie. The Coen Brothers, Joel and Ethan, wrote and directed it. Funny.
Wow, that was a lot of talk but very little time actually passed. I think I may sign off for a while.
I’m back, not that anyone will hear this log. I am lost in the ass end of the organism known as the Andromeda Galaxy. I have no clue how far I am from home, nor do I want to know. It’ll only make my wait that much worse. Who knows, maybe someone will find me. My beacon is going. I think. It’s probably going. I should check.
Yup, it’s going. It’ll be a miracle if anyone finds me even with the beacon chirping away. I wonder how long the radio signal will take to reach the base. Hmmm…seven over the eight…divided by twelve…who the fuck am I kidding, I don’t know jack about interstellar communication. All I know, or care to know, is that when I hit the button, it works. Your standard communication device works that way. It uses some kind of targeted beam or something. Works almost instantly. But, for that you need to know your location and your target’s destination. The beacon doesn’t work that way. Since I don’t know where home is, it’s sending out a general signal on all sides. Basically, I’m in the middle of the woods, shouting. Maybe someone hears me, maybe not. Maybe an alien will hear my distress call. “Help me, please. I am stuck in the ass end of nowhere and will die of boredom sometime in the next hundred years. I would appreciate a bit of a rescue.” Might translate into: “Your mother is ugly. No one would touch your miserable excuse for a planet with a super-laser from a movie you would never have seen. Eat shit and die you goat fucker.”
If that’s the case, my waiting for death will be over. Of course, the aliens might decide to anally probe me. Some alien races have a penchant for anal raping. Gross, if you ask me, but they really get off on it. I remember a sketch from an old Canadian show that no one knows about, called “Kids in the Hall”. In this sketch, there are two aliens conducting your usual anal rape. They have a sleeping human on a cart and insert a glowing dildo into their ass. The one says something like, “We travel three thousand light years to anally probe humans and all we find out is that one in five doesn’t mind it so much.”
I knew a guy once who was anally raped by an alien. A female one. Little did he know, though, but in this species, the female has the penis. He thought he’d be getting some hot nookie, but ended up with a sore behind and a strangely amused look on his face. You can imagine the comedy derived from that incident. He died a few weeks ago, his ship’s thermal shields were damaged and he burned in the atmosphere of a planet he had never been on before. I talked with him as his cockpit got hotter and hotter and his brains slowly cooked. He told me, “You know, you gotta always reach for the pink bismuth.” Of course, his brain was medium-well by that point. He didn’t die by cooking, though. The armor plating melted through and he was burnt to nothingness by the inferno outside his fighter.
I’m pretty tired. I may put more entries in this log, or not. I am beginning to realize the extent of my predicament. And the end of my pistol is looking pretty tasty.

A Short Story

The walls reverberated with the explosions. The station had been under attack for only a few minutes, yet so much damage had been done. The damage repair crews had drafted civilians, who lived on the station, to help in repairs. Harold McPhee was sleeping in his quarters when the explosions began. He had been shaken out of his bed. Pulling on his robe, he left the relative safety of his suite and ventured into a smoke filled corridor.
“Sir! Sir!” called a green suited crewmember, “What’s you name, Sir?”
“Mickey. Err, Harold McPhee. What’s going on?”
“We’re under attack, and we need help. Get back to your quarters and put some clothes on.”
“But… Why?”
“Come on!” The crewman pulled McPhee back down the corridor. “Is this your suite?” McPhee nodded. “Get dressed, I’ll wait here.”
Not even thinking, McPhee pulled a suit out from his closet. He had it almost on when the crewman walked in his sleeping room.
“Sir,” said the crewman, “that may not be the best thing… Don’t you have some labor clothes?”
Mickey blinked and nodded. He took the suit off and found some old clothes and got dressed. The crewman bodily pulled him down the hall to a supply room where he gave McPhee what appeared to be a think raincoat. After he slipped it on he realized it was a fire-retardant parka. The crewman made to pull him along when McPhee stopped him.
“Who are you?” He asked.
“I’m Harris. Come on, we have to get moving. There was an impact down the hall and there is a fire.” He spoke as he walked, “The Kreae appeared at the outside range of sensors over six hours ago. The Commander called for help but they haven’t arrived yet. The Kreae are making strafing runs, the armor on the ring is holding…mostly.”
Harris used a keycard on a pressure door and it opened to reveal a scene from the inferno. What was once a marketplace was smashed and ablaze from the enemy ship that had crashed through the station’s hull, through the floor. A force shield sparkled as debris and heat buffeted it. McPhee looked up and saw up to what he assumed to be the center of the station- pierced by the fighter.
Harris threw a hose at him. “Hold it! It’ll pump foam to stop the fire.” He shouted and ran to turn on the foam. The pressure yanked the hose from Mickey’s grip and flung it far into the air. Foam fell everywhere. Mickey tried to pull down on the hose but couldn’t get it controlled until Harris arrived to help. Together, they put out some of the fire as repair crews hastily welded plates over the hull breach.
McPhee collapsed against a wall. Harris slowly sat beside him, grunting as his muscles relaxed. “You did good, Mr., um, McFay?”
“McPhee. Call me Mickey.”
“You did good, Mickey. We’ll be needed elsewhere soon, but we can rest for now.”
“Thank God for small favors.” McPhee quietly spoke.

His world erupted in flame and pain. A white light came from up spin, a force pushed him down and he instinctively shielded himself. He felt a hand on his collar, dragging him from the impending danger. He felt unimaginable heat on his feet and wildly kicked at it. A sound like thunder shook the plasticized floor and he was no longer being pulled. A pressure door hissed shut. He opened his eyes, but could not stand. He looked around, saw Harris, smoking from his back and groaning on the floor. Bracing himself against the wall, he wrenched himself up on his feet.
“Harris?” He gingerly spoke, “Harris, I’ll find help.”
Harris replied with a groan. McPhee staggered down the corridor, leaning on the wall. His feet felt like they were on fire, understandable, since his shoes were mostly melted. He opened the first door he could and peeked inside. It was a living suite; much like his own. He went inside and leaned against the wall beside a bookcase. An explosion rocked the room and the bookcase fell over, clipping the top of McPhee’s head. He fell underneath the books and into unconsciousness.
Seven nude women stood in front of him, each licking their lips. They slowly walked toward him. A redhead worked his fly and let his pants fall. A blond began fondling his penis. The women giggled at the immense size of his member. It stretched a good two feet. A small dog walked up to his leg and began running into his leg, pushing it until he fell, taking five of the seven down with him,
He opened his eyes and felt someone kicking his leg. “Gug, clou durr nuf.” Was all he could manage to get out, but it was enough to convince the kicker that he was alive. He heard books being pushed out of the way and the weight was lifted from his back. He slowly got on his knees and then pushed himself up. He fell back to the ground.
“Whoa there, you took a nasty knock on the head there.” The Samaritan said to him, “Let’s get you sitting and then tend to that wound.”
He felt himself be picked up and helped over to a dirty chair. “How…long…?” McPhee asked.
“How long were you out?” Mcphee nodded. “Oh, I’d say, at least an hour.”
The man bandaged his head. “I think you probably got a concussion. You might have problems with coordination for a while…you know… How many fingers do you see?” The man held up his hand, with three fingers up.
“Three…” McPhee answered.
“Good! I know you are going to ask- I think the attack is over. There haven’t been explosions for almost thirty minutes. By your clothes, I bet you got drafted to work repair. So did I, but I didn’t get far before that last big one cut me off from where I had to go. I take it you were with the guy in the hall?”
“That’s Harris. How is he?”
“I see you can talk! That’s a good sign. I’m afraid your friend is dead. Pretty nasty burns from the look of it. You were damn kind to pull him from the main walkway when it blew up. It…”
McPhee interrupted him. “He pulled me.”
“Well, then I say you are damn lucky. I haven’t seen any others around here, of course, I may be wrong. Looks your head has stopped bleeding. I think that’s a good sign.”
McPhee sat for a few hours and gathered his wits. The man had left looking for help and had been gone for an hour or so when Mickey finally gathered the strength to stand up. He stumbled into the corridor and tried to find Harris, but his body wasn’t there. He could hear muffled voices from down the hall. Gripping onto the wall, he slowly made his way to a partially open door, the voices were coming from inside.
He peered inside and there were four people there, sitting on chairs and talking. One nodded in his direction and the conversation ended. A woman and three men sat there. The woman smiled and spoke, “Hello there, you must be Harold McPhee, called Mickey. We were hoping you would wake up soon. Want some tea? It’s fresh. I know we are in the middle of a crisis and it seems a trifle silly to serve tea at a time like this, but tell me one thing, what’s the harm of a little tea when you are worried?” She smiled wider. “Tea?”
“Sure. I’d like some tea.” McPhee answered.
“Bob,” said the woman, “help Mickey to a seat.”
One of the men answered, “Yes Havana.” He stood and wrapped an arm around Mickey and helped him to a seat. The seat was red fabric and was remarkably comfortable. Bob sat back down. He smiled at Mickey, “I’m Bob, Bob Thomsen. This here is Eddie and Taylor.” He motioned at each as he mentioned their names. “Havana is getting your tea. Tell me, Mickey, you don’t mind do you?” He waited until McPhee nodded, “So, tell me Mickey, what business are you in? I see by your hands that you aren’t a crewman here.”
McPhee waited to speak, as a cup of tea was placed before him. He carefully lifted it and tried to drink but somehow missed his mouth. Tea drizzled down his chin and onto the floor. Before he could apologize, Havana told him not to worry. Mickey tried again with the tea and managed to find his mouth and was relieved by the warm liquid in his mouth. He spoke, “I’m a currency investor. I take the various currencies of the colonies and convert them to Earth standard or to various Alien currencies and invest them, if possible. I have an office near the First Bank of Earth branch.” He drank more tea.
Eddie nodded, “Yes, I know where that is. Myself, I’m in many businesses. You know, a little here, a little there. Taylor is a politician by nature and has found himself a niche in a large intersystem corporation. Have you heard of JupiterCorp? No? Anyway, he makes big bucks, which I use to get in on various business ventures. And I take a hefty commission.” Eddie went on, but Mickey didn’t hear him. He was staring down at his tea.
A hand touched his and he looked up into Havana’s eyes. She said to him, “There was an announcement a little while ago, just before you came here. The station Commander said that intruders had boarded and that they were disguised as us.” She looked worried. “We’re going to move down the hall and see if we can find help. You’re still hurting, why don’t you stay here and guard the fort?”
McPhee nodded and the four left. A short while later he heard footsteps in the hall and saw the Samaritan appear at the door. “Hey, you moved. I thought I would find you back down the hall. What are you doing here?”
“I heard voices and found four people here.”
“Strange. I passed by here and heard nothing. Huh. Anyway, I found a newsbox and read that the Commander warned the security forces to be prepared for boarding. We shouldn’t have to worry- I can’t find anyway in, or out. The main walkway is ablaze and the lifts are depressurized, as is the deck above us and only empty space is below us. You say there were people here?”
“Yes, four. They gave me tea and went down the hall in search of help.”
The man scratched his head. “That’s funny, ‘cause I saw nothing. Weird. I did find something interesting, though. There is a little convenience shop down a ways. It has lots of food to keep us going. My name’s Jimmy, by the way, Jimmy Dearing.” He extended his hand and shook Mickey’s.
Mickey stood and, with Dearing, went down the hall to the shop. “Hear that?” Asked Mickey after hearing muffled voices and laughing. “Can’t you hear that?”
“No. I can’t hear anything.”
“I’m gonna go check it out.”
“Want me to come?”
“Nah. You get some food for us and find me.”
“Ok.” Jimmy walked on, leaving McPhee alone. He quietly walked down a hallway toward the noises. He knew what he would find and found it. In an otherwise deserted room was Eddie, Taylor, Bob and Havana. They were standing in a vague circle telling jokes and laughing. Taylor looked over at McPhee and greeted him, “Mickey! Where ya been? We’ve been waiting for you. Hey, answer this: How many psychiatrists does it take to change a light bulb? No! Don’t say it! It only takes one, but the light bulb has to want to change.” The foursome erupted in laughter at the joke. Mickey half-heartedly joined in.
“Hey, I found another guy.”
Havana perked up, “Oh, where is he?”
“He’s getting some food. He’s been walking around looking for people for a few hours. Funny he never found you guys.”
“Yeah,” said Eddie, “We didn’t see him. That is weird.”
“He’ll be here in a few, so then there will be six of us.”
Havana said, “That would be great.” She smiled.

“Mickey! Where are you?” came Jimmy’s voice from down the hall. McPhee walked to the doorway and shouted, “We’re down here!”
The four were silent waiting. Footsteps could be heard. Dearing appeared in the doorway carrying a box under each arm. He looked puzzled. “You said we.” He said.
“Yeah, Jimmy,” said Mickey, “this is Bob, Taylor, Eddie and Havana.”
“You’re joking, right.” Jimmy cracked a smile. “This is a ‘blow on the head’ joke. You got me.”
Havana looked angry, “Who are you talking to? This isn’t funny. Where’s your friend?”
McPhee looked at her and pointed at Jimmy. “Right there.”
“Well,” said Havana, “I don’t see anything there. Do you guys?” The three guys shook their heads. Eddie spoke, “Very bad form, Harold.”
Now Jimmy looked mad, “Mickey, stop being an ass. You know no one is there. I’ll be down the hall when you get your act in order.” He left.
“What the hell was that?” Mickey asked the four. “Are you guys in on this against me?”
“Mickey,” said Havana, “We would never be against you, you just must be suffering from trauma.”
“Why can’t you see him and why can’t he see you?” Mickey asked.
Havana placed a hand on his shoulder. “Because he’s not real. We are, you know that, right? Here, I’ll prove it to you.” She leaned over and kissed him. “That felt real, right?”
“Yes, yes it did.”
Eddie spoke up, “Maybe this ‘Jimmy’ character is real…”
Havana looked over at him, “What are you talking about?”
“I read that the Kreae can ‘imprint’ on a person and only that person will see them and that person will see his own species. Maybe that is what has happened?”
“How would he know?” Asked Taylor.
“It’s simple,” replied Havana, preempting Eddie, “He asks about the ‘Jimmy’s’ past. Where he is from, what he does. Mickey already knows that we are real so he doesn’t have to worry about us. Just this other guy.”
“Yeah,” said Bob, “Just ask him some questions. If the answers aren’t satisfactory, he can’t be a real person.”
McPhee nodded. Then nodded again. Then nodded a third time. “Yeah, I’ll do that. I’ll go ask him.”
He stomped out of the room and down the hall. “Jimmy!” he called and followed the response. He found Jimmy in the room where Mickey was knocked unconscious. “Sorry about that, Jimmy, I must be seeing things. The concussion, I guess.”
“Hey, no problem. Have some food.”
He took a piece of something and tasted it. Tofu. “So, Jimmy,” McPhee smiled, “Where are you from?”
“Earth, like everyone else. I was born in a stable.”
“Mind if I ask where?”
“No where special.”
“What do you do for a living?”
“I do odd jobs. Cleaning, repair, some cleaning, I was a cook on a ship here.”
“What do you do here?”
“Nothing much.”
“Are you avoiding my questions?”
“No. Why would you ask?
“Nothing. Where are your quarters?”
“Around here and there.”
“Where?”
“No where in particular.” Jimmy stood and walked to the door. Mickey picked up a leg from the bookcase that fell on him. He got ready to swing.
“Jimmy.” He called and Jimmy turned. Mickey swung the bat and it wetly smacked the side of Dearing’s head. Jimmy fell to the ground. McPhee knelt down beside him. Jimmy stared up in horror. “I…” he began, “…I didn’t think…you’d recognize me…” Mickey gasped in remembrance.
“James Dearing? Oh shit.”
James Dearing. The kid who beat up and tortured him in school.
“I…” Jimmy spoke, “didn’t want you to remember me. But…why this?”
“Jimmy, I…I thought you were an alien.”
“Heh. That’s a laugh… You…kill me…me, your bully…because…because you thought I…was an alien…” Jimmy’s eyes glazed over and his lungs gave a deep sigh.
Harold McPhee, called Mickey McPee, stood in shame.
Down the hall, Havana whispered in Eddie’s ear, “These humans are very impressionable. Our mission should be an easy one.”

Short Story

The premise behind this is that the Roman Empire never fell and is still the world power.



-----

Darkness enveloped the passing patrol. Herodotus had dived into the
thick shadows just in time. The Praetorian had missed him. “Fucking
Praetorian.” Spat Herodotus into the inky blackness. He crossed the
street, careful to stay out of the light of the streetlamps. His guts
hurt; hurt bad. He needed his jonze real bad.
The Empire had
legalized most drugs for a short time, and then prohibited them again.
There were hundreds of thousands of people like Herodotus in Rome
alone. They had gotten hooked on Heroin, Cocaine, Zappa or some other
drug. Zappa was Hero’s choice. A synthetic drug, it was very expensive
when it was legal, ten times more now. Very expensive and very rare.
Hero had to go across town to get it.
His insides suddenly tensed
up and he fell to the ground in pain. He pulled himself up by a smashed
parking meter. Someone had wanted the few coins it would hold. Probably
to buy drugs, Hero could relate to that. Whoever had done it made a
mess of it and missed most of the change that fell out. They must have
really needed the money, because the next dozen meters were smashed in
the same manner. Hero noted each one as he clung to them for support.

Luckily, his pains hadn’t begun until he was almost to the dealer’s
shack He stumbled his was into the alley it was always set up in. Sure
enough, at the end, illuminated by a red and blue neon sign, was an
impromptu shack. It had to be easy to put up and take down so the
police and Praetorians wouldn’t notice it when the made their rounds in
daylight. At night it didn’t matter because no cop or guard would be
willing to walk down an alley at risk of death.
Bathed in pale neon
light was the shack. Some plywood boards held up by a dumpster at the
rear and double stacked barrels at the front. It provided just enough
cover to keep Little Nero dry when it rains and not enough to comfort
anyone who may walk by. Nero was sitting on a milk crate with a
cardboard box as a table in front of him. A tweaking man was sitting,
leaning against the wall on the opposite side of the alley from Nero’s.
The man wasn’t really tweaking, he was a guard and lookout for when
Nero was doing business. His name was Francisco.
Herodotus stumbled
down the alley, using the alley wall as a crutch. Nero smiled at his
coming. “Hero, my friend. You should have come earlier. I can see that
you are in pain.”
Hero grinned, but it turned into a grimace. “You know me,” he said, “always waiting ‘til the last minute.”
“You need Zappa, yes?”
Nero nodded.
“Let me check my stock, I think I have some.” He turned on the crate
and dug in another box, behind him. As he looked, he spoke, “Zappa is
getting harder and harder to find. The Imperial bastards are finding
all the labs that make it. Yes, harder and more expensive. I really
only stock it for you, what with you being a good friend and all. Ah!
Here we are, the last of my stock. It’s not much…” Nero held out a
small baggie with a inhaler in it. “Only one. But, that should last you
until I can get some more.”
“Damn it, Nero,” Herodotus hissed,
“that will only last me until tomorrow. Wait,” Hero took the baggie and
studied the inhaler, “that’s not the right color. Look, it’s doesn’t
look right.”
“It’s the light, trust me. Would I cheat an old friend like you? Look, try it and prove it to yourself.”
Hero raised his eyebrow and opened the baggie and took out the inhaler.
He shook it and took a short puffer. Relief and calm came in a wave
through his body. He felt instantly better, happy even.
Nero grinned and nodded, “You see, it’s the right stuff.”
Hero dug into his pocket and pulled out a wad of bills and handed them
to Nero. “That’s for this and what you can get me for tomorrow”
Nero nodded, “Yeah, no problem. I’ll have a half dozen by morning.”
Hero walked off.

Herodotus
woke with his alarm and cursed himself for bothering to set it. “Well,”
He thought to himself, “If I’m going to get up, I might as well go to
work.” He shat, showered and shaved and got dressed for work.
Grateful
he noted the locations of the broken meters, he clocked in and went
right to them. Replacing them required very little work. He unscrewed
the old ones, removed them from the posts, deactivated their locators,
took a new one, activated it’s locator, mounted it and programmed it
into the system. The broken meters, 16 of them in all, took only an
hour or so to replace.
During his work, he passed the alley where
Nero was set up…and the shack was still up. Confused, Herodotus made
his way down the alley. Francisco was still slumbering against the
wall. And Nero was still sitting on his crate. His head rose as Hero
approached. His eyes registered alarm at the uniform walking toward him
and he shouted to Francisco who leapt up, ready to strike with a knife.
Hero
shouted, “No! It’s me!” And held out his hands as if to stop a charging
Francisco. But, it was too late and Francisco was too fast. The knife
slid into his guts smoothly. Falling backward, Hero was struck with the
idea that it didn’t hurt quite as bad as when he needed more Zappa.
Francisco kept a firm grip on the knife so it easily exited the wound
as Hero fell. He was winding up for a killing blow when Nero shouted
for him to stop. Nero stood over a bleeding Herodotus. “Holy shit,
dude. What are you doing here?”
Hero looked at him. “Well, I figured
I had nothing better to do than get fucking stabbed! What the fuck do
you think I’m here for? The Zappa you promised me!”
“Shit dude, I didn’t expect you to come while you were working. Fuck. You alright?”
“I’m fucking bleeding! How do you think I am?”
“Franny,
get a towel from my bag!” The towel was used to put pressure on the
wound. “Dude, I know a place where you can get fixed up without the
cops. Franny, grab his arms, I’ll take his legs. It isn’t far.”

Herodotus
passed out on the way. He awoke to see a beautiful woman tending to
him. “I’m dead, aren’t I?” He said. She giggled and stood away from his
bed. His eyes focused on her clothes. “You’re a nun? I thought you
folks were illegal?”

“Technically, young man,” her voice was sexy, “our order is limited in
number, by the law, but not abolished.”
Herodotus
tried to sit up but was greeted by shooting pain and black spots in his
vision. “Oh, shit. Sorry…” he blushed.
“I’ve
heard worse. You shouldn’t try to get up for at least a couple of days.
We took your drugs since you won’t need them. We have started you on
the anti-drug drug. Wait, that sounds silly, doesn’t it?”
“You took my drugs? What about…”

"The police have not been called, nor will they. You have sanctuary
here and are free to stay until you are fully healed.”
“Nero brought me here?”
“No.
Your friend took you as far as he dared. A Praetorian patrol found you.
They were taking you to a hospital when the Mother Superior here
pleaded with their commander to allow us to take you in. He agreed.”
“I don’t understand…”
“Nor will you ever, I suppose.”

Hero
was soon able to stand and walk around. Every morning, he was given a
pill- the “anti-drug drug”. Apparently, it’s the only way to stop an
addiction to Zappa. And only recently discovered at that. The nurse/nun
told him that he would need the pill every morning for an indefinite
period.
After a week, Hero left. He had been given a month’s supply
of pills and the address of where he could get more. He found that he
still had his job working for the government and that the Nuns had
fixed everything with his bosses.
The month passed quickly. Every
morning, Herodotus woke up refreshed and took a pill. He felt good all
day, something new to him. But, one morning, he awoke to find he had no
pills left. He searched for the slip that had the address on it. It was
a chemist on the other side of the city. He could go there during a
break from work.
He drove to work. He left his car and suddenly lost
all control over his body. He crashed to the ground in horrendous pain.
He had never felt such an intense pain before in his life. He writhed
in agony for several minutes before someone noticed. An ambulance was
called and Herodotus was delivered to a hospital.
“Son, you are
lucky. Most who lapse on their pills don’t make it.” Hero’s doctor
lectured him. “You must never allow yourself to run out of pills.”
Herodotus was confused. “What happened to me?”
“Your body was suffering withdrawal. You missed your dose, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, but…”
“Never miss a dose, I cannot stress that enough.”
“Yeah, but I never had anything like that happen when I was on Zappa.”
“Different drugs have different effects.”
“Yeah, but in this case, the cure is worse than the disease.”
The doctor nodded.

Story coming soon

Tomorrow or the next day I'll have a new story up. I wonder if anyone has read this blog yet, or if it needs hundreds of entries to get noticed...

Nothing to write about

I have nothing to write about. So, I'll tell you about my day.

I woke up. Had my mom try to fix my shitty touch-up job on my car- she only made it worse. Then I sat in front of my computer screen from 11am to 6.10pm when I went with my mom to do a pinewood derby race at a retirement community.

I swear those old folks do the race just to see cars crash. It's like an endurance race. Cars flying apart, flying off the back of the track, pieces jumping several feet in the air. Those people went mad when the cars got wrecked.

Then I had BK, didn't win a prize on the spiderman game.

Now, I'm sitting in front of my computer...nothing to write about.

Car Repair

It seems to me that Mopar enjoys messing with their customers. They have an insidious plan, too. They make spraycans of touchup paint a rare commodity and force consumers to get a tube with a brush. The paint drys very quickly. So quickly, in fact, that by the time you get from the tube to your car, the paint is already half dried and so it goes on in clumps. Also, they make the paint a slightly different color from your car. They claim it's the same, but it's slightly different. Just different enough so you notice it.

It's not a real conspiracy, but it's fun to think of if as one.

A Short Little Story

I am a member of various webforums and on one, I asked for story ideas. I recieved two in a very short time. The first one was: "mutant chipmunks invade France" and the second one was: "Jeno (another forum member) conquers France".

If you like this, come to www.tomatocow.com and click on "forum" and comment if you like.

Here goes:

The woman before me had been drugged and tortured and still she resisted. Why would she do such a thing? I had to find a way to get around her refusal to speak of her crime. She must have committed one; otherwise, she would not be under my special care.
I looked down at the shiny metal tray that hovered at waste level before me. Upon it was a syringe full of a special selection of nano-probes. These would seek out those parts of her brain that held the information and those which feed his will to resist and enhance the former and extinguish the latter. I won’t go in to the details, but she may not survive the procedure. I had to wrestle with my boss, figuratively anyway, to allow me to use these unorthodox means.
I picked up the syringe and found a vein in her neck. The needle inserted, I sent the plunger home, flooding her system with nano-bots. She flopped around like a fish for a while and then steadied.
I asked her, “What happened in Frace?”
She nodded and spoke, “I burnt it.”
Such a simple, childlike answer is exactly what the nanos were supposed to ensure.
“How,” I asked, “Did you burn France. Tell me the whole story.”
She began, “I got the idea from a Professor of Micro-Technology. He discovered a way to transfer the very mind of humans into machines. He was conducting tests on volunteers. He put one volunteer in a car and told him to ride on the freeway. Unfortunately, the volunteer was British and drove on the wrong side.
“Did you know that a car could die? I didn’t until then. His mind was no longer present in the pieces we could find. Of course, he could have been in a very small piece that was never recovered. Can you imagine what it’s like, being on the side of the road for all eternity? It would be awful boring. I wouldn’t want it, not at all. * ho-hum *
“He put one woman into a stove. Sold her on eBay for a year’s worth of research money. That’s not very nice. * ho-hum *
“I figured that if that guy could put people into machines, he could put other things into machines. I asked him and he said that it was possible, but other things wouldn’t understand the nature of machines and so would be of no use. He offered to put me in a spatula, but I declined. * ho-hum *
“How would I make other things understand machines? I asked another professor, this time a professor of Thinky-Doo. He told me that any creature can be made sentient and so anything can understand machines. I asked him how something could be made sentient. He showed me into his lab and presented me with a sentient earthworm.
“The earthworm had a wire coming out of it which attached to a speech synthesizer. ‘Hello young human female’, it said to me, ‘I will now play you a song.’ The worm inched over to a small strip of conductive plastic and rolled around. Out of the speaker came music. The worm sang:
‘This microphone explodes, shattering the molds
Ya either drop tha hits like La O or get tha fuck off tha commode
Wit tha sure shot, sure ta make tha bodies drop
Drop an don’t copy yo, don’t call this a co-opt.
Terror rains drenchin’, quenchin’ tha thirst of tha power dons
That five sided fist-a-gon
Tha rotten sore on tha face of mother earth gets bigger
Tha trippers cold empty ya purse

‘They rally round tha family
With pockets full of shells
They rally round tha family
With pockets full of shells

‘Weapons, not food, not homes, not shoes, not need, just feed tha war cannibal animal
I walk tha corner to tha rubble that used to be the library
Line up to the mind cemetery
What we don’t know keeps tha contracts alive an movin’
They don’t gotta burn tha books they just remove ‘em
While arms warehouses fill as quick as tha cells

‘Rally round tha family, pockets full of shells
Rally round tha family
With pockets full of shells

‘Bulls on Parade!’

“The worm finished. I was amazed at how accurate and real the worm sounded. It really sounded like Rage Against the Machine (who’s songs are now public domain, so copy write companies can kiss my ass). I was amazed.
“I picked up a large piece of metal and hit the professor with it. He fell and hit the ground so hard that his head opened and oozy brain went all over the place. * ho-hum *
“I took his machines. The worm tried to stop me, but it was no match for my superior shoe size. I had my plan.
“I purchased, on the internet, 100,000 flying chipmunks and asked that they be delivered in separate boxes. Two days later, I had 100,000 boxes in my house. I opened each one and made each chipmunk sentient. Soon, I had 100,000 sentient chipmunks.
“I then purchased 100,000 ‘Mega Attack Giganto Claw Robots’ from Priceline.com. They arrived in 5 days and I transferred each chipmunk to it’s own robot.
“Told them, ‘You are my army. Together, we will conquer France!
“I arrayed them in New Foundland, as it’s slightly closer to Europe than Carolina. And sent them on attack! They reached France after several hours of swimming.
“The slaughter was enormous. The chipmunks landed in Brest and within six hours, all of France had surrendered. I paraded my troops through Paris in victory. I then ordered them to kill all inhabitants.”
I looked at her and asked, “What did you do in Canada?”
She smiled and said, “I had a Big Mac.”
“And what,” I asked, “Did you do with the wrapper?”
“I tossed it behind my car.”

I placed her under arrest for littering. She would, of course, receive the most severe punishment out nation allows for: twenty years of Anne Murray and Celine Dion albums. No one had yet survived.
Thus concludes my business here for the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.