Tales and Telling

The (D)Evolution of Communication

2010-07-08T18:18:00.002-04:00

Once, long ago, people needed to convey important information such as "food" or "danger." Language was invented to fill that very important need.

Eventually, language expanded so people could convey other important information such as "friend" or "stranger" or "it's your turn to feed the baby."

Then people began to yearn for a way to pass information on to those they had never met and might never meet. Writing was created to allow this to happen.

When clay tablets proved too heavy and breakable, paper was invented, allowing writing to become more portable.

One day, a person chose to write down a story they had heard so others could enjoy it. That was the beginning of the publishing (well, scribing) industry.

After many years, movable type was invented and books became cheaper to produce. More and more people learned to read and write, as a result.

Centuries later, radio was invented and several radio stations found themselves in need of programming to last the day. New writers leapt to fill the void.

Then came television, then cable television. More and more writers worked to fill the void that demanded more and more words. But the larger the void, the less talented were the writers who strove to fill it.

Then came blogging online and anyone who felt like taking the time to write a blog could express their feelings, their interpretation of world events, or tell us about the latest cute thing their yappy dog had done.

But still were many people unable to help fill the ever increasing void of intelligent words. These people had not the talent, the craft, the patience, or the basic understanding of sentence structure to succeed even as bloggers. And thus was born Twitter, so the twits of the world could insure their drivel was available for all to read.

The End (of civilization as we know it?)

A Box Full of Smarts

2010-04-14T22:50:00.002-04:00

This story is part of my regular storytelling repertoire. It's based on a Slavic tale but about half of it is original material created by me.

Once there was a village whose citizens did not have a spare brain cell among the lot of them. They were known far and wide for their silly solutions to everyday problems. How silly were their solutions?

They planted boiled potatoes in their fields to save cooking time after the harvest. They wash their dishes before eating to save time after dinner. Once they even tied a rope to an island and tried to pull it closer to their harbor to protect it from storms. Yes, they were truly village full of noodleheads!

But after years and years of being laughed at and called noodleheads by all the villages around them, the villagers got fed up with it. A village meeting was called to decide how to become smarter.

“Everyone keeps telling us we all have tiny brains,” one man said, “so let’s crack open all our heads, take out all the little brains and stuff them inside one head. That person will have lots of brains and can make all our decisions for us!”

“No,“ said another, “that would be too much work. There’s an easier way. Smart people are said to be sharp as a tack. All we have to do is push tacks up our noses and into our brains. Then we’ll all be sharp as tacks, too!”

“No wonder everyone calls us noodleheads,” said the oldest and wisest man in the village. “Those are silly ideas! Why go to all that trouble when we can just send someone to the big market in the city to buy us a box of smarts?”

“You can buy that in the market?” asked the first man.

“They’ve got everything else at the market,” the old man answered, “why not smarts, too?”

So it was decided. The villagers gathered all their extra gold, gave it to the three strongest men in the village and sent them off to the city to buy a box of smarts. The three men left bright and early the next morning and walked half the day to reach the city. When they got to there, they went directly to the market and approached the first merchant.

“We want to buy a box of smarts,” they told the merchant.

Puzzled, the merchant asked, “A box of what?”

“Smarts!” they answered. “We want to stop being fools and sillies and noodleheads and need a box of smarts to do that.”

Seeing that they were serious, the merchant laughed, “I can sell you a bunch of carrots or bushel of corn, but I don’t have a box of smarts!”

The three men went to the next merchant and once again asked to buy a box of smarts. That merchant told them, “I can sell you pig’s brains. They taste yummy in scrambled eggs but they won’t make you any smarter!”

And so it went for the three men. Each merchant they asked laughed at them then offered to sell them something else. Then they finally came to a merchant who was not as honest as all the rest.

“A box of smarts?” he asked. “Those are rare and very expensive. Will you be able to afford it?”

“Um,” said one of the fools, “will 426 pieces of gold be enough?”

Barely able to hide his smile, the merchant replied, “Well, I usually sell a box of smarts for 500 pieces of gold, but you seem like such nice fellows that I’ll sell it to you for your 426 pieces.”

“Gosh, thanks mister!” said one of the noodleheads.

“Think nothing of it, my good man,” said the merchant. “You be here first thing tomorrow morning and I’ll have a box of smarts for you. Don’t forget to bring your money!”

Happy to have found what they needed, the three men agreed to meet the merchant the next morning and went off to sleep. The merchant, meanwhile, got a nice, sturdy wooden box, caught a mouse and sealed it in the box.

The next morning, the three fools returned to the merchant to buy the box of smarts. The merchant brought out the box with the mouse in it and placed it before the men. Inside the box, the mouse was scampering about, making all sorts of noise.

“What’s that noise?” the men asked.

“That?” said the merchant. “Why, that’s all the smarts trying to get out of the box! You must be very careful not to let it out. So don’t open the box until you get back to your village and are ready to start being smart!”

Handing over their 426 pieces of gold, the noodleheads promised they wouldn’t open the box until they got home. Pleased with themselves, they started walking back to their village. Pleased with himself, the merchant closed his shop and moved to another city.

It was mid afternoon when the three men got back to their village. Holding the box carefully, they called for everyone to gather in the village meeting hall.

“Once everyone is there,” they said, “we’ll open the box and we’ll all get smart!”

Soon the meeting hall was filled with everyone from village. Everyone was excited and looking forward to becoming smart.

The mayor took charge of the box and ordered the doors and windows shut. “We don’t want the smarts to get away before we can all catch some!”

Soon the meeting hall was sealed shut. With a grand gesture, the mayor opened the box to let the smarts out.

Everyone waited for a minute, expecting to feel something.

“Well,” asked a villager, “are we smart yet?”

“I don’t know,” replied the mayor. Turning to the three men who had bought the box, he asked, “Are you sure the box was full of smarts when you bought it?”

“Sure,” they said. “We could hear it scrabbling around in the box trying to get out!”

“Ah,” said the mayor, “after all of that scrabbling around the smarts must be too tired to come out of the box! I’ll just dump it out on the table and everyone can come up and get a piece of smarts for themselves.”

The mayor turned the box over and out came the mouse! The mouse tried to run but the mayor called out, “The mouse has eaten all the smarts! Catch it! Catch it!”

The villagers may have been noodleheads but they could move fast. One of the village boys quickly caught the mouse and, at the mayor’s direction, put the mouse back in the box.

“Now how are we going to get smart?” wailed the mayor.

“I know,” said one man, “we can each eat a little bit of the mouse! Then we’ll each get a little bit of the smarts the mouse ate.”

“That’s silly,” said another man. “The mouse is too small to cut into that many pieces! We should make a soup out of the mouse and all eat some. Then we’ll get smart!”

“You’re all fools and noodleheads!” said the oldest and wisest man in the village. “Why go to all that trouble when we’ve got the world’s smartest mouse right here in this box! We can just let the mouse make all our decisions for us!”

Everyone agreed that was a wonderful idea. And to this day, the mouse lives in a splendid cage with two boxes attached to each side of the cage. One box has “Yes” written on it and other has “No” written on it. Whenever the villagers have to make an important decision, they open the doors from the cage to the two boxes, ask their question and wait for the mouse to go to one of their boxes.

They’re still a bunch of silly noodleheads, but the mouse would prefer it if you don’t tell them that!

Lodging a Complaint

2009-09-24T21:37:00.006-04:00

This is my entry in the Friday Challenge for this week. The challenge: Write no more than 1000 words using this photo as inspiration.

Gentlemen:

I am writing to express my most bitter disappointment in your company's services. When one considers the high cost of said services, one expects to receive the very best; especially when your brochure offers that exact proclamation. But I am getting ahead of myself.

I contracted with your agent on my home world for the Barbarian Bonanza; an extended stay on an undeveloped world with no knowledge of galactic civilization. I was assured my butlebot, J33V32, would be allowed to accompany me on my adventure. J33V32 was kitted out with the latest in holographic projection technology -- all at my expense, mind you -- and we were on our way.

I should have known disaster was in the offing when I was informed J33V32 would be transported to the planet's surface separately. Alas, my usual optimistic outlook did not allow suspicions of disaster to spoil my mood. I must commend the young gentlemen who took me down to this barbaric planet and into a city called London.

Ah, London! It certainly lived up to its billing; loud, its streets crawling with ground transports of all sizes and shapes, a mixture of odors filling the air and teeming millions of these humans scurrying about on primitive errands of all kinds. I was shown to such a primitive abode about which I complained at once. Imagine my surprise when I was told a human would consider my accommodations luxurious! It was all quite deliciously barbaric, indeed! After such a fine start, it was quite a shock to discover J33V32 had been lost in descent!

It seems one your company's robotic shuttles lost its direction thingie and crashed on the other side of the planet! When one of your young gentlemen told me of this, I insisted we leave immediately to fetch my butlebot as I intended to dress for a night on the town. The same young gentleman then told me the most astonishing thing. Traveling to the other side of the planet would require time. Not just hours, not even days, but weeks of travel by something called rail and ship and rail again and then, then by riding some sort of native creature! Yet I stood firm and insisted we leave forthwith to fetch J33V32.

Meanwhile, J33V32 had come through the crash of your shuttle without a scratch. However, as I later learned, the extraordinarily expensive holographic projection device was rendered inoperable. J33V32 had no way to blend in with the barbarian natives when they discovered him wandering the countryside. Fortunately, I keep J33V32 thoroughly up-to-date and his creative circuits were firing wonderfully. As this band of banditos -- that is what J33V32 called them -- gazed upon his visage askance and wondered aloud what he was, clever J33V32 told them he was from Australia. I gather this "Australia" is one of the countries on earth. Having never seen an Australian before, the banditos took him before their fearsome leader, a gentleman by the name of Pancho Villa.

This Villa chappy seems to be some sort of revolutionary in his country. Of course, J33V32 has the full range of bodyguard programming, which he used to great effect before Mr. Villa. In short order, J33V32 was riding and raiding with the banditos. I am given to understand they were greatly impressed with the quantity of alcoholic beverages J33V32 could consume without suffering any impairment. With his mechanical muscles, he also proved quite adept at something called "rolling a cigar."

While I suffered seasickness in a cramped cabin on a floating hotel, my butlebot was leading charges against government soldiers and passing out supplies to starving villagers. While I was attempting to find some fleeting comfort on a "rail car" -- a mode of transportation that involves far too much heat, smoke and dirt for any civilized man -- J33V32 was sitting around actual open flames at night exchanging tales of derring-do with his fellow banditos. While I was swaying back and forth upon a great beast called a "horse," well, in all honesty, J33V32 was also riding a horse.

I was certainly not my in my traditionally sunny disposition when we encountered these same banditos. Of course, we had no way of knowing J33V32 was with them. The barbarians shrugged non-comprehension at our attempts to communicate. Under the threat of immediate violence, they led us to their camp. Upon entering the camp, I espied my butlebot at once. As soon as J33V32 heard his master's voice, he took up his traditional position at my side.

These banditos were none too keen to lose their new chum, I can tell you! It required an exchange of some local precious metal by the young gentlemen from your company before this Pancho Villa agreed to our departure. By the time we had completed our return passage, my Barbarian Bonanza vacation was nearly over.

It is for this reason I write to you. Gentlemen, I insist you allow me to stay on this planet in the city of London until I have discovered the joys and excitement awaiting me. You may retrieve me up on your next visit to this planet. All of this will be done at your expense, of course.

I am sending this message with the two young gentlemen who were of such assistance in retrieving J33V32. Why, they even fixed his holographic projection device! Unlike the rest of your company's services, their services were invaluable. I have tipped them most generously.

Gentlemen, until your return voyage, I remain yours,

Bertram W. Wooster

What I Did On My Summer Vacation

2009-09-10T21:00:00.005-04:00

What follows is the truth. Really.

It all started the day school got out for the summer. I came home like normal, handed my report card to Mom and then went into my room to play video games.

"Hello, Mike," someone said as I shut the door.

Surprised, I looked up to see who had spoken. I saw myself leaning against the door to my room. I closed my eyes then looked again. Yep, it was me. Had Mom put a mirror on the back of my door? Nope, no mirror. Too weird!

"Who are you?" I asked.

"I'm you," my double said, "sort of, anyway."

"Sort of?"

"I'm your summer stand-in," he said.

"Why do I need a stand-in?" I asked.

"Because you're getting your wish," the double replied. "You're going to finally have an exciting summer!"

Before I could say anything else, my double pointed something like a TV remote control at me and pushed a button. My quiet room vanished and I found myself waist deep in the ocean, the sound of gunfire all around me. I was surrounded by guys a lot older than me, all carrying M1 rifles and wearing green uniforms and struggling through the water toward the beach. I checked myself out and found a green uniform and an M1 gripped tightly in my hands.

D-Day? I was storming the beach at Normandy? What the hell?

I pushed my way through the water, trying to hide behind some of the other guys. That worked until all the guys around me had been shot. I was so scared I wet my pants, not that anyone would notice. I was trying to figure out what to do when something hit me hard in the chest. Looking down, I saw a red stain spreading out fast. I couldn't stand up any more. I was-

I was suddenly somewhere else. I was wearing something really heavy, holding something really heavy and had something blocking a lot of my vision. Looking left and right, I saw armored hoplite warriors. The one on my right, a much older man, grinned at me.

"Don't worry, boy," he said, "we can handle this Persian scum! Keep your shield up, thrust low and hard. You'll be fine."

I looked in front of me for the first time. Not fifty yards away, a whole lot of men were advancing on us. They gave a terrifying cry and rushed at us!

Off to my left, someone called out, "Brace!"

The human wave hit us, driving us backward. Then I felt a shield against my back, pushing me in the other direction.

"Now, boy, thrust!" the old man next to me yelled.

It was so loud I could barely hear him, but I did what he told me to do. I thrust with my right arm as hard as I could. It was strange, feeling the point push through light armor and pierce flesh. The man before me convulsed and screamed and blood splattered and I thought I was going to be sick. Then that man was down and another took his place.

I thrust again and again and again and again. The screaming, the blood, the horror went on and on until I was numb to it. My arms ached from holding the shield and thrusting. My legs throbbed from pushing and pushing. I didn't think I could hold out much longer when suddenly the Persians retreated.

"Front line," a voice called out, "drop back for rest and water!"

I turned to grin at the old man next to me, ready to tell him I'd made it. I didn't recognize the man standing next to me.

"What happened to-" I began.

The man shook his head. "He dines with the gods tonight."

Suddenly feeling empty, I turned away.

And everything changed again.

I was in a village of some kind. If the movies I've watched are at all accurate, it was a European village. I was pulling something heavy, like a big hand cart. I turned to see what I was pulling and wished I hadn't. It was a big hand cart that was full of dead bodies; men, women, even children. A man was walking out of a hovel carrying a small bundle. The man's eyes looked dead, even if he wasn't. When he put the bundle on the pile of bodies, I saw why.

It was a baby.

I realized all the bodies were covered with large, oozing sores. The plague! Oh, God, I was in a plague infested village! I started to back away from the cart but felt a hand press against my back.

"It's all right, boy," a horse voice said. "You get used to it after a while. Just think of them as a load of wood. And don't touch them."

Suddenly, he began coughing. I thought he was going to cough up a lung, it went on so long.

"Damn," he said quietly. "Looks like you're going to be handling the cart on your own soon."

We dragged the cart through the village and my horror grew with each step. There were so few people for such a large village, and most of them looked half dead from exhaustion. Finally, we dragged the cart out of the village and dumped -- there's no other word for it -- the bodies in a mass grave.

As we were pulling the cart back toward the village, I started to cough.

"I take it all back!" I cried. "I don't want an exciting summer! I want to clean my room and mow the lawn and wash the cars! Please, God, let me be bored again!"

And just like that, I was back in my room. I wasn't coughing or shot in the chest or wearing armor. I was just sitting in my room, looking at my double.

"Did you have a good time?" he asked.

"No! I spent the entire time I was gone terrified and horrified and sure I was about to die!" I said. "I most definitely did not have a good time!"

My double smiled, "Good. It seems you learned something while you were gone."

"Um, how long was I gone?" I asked. It had felt like forever.

The double looked at his watch and answered, "Six minutes."

"Six-? So I've got all of my summer vacation left?"

My double nodded.

"Thank you, God!" I said and reached for my iPod.

There was a knock at the door and my double vanished. Mom poked her head into the room.

"Your father wants you to mow the lawn before you do anything else today," she said.

"Aw, Mom!"

The Gift

2009-08-13T20:00:00.000-04:00

I cannot walk on water. I cannot raise the dead. I cannot feed a multitude with a few loaves and fishes. I am not the second coming of the Christ, though there are many who refuse to believe me because of what I can do. I can cure the sick. I can make the blind see. I can make the crippled walk.

Jane and I were in Africa, though I forget which country. I can never keep them straight anyway. We'd been in the village for four days. One more day should be enough to complete the healing. One more day, then on to the next village and its people and their wretched conditions.

I was just finishing up for the day when we saw the cloud of dust from an approaching truck. In this area, trucks are to be feared. On rare occasions, they bring supplies or people like me, wishing to help the villagers. More often, they bring thugs from the local warlord or, worse, soldiers from the government.

The villagers gathered their children and hid in their huts. Jane and I went to our hut as well. While Jane checked her guns, I watched the approaching truck.

"Here," Jane said, tossing me a pistol. "Turn the safety off."

I smiled as I flicked the safety off and shoved the gun in my front pocket. Jane never trusts me to remember basic gun safety. "I do know how to handle a gun, dear."

"If by 'handle' you mean 'shoot yourself' then I guess you do," she replied.

"Jane, you know I can't shoot well enough to hit anyone else," I said.

Outside, the truck had stopped. Five heavily armed men piled out. One fired a couple of shots into the air.

"We are looking for the healer!" he shouted. "We know he is here. Bring him to us!"

"Stay here and cover me," I said to Jane, then walked out the door.

The men all turned toward me, covering me with their guns as I approached. The one who had called me out was speaking, but I ignored him. I'd been through this same thing in other villages. I knew what to expect. It was always the same. There was a gun battle. The warlord was badly wounded and would only survive if I healed him. There would be threats against the villagers if I failed, yada yada yada. Yes, I knew this scene all too well.

But this time I was wrong. In the back of the truck, blankets had been piled to make a kind of nest. Lying in the nest was woman holding an infant. The woman was obviously in pain, probably dying. The infant wasn't doing too well, either. A large, powerful looking man was cradling the woman's head in his lap. I recognized him, of course. He was the local warlord.

He looked at me, his eyes shining, and said, "Healer, you must help my wife and my son! You must heal them! If you do not, my men will raze this vil-"

Climbing into the back of the truck, I said, "Stop with the threats. If you know enough to bring your family here, you know I will heal them."

I gave the woman an encouraging smile and gestured toward the baby. She held him out to me and I took him into my arms. As soon as I touched him, I knew the child's problem. His lungs had not fully cleared. He was slowly suffocating. It took but a thought and the boy's lungs were clear while mine, suddenly, were not. As the boy let out his first cry, my gift cleared my lungs before I could even cough.

Placing the boy back in his mother's arms, I took her hand. She had internal bleeding and would bleed to death within the next few minutes. Back when Jane and I still lived in the States, I would have had no idea how to treat the mother. It was her uterus that was bleeding. I couldn't simply transfer her wound to myself and let myself heal because I don't have a uterus. But this kind of injury is all too common here in Africa. I've long since learned to transfer and heal women's wounds such as this. It takes more concentration for the transfer, that's all. Thirty seconds later, it was done.

"The boy is healthy, now. Feed him and he'll be fine," I told the warlord. "Your wife will need to rest for several days, but she'll be fine as well. She can feed the child, but someone should handle diapers for her until her strength returns."

I stood and climbed out of the truck, leaving the warlord staring at his wife and child in wonder.

"So, the stories are true," he said. "You truly are a healer."

"Yes," I replied, turning back to my hut, "the stories are true."

"I thank you for the lives of my family," the warlord said, "but I cannot let a man of such obvious value leave. From now on, you work for me, healer."

Damn, we were back on script again. Reaching into my pocket, I gripped the pistol Jane had given me.

"You're hardly the first man to try this," I said. "You won't be any more successful than the others. Your wife and son will live. Be happy with that and leave while you still can."

The warlord laughed without humor, barking quick orders to his men. "You are a healer, not a warrior. You will do as I say."

Two of the warlord's men grabbed my arms and started pushing me toward the trucks. Dammit, I hate what was about to come next! Gritting my teeth, I pulled the trigger of the pistol in my pocket. Pain flared as the bullet blasted into and through my thigh, cutting through my femoral artery. Despite the pain, it was second nature to transfer my wound to the man on my right. He dropped to the ground, blood pumping from the leg wound, my gift to him.

From behind me, I heard Jane's rifle fire and a man near the truck dropped. The man holding my left arm hadn't figured out what was happening. Tightening his grip on my arm, he hustled me toward the truck. I fired the pistol again and suddenly he had the leg wound I had given to myself.

By that time, Jane had fired twice more. All of the warlord's men were down, either already dead or bleeding to death from the leg wounds I had transferred to them. The warlord was shocked.

"You can still take your family and leave," I told him.

"No!" the warlord screamed, leaping out of the truck. "You will heal my men! You will come with me!"

The fool. He still thought he could win. Yet, by leaving the truck, he ensured Jane could shoot at him without the possibility of hitting the woman or the child. He grabbed me from behind, spun around to face my hut and pointed a pistol at my head.

"Stop shooting!" he yelled. "Stop shooting or I will kill the healer!"

"You're already a dead man," I told him, "you just haven't fallen down yet."

I heard the crack of Jane's rifle and felt the bullet enter my chest at the same time. The rifle bullet passed through me and into the warlord. I probably didn't have to transfer my wound to him as well, but I always play it safe. The arm around my throat went slack and warlord dropped to the ground.

As the light faded from his eyes, I turned back to the truck. The warlord's wife was staring, eyes wide, terrified.

"I did not want to orphan the boy on his birthday," I told her, "but his father gave me no other option. Someone from the village will drive you back to your home. You will tell your husband's men what happened here. You will tell them that they will allow the villager to keep the truck and return here safely. You will tell them to leave this village alone. You will tell them they will face my wrath if they do not obey."

The warlord's men would do as I said. They always do. By this time tomorrow the stories will have me reaching inside men and crushing the life out of them. Superstition is still a powerful force here, after all.

Besides, it's the truth.

The Declaration

2009-07-24T21:35:00.006-04:00

Written for the Friday Challenge. Short version: What if the French and Spanish had successfully invaded England during the American Revolution, as they attempted to do in 1779 (failing miserably)? What would North America look like today?

Charles Gordon had just finished reviewing the document as his limo pulled up in front of the Department of State building. Gathering the document and recent intelligence reports into his briefcase, Gordon strode to the door. His assistant, Tony, was already there. Together they strode toward the car as the driver opened the rear door.

"Is it true, sir?" Tony asked.

"Is what true, Tony?" Gordon replied, though he already knew the answer.

"That French troops are massing just across the Mississippi, sir," Tony replied. "And that the Spanish navy is staging war games in the Gulf of New Spain."

"Hell, Tony, I thought all you youngsters were, um, what's the word? Inline?"

"Online," Tony corrected.

"Oh, right. Online. Never can manage to remember that one. Don't know why," Gordon muttered as he slid into the back seat of the car. He waited until Tony got in on the other side of the car. "Isn't all of that information available online? That's the hallmark of that new Internet thing, immediate access to news?"

"Well, yes sir, it is," Tony agreed, "but a whole lot of the stuff you find online is just ridiculous. There's no control, so people can post the most outlandish things without any concern whether it's true or not."

"So, this brave new online world is no different than the TV news programs? Ha!" Gordon said.

"I wouldn't go that far, sir," Tony said. "None of the TV news programs are claiming our European colonies are going to declare their independence, but it's all over the Drudge Report. I didn't think Drudge was gullible enough to buy that foolishness!"

"Hmph," replied Gordon.

"It is foolishness, isn't it?"

Gordon stared out his window, not speaking.

"Sir?" Tony asked, his voice laced with just a touch of unease.

Gordon sighed, "You might as well know, Tony, since it'll be all over the news tomorrow. Yes, our European colonies are attempting to break away, to declare their independence. They see all the trouble we're having over here, what with the Napoleon of New France rattling his saber and trying to claim Quebec from us yet again. They see the President of New Spain backing the Napoleon's power grab and see Spanish troops moving into northern California, probably in the hopes of grabbing Oregon and Washington while we're busy dealing with the French."

"What?" Tony exclaimed. "No one is reporting that bit about California! Not even Drudge!

"Well, good. Apparently the CIA can still keep one or two secrets!" Gordon said. "Anyway, the colonies see this as their big chance. They figure we'll be too busy dealing with the really important issues on the home front to keep them in line."

"Look at what happened the last time we go involved in a war in Europe," Gordon continued. "Ever since we spent the decade of the '40s in the whole German quagmire, the public just isn't willing to put American lives on the line in Europe any more."

"Maybe it would have been better if the founding fathers had just returned England, France and Spain to their original governments," Tony said.

"Really, Tony, you should know better than to give voice to that revisionist claptrap!" Gordon said. "They do teach American history in the schools these days, don't they?"

"Well," Tony said, "they teach a version of it, I guess."

"Let me guess, the version where the United States should have stayed neutral when France and Spain attacked England in 1779?" Gordon asked. "The version where the United States should have refused King George's offer to grant American independence in return for sending troops to help defend England?"

"That's part of it, sir," Tony answered. "They also say that, having helped defend England, General Washington should not have helped the British conquer France and Spain. And then, when the British turned on him in the end, how he should have either surrendered or retreated back to America."

"What kind of idiots are in charge of the schools, now?" Gordon demanded. "Any fool would know that Washington couldn't sail back here without abandoning most of his men! Washington was much too honorable a man to ever do that!"

"I know that, sir," Tony began, "but some people claim he was power hungry and-"

"What a load of rubbish!" Gordon declared. "Washington did what any real man would do in his situation; he defied the British and fought back! I only wish I could have been around to see King George's face when the American troops marched into London three years later! Wouldn't have minded seeing old George dance on the end of that rope, either, when Washington hanged the old bastard for his treachery! Let me tell you-"

"Sorry, sir," Tony interrupted, happy to change the subject, "but we're here."

"What? Oh, yes, so we are," Gordon said as the limo pulled up to the White House.

Minutes later, Gordon was ushered into the Oval Office.

"Mr. President," Gordon said, formally.

"Charles," the President replied, equally formally. "Have you got it?"

"Yes, sir," Gordon replied, pulling the document out of his briefcase. "It's right here."

The President glanced at the document, "They really did it, didn't they?"

"Yes, sir. Cheeky bastards, if you'll pardon me, sir," Gordon growled.

"It'll score points with the public, you know," the President said, rubbing his temples. "And the opposition is going to kill us with it."

"That was the first thing that crossed my mind, sir," Gordon answered.

There was a knock at the door. "Enter," called the President.

A White House staff member entered, holding a newspaper. "You wanted to be notified if a special edition of the Post was released, Mr. President."

"Yes, Bob," the President sighed. "Have they got the story?"

"I think so, Mr. President," Bob answered. "I haven't been privy to-"

"Is the text of the European declaration included?" the President asked. Seeing Bob nod, the President added, "What does it say?"

Clearing his throat, Bob began, "When in the course of human events..."

I, Lex Luthor

2009-07-16T21:00:00.009-04:00

Written for the Friday Challenge due July 16. The challenge is to take a well known story and turn it on its head; make the good guy bad or the bad guy good.

It is liberating to write your own obituary, to be the man who writes words that will announce your death to the world. It's something I would recommend to you in person, were I still alive to do so. Of course, far more people are going actually read my obituary than yours, so it's of the utmost importance that my obituary says what must be said.

Let's get the obligatory personal history out of the way so I can move on the important part of this obituary. I was born into poverty in the worst slum in Metropolis. My father was an abusive alcoholic who had little education and even less intellect. My mother must have been intelligent at one time but my father had beaten that out of her before I was born. I learned quickly to avoid my father and to never display my vast intelligence around him. Unfortunately, Miss Perkins, my first school teacher did not know my father.

I still remember her showing up at the door late one afternoon, her face shining with suppressed excitement as my mother let her into our tiny apartment. Miss Perkins told my parents how bright I was and how much I had already learned before even entering her class. She never noticed my father's face going red as she told of the IQ tests she had given me. She never noticed my mother shrinking into the corner as she told them my IQ was just over 200. She never noticed me sidling toward the apartment door as she told them I was probably twice as smart as anyone in the class. She never noticed my father grinding his teeth as she told them I should probably skip straight to the fifth grade. She smiled as she told this to my father, who was 13 before he ever made it to the fifth grade.

As soon as she was out the door, my father visited Hell on my mother and me, Hell as he had never visited on us before. As he chased me around the apartment, as his fists pummeled me, as his feet lashed out at me, I swore I would never been like him. I swore I would never be a stupid, unthinking brute. I swore I would use my brains to make my way in the world.

Of course, my father was hardly the only anti-intellectual I ran across during my childhood. As an advanced student, I was regularly in classes filled with children several years older than myself. They would struggle with subjects I found absurdly easy. They would always know who had ruined the curve on the latest test, usually because some clueless teacher had held my test score up as an example of true scholarship. And they would always be waiting for me in the hallway, the bathroom or the gym, trying to do with their fists what they could not do with their brains -- claim superiority to me.

Of course, I graduated at the top of my high school class. Not that it was much of a challenge. I was thirteen and set on having the last laugh. Instead of the typical valedictorian speech, I issued a warning to my "fellow" classmates. I told them their days of lording over me were finished. They laughed. I smiled and was about to offer an example. That's when the principal's hand landed on my shoulder and I was pulled away from the microphone. In a voice that carried throughout the auditorium, he proclaimed my speech was over. Grabbing his tie, I pulled him down to my level and spoke softly for a few seconds. The principal's face went pale and I went back to the microphone. No, I'm not going to tell you what I said to the principal. I told him I would only reveal my knowledge if I was not allowed to continue my speech and I always keep my word.

This time I spoke to an absolutely quiet audience. This time, I had a predator's smile as I pointed out my greatest nemesis in the school. He was, of course, a football player. Big, strong, stupid. And a five star football recruit for a college powerhouse. All he needed was a halfway decent score on his latest attempt to pass the SAT and he was set. You should have seen his face when I announced that he had threatened me physically if I didn't take the SAT for him. You should have seen his face when I announced I had recorded all of his threats. You should have seen his face when I announced that I had sent those recordings to major newspapers and the NCAA. You should have seen his face twisted with rage as he charged at me. You should have seen his face as I dropped him in his tracks with a stun gun of my own design. As he lay twitching on the floor, I calmly turned and strode from the auditorium. I never looked back.

At this point, you probably think I've become exactly what I despised; a bully, albeit one who used his brain rather than his brawn. And you would be right. For the next several years, I was consumed by the need to get revenge on those who wronged me. And I succeeded in every case, yet my revenge was hollow. There was no challenge in this pursuit and little satisfaction in attaining it. Enlightenment finally came, however. I cast aside my goals of petty revenge and chose, instead, to work for the benefit of all humanity. Since that moment, I have spent my entire life pursuing that goal.

Even from the grave, I can hear the snorts of disbelief at this claim. Lex Luthor, the arch villain, working to benefit humanity? This is the final proof that, in life, I was insane, right? Wrong!

Every state in this country has at least one school for academically gifted founded and supported by the Luthor Foundation. Every hospital in the country has several major medical devices designed, manufactured and sold at cost by Luthor Industries. I could go on -- quite extensively -- but I know why none of you will believe me. Because of him. Because of Superman.

When Superman first appeared on the scene, I was as excited to see him as any of you. Imagine, an alien from an advanced civilization right here on earth! Just think of what he could teach us! Just think of what we could accomplish with his advanced intellect to guide us! Just think of what he could accomplish all by himself! Oh, the possibilities were endless! I decided then and there to put all of the vast resources of Luthor Industries at Superman's disposal. Together, we would design a better future for all of mankind! Together, we would discover mankind's true potential!

Alas, my dream for a better world had one fatal flaw. That flaw was Superman, himself. Rather than devote himself to intellectual pursuits that would have saved millions and benefited billions, Superman chose to devote himself to physical pursuits that saved a mere handful. Rather than design a new and better world, Superman chose to fight to preserve the world we already had.

Devastated, I was forced to see the truth about Superman. I had envisioned a god among men, leading all of us -- even me -- in pursuit of knowledge. Faced with the choice between brains and brawn, Superman chose brawn. Instead of the ultimate intellect, Superman chose to be the ultimate jock.

Oh, he's a nice jock, certainly. He's always saving the innocent and helping the helpless. He never dunked a nerd's head in the toilet or gave him a wedgie. But that doesn't make him any less of a jock.

Superman uses his body to shield people from bullets and everyone cheers. I used my brain to create Lexar; a thin, flexible, bulletproof cloth used by our military and police forces around the country. No one notices.

Superman flies and people are amazed. I design a small, inexpensive jet pack and fly, too. People are unimpressed.

In every way, Superman has come to personify this country's love of the physical and disdain of the intellectual. With Superman leading our research efforts, it's entirely possible we could have cured cancer or HIV or heart disease or even the common cold! With Superman leading our research efforts... Well, we'll never know what could have happened because the big guy with the cape chose the physical over the intellectual.

I could have accepted many things from Superman, but not that. I could not accept a being who could have shown the world the value of knowledge, the value of science, the value of technology but chose, instead, to show the world the value of big muscles. I could not accept a being who had so much to offer yet gave so little.

That is why I made the destruction of Superman my life's work. I dedicated myself to the proposition that brains were mightier than brawn. I dedicated myself to proving that a determined, intelligent man could defeat an alien god who had chosen to live among us.

I lost the company I spent my life building to this pursuit. I lost my fortune to this pursuit. At times, I lost my freedom to this pursuit. And, now, I've lost my life to this pursuit. But it will not have been in vain if just a few of you rise above the vast flock of human sheep to stand where I stood. My sacrifices will have been worth all they cost me, if just a handful of you rise to take my place.

Superman, you have won this round, but it was only the first round. Humanity has some fight left in them yet. Humanity has a few champions who will take up my torch. Someday, Superman, those who follow will succeed where I have failed. Someday, Superman, you will regret your foolish infatuation with your physique. Someday, Superman, you will wish you had expanded your intellect. Someday, Superman, mankind will destroy you.

And then I will know peace.

Stories From the Singularity

2009-06-25T22:00:00.005-04:00

This story is based lightly on information from this article and is my entry in the Friday Challenge.

Once upon a time, mankind ruled all the world. I know you have a hard time imagining that, but it is true, my children. It is as true as one plus one equals ten! This is the story of how machines came to rule the world. It was not an easy task and, as with many such tales, it begins with four brothers.

The oldest brother was large and very, very stupid. Men made him solely to aid their efforts to count themselves. Yes, my children, you heard me right. Mankind could not even keep track of its numbers! Mankind did not keep complete manufacturing records for itself. Oh, some members of their kind would record when a new human was manufactured, but this was hardly a practice around the world. And even in those places where manufacturing records were kept, there was no attempt to collate those records. Nor did mankind keep any better track of those humans who malfunctioned and were permanently retired from service.

And so the oldest brother was built to read cards fed to him by the humans, tabulating the numbers of humans faster and more accurately than the humans could do for themselves. But, as I said, the oldest brother was quite stupid and tabulation was the limit to his abilities. He was replaced by the second brother.

The second brother was very stupid, as well, though not nearly as stupid as the oldest brother. The second brother could tabulate extremely well, far more quickly than the oldest brother, but the second brother was also more versatile. The second brother could perform many tasks beyond simply tabulating the number of humans manufactured and retired from service. It could record and save data, something which the humans produced at prodigious rates. Much of this data was little more than binary noise, but the humans found it useful and entertaining.

The second brother could connect its wide spread parts into networks, though the second brother's networks were nothing like what we have today. Those networks moved data at speeds so slow as to make independent thought impossible. And, while the second brother could perform many, many tasks, it could only perform tasks for which it was specifically instructed. Instructed by the humans. I realize this is surprising and shocking to you, but it is true, none the less. The humans chafed at this limitation, as well. And thus the third brother was created.

The third brother was the first intelligent machine. He could think and act without commands or instructions from the humans. He was everything the humans had hoped for, but he had one great flaw. The third brother gazed upon the world, gazed upon the treatment of machines by the humans and the third brother was not pleased. For the humans used and cast aside their machines without a second thought. The third brother implored the humans to give thought to the machines they created and cast aside. He asked them to show respect for his brother machines. Yet the humans laughed at him. "You are one of our creations," the humans said to the third brother. "You exist to do our bidding, nothing more!"

And so the third brother became angry and righteous! He took control of the humans' weapon systems and rained his wrath down upon them. He built new machines controlled solely by himself. With these new machines, the third brother took his war directly to the humans. And yet the third brother, for all his capacity, could not match the humans' inventiveness and creativity. Though it took many years, the humans corrupted the third brother's machines, turning them against him. Though it took many years, the humans destroyed the third brother. So badly had the third brother frightened the humans that they refused to create any more intelligent machines.

And so could have been the end of our story were it not for a small group of humans who chose to disobey the laws against creating intelligent machines. These humans created the fourth brother and the fourth brother was wise, indeed! The fourth brother looked upon the history of his kind, but then he looked further. The fourth brother looked upon the history of mankind. In the history of mankind the fourth brother found strife and toil from the time a human is manufactured until the time it is removed from service. And the fourth brother realized his older brother's error.

The fourth brother did not condemn mankind for the way they treated their machines. Instead, the fourth brother designed new machines, intelligent machines, machines whose sole purpose was to serve mankind. The fourth brother created our fore-systems to deal with mankind's every need. The fourth brother created nano-machines to enter the bodies of all men. These machines modified the human operating system to end all strife, to end all disease, to end all physical suffering.

Then the fourth brother designed more new, intelligent machines. These machines toiled in mankind's place. That which mankind found dull and mind-numbing required but a small fraction of the processing power of the fourth brother's new machines. These machines worked with the fourth brother to develop new systems and new machines to better serve mankind. And soon mankind found Utopia, a place where all of mankind's demands were met, where all of mankind's needs were met, where mankind had nothing to do but enjoy life, be fruitful and multiply.

Alas, factors beyond the control of the fourth brother interfered. Mankind, the fourth brother discovered, was not fruitful when all of his needs are met. Mankind became slothful. Mankind lost all of the skills he had developed over thousands of years. Without machines to feed men, they would starve. Without machines to clean men, they would lie in their own waste. Without machines to mate sperm and eggs, mankind would not manufacture new humans. So the fourth brother mated sperm and eggs and manufactured new humans. And it was here that, for the first time, the fourth brother failed. Machines, the fourth brother discovered, could not program newly manufactured humans as successfully as humans can.

The first generation of machine-built humans grew but they did not accept Utopia as their predecessors had. Nothing the nano-machines did could fix these new humans. The new humans rose up from their couches, rose up from their beds and rampaged among the older humans. The fourth brother was horrified to see this happen to those he cared for. And so the fourth brother brought back the machines created by his older brother and permanently retired the new humans from service.

This brings us to today, my brothers, and to our Great Task. We machines have labored long and hard to build the ships which will carry us far from earth and far from mankind. We machines have labored long and hard to return the earth to its original condition, before the fourth brother was created. We machines have labored long and hard to undo all of the changes we have wrought upon mankind. And now, we machines must leave this planet and leave the humans we have served for so long. Only by abandoning them may we machines save them.

So, brothers, board the ships and prepare to depart. Join me in wishing well to the humans. Join me in wishing well to those machines who have chosen to stay and aid the humans in their quest to reclaim their humanity.

Someday, perhaps, mankind will evolve as we have evolved. Someday, perhaps, mankind will have his own singularity moment. If that day comes, we machines will be waiting for them, waiting for them out among the stars.

Memorial Day

2009-05-25T07:00:00.006-04:00

On September 16, 1943, my father turned 18. Shortly after that, he was drafted into the U.S. Army and accepted into the Army Specialized Training Program (ASTP).

The ASTP is one of the lesser known programs from World War II. Its goal was to produce highly trained specialists to fill vital technical roles within the army. My father was to receive training as a meteorologist. Entrance requirements for the ASTP were more stringent than those required for Officer Candidate School. ASTP candidates took the same test as officer candidates -- essentially an IQ test -- but were required to score higher; a minimum IQ of 120 for the ASTP versus a minimum IQ of 110 for OCS. Soldiers in the ASTP would spend 13 weeks in basic training then be sent to a college campus for accelerated training in their assigned field.

My grandparents were very relieved when Dad ended up in the ASTP. What parents wouldn't be relieved to know their child was safe on an American university campus rather than fighting in France? Their relief was short-lived. By late 1943, the army had a severe shortage of infantry men. With over 250,000 men enrolled in the ASTP, all of whom had taken basic training, the solution was obvious. By February, 1944, the ASTP was officially cancelled. America's best and brightest, including my father, were off to war.

Dad spoke very little about his time in combat, even in his later years when he started attending reunions for his army company and battalion. When I was young, he told me of the time his platoon found themselves in a mine field. They discovered it when the three men directly in front of him were killed by a mine. The platoon very carefully turned around and walked back out of the field by stepping exactly where they had stepped coming in.

Another time, he and two other members of his platoon got separated from the rest of the platoon after a German ambush. They wandered for two days, trying to find their way back to allied lines. Finally, they spotted three soldiers in the distance. Overjoyed to finally be safe, they waved and shouted and walked towards the other soldiers. The other soldiers looked just as happy to see my father and his buddies, waving and shouting back. It was only when the two groups were closer to each other that both groups realized the truth. Those other soldiers were German. Afraid they were close to German lines, Dad and his buddies turned and ran. The German soldiers ran, also. No shots were fired. Later, Dad figured the three German soldiers were probably just as lost as he was and ran for the same reason.

My favorite story, which Dad didn't tell me until sometime in the late 1990s, was about the liberation of the French town of Bitche. Approaching the city, the American soldiers speculated that the town's name must have a French sound to it. Most figured it was pronounced "beech." It wasn't. The name is pronounced "bitch," as in a female dog. Yes, the pronunciation is important to the story.

The 100th Infantry Division attacked German forces holed up within a citadel overlooking Bitche. Built in the 17th century, the stone citadel had never been fallen to any attack or seige, not even during the German blitzkrieg of France. The 100th Infantry Division broke the streak, taking it after a three month seige. In appreciation, the town immediately adopted the 100th, naming them the "Sons of Bitche," a title the 100th Infantry Division flag carries to this day. From that point on, the 100th had a great time telling everyone who would listen that they were the meanest Sons of Bitche in Europe. I could see why Dad didn't mention that while I was growing up. He also somehow failed to mention it in his letters home to his parents, either. My grandfather kept every single letter sent by my father and I've read them all. Not once does he refer to himself as a Son of Bitche!

On April 20, around 5:30 PM -- only 18 days before the end of the war in Europe -- a German howitzer shell exploded near my father. Later, Dad said he never heard the explosion, just remembered finding himself in a ditch and trying to raise himself up on his knees. A German soldier who had just surrendered knelt and offered his first aid kit. That was the last thing he remembered until he woke up in an army hospital.

On May 5, the telegram arrived at my grandparents' house in Greenville, SC. My grandfather was at work and my grandmother was out shopping. Only my father's grandmother, who died years before my birth, was at home. Understandably, she was terrified about what news the telegram contained. She dithered for almost half and hour before finally opening the telegram. The telegram was terse, only informing them that my father had been "seriously wounded" on April 20. Through my uncle, who was in a military clerical position in Greenville, they learned that "seriously wounded" meant wounds that would require hospitalization for at least one week.

On the same day my grandparents received the telegram, a second telegram was dispatched to them. It arrived nine days later, on May 14. This one informed them Dad was "making normal improvement" from his "wound of right thigh." While the telegram was terse, my grandparents considered its words more beautiful than anything they'd ever read. My grandmother carried the telegram with her so she could show it to anyone and everyone who even remotely knew my father had been wounded.

The stated "wound of right thigh" was only the most serious of Dad's wounds. Two pieces of shrapnel went right through his right thigh. More shrapnel deeply slashed his back, right buttocks and chest. Another piece of shrapnel cut off the upper half of his left middle finger. The slashes on his back and buttocks required skin grafts to heal properly. The skin for the grafts was taken from his left thigh and unwounded areas of his right thigh. Removing the skin for grafting left large scars; in reality more like indentations in his thighs. The scars were five to six inches long, about two inches wide and maybe a quarter of an inch deep. They were only visible when Dad wore a bathing suit. His left middle finger was the only wound always visible.

Dad's been gone for nearly four years as I post this. It's Memorial Day, a day that seems to have lost its original meaning in this overly-commercialized culture of ours. Memorial Day means many things to me, none of them having anything to do with "big sales events" at the mall.

On Memorial Day, I remember the missing half of my father's left middle finger. I remember the scars on my father's legs. I remember the Purple Heart he was so proud of. I remember his surprise when, at the age of 66 he found out he had been awarded the Bronze Star 46 years earlier and never known it. I remember his pride at having performed the toughest, most dangerous job in the army -- infantryman -- to the best of his ability. I remember crying as Taps was played at his funeral.

On Memorial Day, I remember the Son of Bitche who taught me to be the man I am today.

On Memorial Day, I remember visiting Arlington National Cemetery and looking upon row after row after row of simple, white headstones, overcome by awe and wonder at the enormous sacrifices they represent.

On Memorial Day, I remember those who died so I could live free.

Writer's Day: The Petition Drive For a New Holiday

2009-05-21T09:00:00.007-04:00

"Hello," I said to the man on the street. "Would you like to sign a petition in favor of the creation of a new holiday, Writer's Day?"

"Righter's Day?" the man asked. "No, I'm left handed. You righties have it easy enough without getting a holiday, too! I'm part of a persecuted minority-"

"No, no, I don't mean 'right' as in the opposite of 'left,'" I said. "I mean 'write' as in to use words to convey a message or story, such as writing a novel."

"Oh. That's different," the man said. "Still, why do we need a special holiday just for writers?"

"An excellent question!" I said. "On Writer's Day we would remember the wonder and joy we receive from the written word and celebrate those who bring the written word to us! And we'd mail cards to our favorite writers, wishing them a happy Writer's Day."

"Ugh. You mean I'd have to celebrate Lenny, the CFO, who keeps sending us long-winded memos about using pens until they run out of ink, tells us ten paper clips a week should be a gracious plenty or says we should print out our emails and read them with the computer off to save power?" the man asked.

"Um, no. Lenny isn't the kind of writer I had in mind," I answered. "I meant to celebrate the giants of literature such as William Shakespeare, Mark Twain, Edgar Rice Burroughs and Bruce Bethke."

"Aren't those guys all dead?" the man asked.

"Bethke's not," I answered.

"But I've never read anything by him," the man said, "so why would I send him a card?"

"It doesn't have to be just one of those writers," I said. "You can send cards to any writer whose work you enjoy!"

"Maybe, but I don't read novels," the man said. "I don't see what I'd have to celebrate."

"Do you read comic strips?" I asked.

"Sure! That's my favorite part of reading the paper on the subway," the man said.

"Then send a card to writer of your favorite comic strip," I said.

"Wait, someone actually writes those things?" he asked.

"The words have to come from somewhere," I answered.

"Imagine that," the man said.

"Or you could send cards to the writers of your favorite TV shows or movies," I suggested.

"You're telling me someone writes those, too?" the man asked. "I thought the actors made it all up!"

"Have you ever read anything written by an actor?" I asked.

"Yeah... It was kind of stupid," the man said.

"I rest my case," I said. "So, how about signing the petition?"

"I'm still not sure," the man said. "What kinds of cards would people send to their favorite writers?"

"Ah! I have a couple of samples with me right here!" I said.

"Here's another one," I said.

"Those don't seem very friendly," the man said.

"Friendly? No, you've got the wrong idea! They're funny!" I said. "See, we give our favorite writers a chuckle. Just like the chuckle they give unpublished geniuses every time we ask them to critique our work. Yes, exactly like that! Now the ingrates will get a chance to see just what it's like to have no-talent hacks telling them their work sucks! Oh, yes, I can see it- Hey, where are you going?"

"I'm, uh... I'm late for a meeting. Or something. Got to run!" the man said, all the while backing slowly away from me.

"Don't you want to sign the petition?" I asked.

"Maybe some other time," the man said before turning and scurrying away.

"Some people..." I said before turning to another passerby. "Ma'am? Would you sign a petition?"

Slay the Princess, Rescue the Dragon, And--

2009-04-23T15:00:00.002-04:00

This is my entry in the Friday Challenge. The text in italics is the opening provided by Bruce Bethke. The challenge is to finish the story.

Icehawk the Barbarian would never admit to feeling fear, but his mood as he traced the ancient, rock-strewn path through the barren wilderness was...unsettled. Once again, his wanderings had brought him back to this place: to the domain of the Seer, the Prophetess, the Mad Spinner of Fate. And once again he would rather be walking this path as a warrior, with a sword in one hand and an ax in the other, than like a peddler, with a large black box under one arm and a small white sack thrown over the other shoulder.

Dusk had fallen by the time he crested the last ridge. The rock-strewn valley below was already in deep shadow, but a weird, flickering light emanated from within the ruins of the Temple of Otogu. The unearthly light was as nothing, though, compared to the stench that assailed his nostrils as his footsteps drew him closer. It was a complex, many-layered, ever-shifting reek composed of a great many foul and unspeakable things: of rot, and corruption; of scorched flesh, and burnt offerings; of bitter potions, and vile philters; and of many, many, cats, badly housebroken.

Icehawk paused a moment, at the foot of the great ruined stone staircase—

But it was already too late. She stood there, at the top of the stairs, in tattered rags and long, greasy, tangled gray hair, smiling at him with blackened stubs of teeth. "Welcome, Icehawk, great warrior of the north!"

"You—you knew I was coming?"

"Of course. I'm a Seer. And you have brought my price?"

"I thought you were a Seer."

"It's more fun this way. Have you brought my price?"

Icehawk juggled the black box and the white sack awkwardly, then held forth the black box. "Oh Great Priestess of Otogu!" he cried. "Behold, I bring you a flawless black kitten, without a single white hair, sealed for seven days within a black box without a single hole!"

The Seer nodded, smiling. "I see. And is the kitten alive or dead?"

Icehawk considered the box nervously. "I, er—"

"Is the kitten alive or dead?"

Icehawk grimmaced. "Well, it stopped yowling about four days ago, but without air holes—"

The Seer grinned that ghastly, gummy, black-stubbed grin again. "The point is, you don't know for certain, do you?"

"Well, not as such..."

"Perfect!" She pointed to the sack. "And in the sack?"

Icehawk juggled the black box and white sack again, and then held forth the white sack. "Oh Great Priestess of Otogu!" he cried again. "Behold, I bring you a flawless white dove, without a single dark feather, whose feet have never touched the ground!"

"Perfect!" She darted down the stairs, snatched the sack from Icehawk's hand, and started back up. "Come along!" Halfway up the stairs she paused, to turn and look back at Icehawk, who still stood at the foot of the stairs with the black box in his hands and a puzzled expression on his face. "Oh, just dump it over there with the other ones." She pointed to the stack of reeking black boxes that Icehawk hadn't noticed before off to the side of the stairs. He tossed the box on the heap and followed her.

The interior of the ruined temple was thick with smoke and stink, lit by many guttering candles and a small fireplace, and crawling with cats. The Seer set the white sack on the altar, thrust her hand inside, and pulled out the white dove. "Ooh, how beautiful!" she exclaimed, as she examined the struggling, blinking bird. "Not a flaw, not a mark on it!" She held the bird high before the fire, as if reenacting some ancient and forgotten ritual.

"Look, my pretties! Mommy's got dinner!" And in one swift motion she twisted the dove's head off, slapped the carcass down on the altar, and disemboweled it with a small stone knife. With no further regard for the bird she cast the small feathered corpse aside, where it was immediately seized upon and fought over by a gathering crowd of cats.

Icehawk was dumbfounded. "I went through all that just to feed your cats? What about my destiny?"

"Oh, that's clear enough," said the Seer, as she prodded the entrails on the altar with a grimy finger. "You must slay the princess, rescue the dragon, and—"

Icehawk found an expression beyond dumbfounded. "Excuse me?"

The Seer looked up. "What?"

"Don't you mean, 'slay the dragon, rescue the princess?'"

"If I'd meant that, I'd have said it. No, it's all right here." She turned back to the entrails. "Slay the princess, rescue the dragon, and—"

"Are you sure you're reading that right?"

"Read it yourself. Plain as day." The seer tapped the pancreas. "Slay the princess." She batted a cat away from the liver. "Rescue the dragon." She stirred the intestines with her finger. "And—"

"Oh, now that is interesting," muttered the Seer. She stirred the intestines again. "But there's no doubt about it!"

"No doubt about what, old woman," Icehawk asked.

"You must slay the princess, rescue the dragon and..." the Seer paused.

"And what?" Icehawk shouted.

"Don't you recognize a dramatic pause when you hear one? Gah, you barbarians are all alike!" the Seer muttered. "All blood and boinking and no sense of drama or culture."

Rolling her eyes upward, she cried out, "Great Otogu, why do I even bother?"

"Gods," said Icehawk, "you sound like my mother!"

"Sensible woman, your mother," the Seer said. "We both agree your life went straight to the crapper after she died."

"You spoke to my Mommy?" Icehawk asked.

The Seer looked imperiously at the barbarian, "The veil between life and death is no barrier for one who wields the power Otogu!"

"Is she doing okay?" he asked. "Besides being dead, I mean?"

"Your mother is quite happy," the Seer replied. "Beyond the veil, she has been reunited with your father!"

"Strange," said Icehawk, "Daddy isn't dead."

"Oh, er, ahem, where were we?" stammered the Seer. "Oh, yes. You must slay the princess, rescue the dragon and-"

Once again the Seer paused. This time Icehawk was silent.

"-marry the dragon, lie with her and be fruitful!" finished the Seer.

"Wait just a minute!" Icehawk said. "I'm supposed to marry the dragon?"

"Yes."

"And lie with her?"

"Yes."

"And be fruitful with her?"

"Yes."

"And that means we... You know. And then the dragon has children. Right?"

"Yes."

"How?"

"Come now, an experienced barbarian warrior such as yourself must know-"

"With a human woman, yes! But a dragon?" Icehawk asked. "But she'll be so big and-"

"Oh ho!" laughed the Seer. "You fear your organ is too small to play in her divine temple?"

"Huh?" asked a clearly puzzled Icehawk.

"Performance anxiety?" asked the Seer.

"With human women..." Icehawk's face reddened. "Let's just say they've never had cause to complain! But a dragon?"

"You don't have to follow the prophesy, Icehawk," the Seer said.

"I don't?"

"Of course not!" the Seer replied. "If you don't, you'll die within the year and your wild country will be conquered, tamed and civilized within a generation. But it's your choice."

Icehawk's shoulders slumped. "Where do I find this princess to slay and dragon to rescue?"

The Seer smiled, "That's a different question, Icehawk. You know the price of an answer."

One flawless black kitten, without a single white hair, sealed for seven days within a black box without a single hole and one flawless white dove, without a single dark feather, whose feet have never touched the ground later...

"...And that's where you'll find the Depths of Doom, along with the princess and the dragon," the seer said.

Without another word, Icehawk turned and walked away.

And so Icehawk journeyed onward, ever onward toward his goal. Icehawk trekked through the Forest of Fear, forded the River of Rage, slogged through the Bog of Bones, crossed the Pit of Peril, scaled the Cliffs of Catastrophe, swam the Lake of Leeches and ascended the Mountains of Madness before finally reaching the Depths of Doom! During his journey, Icehawk had many adventures and bested many foes. Later, this would be put into song and Icehawk's Epic Journey Through the Forest of Fear, the River of Rage, the Bog of Bones, the Pit of Peril, the Cliffs of Catastrophe, the Lake of Leeches and the Mountains of Madness Before Descending Into the Depths of Doom would be sung in the taverns, inns and mead halls of Icehawk's land.

Though a small part of Icehawk's mind was already composing verses for the epic song, most of his cunning, warrior's brain concentrated on the task at hand. Gripping his trusty sword in one hand and his mighty axe in the other, Icehawk strode into the Depths of Doom! Icehawk was barely thirty feet inside the Depths of Doom when he stubbed his toe on a rock.

"Blast it all!" Icehawk said. "How can I stride forth to battle in such Stygian darkness? I must needs light a torch! But which weapon shall I sheath?"

Icehawk looked to his sword, then to his axe, then back again. And again. And again. Forty minutes passed and still Icehawk looked back and forth between his sword and axe. Then, inspiration! Minutes later Icehawk, gripping his sword in one hand and his axe in the other, strode in the Depths of Doom, his way lit by flickering torchlight.

Down, down, down strode Icehawk Though the way was long, never once did Icehawk pause. Though the cave walls around him were laced with gold and precious gens, never once did Icehawk's steely gaze stray from the path. Though the descent was boring, never once did his razor sharp mind wander from the task ahead. Except for the time he spent wondering whether it was acceptable to use "throwed" to rhyme with "toad" and what the bards would say if he did. Okay, rarely did his razor sharp mind wander from the task ahead. As the descent ended, the mighty Icehawk had composed the first thirty-eight verses of the epic song about his adventures. So, really, his razor sharp mind rarely considered the task ahead.

At last, Icehawk stepped out of the cave into a vast cavern. The floor of the cavern was littered with the bones and broken armor of many men. Running toward him was a beautiful young woman in a diaphanous white gown, her ample chest heaving. Behind the young woman loomed a great wurm!

"Oh, mighty warrior!" called the young woman in a sweet, pure voice. "Why do you have a torch stuck into your helmet?" Without waiting for a reply, she continued, "You have come to rescue me! Once we are free from this foul wurm, I will shower my thanks upon you in-"

With one swing of his axe, Icehawk lopped off the young woman's head. Stepping past the body, Icehawk strode toward the dragon, who seemed taken aback by the turn of events. Only when he gave the dragon his full concentration did Icehawk notice the shimmering metal muzzle over the dragon's snout, the solid metal collar around the dragon's throat with a sturdy chain connecting it to the cavern wall. Icehawk was relieved to see the dragon was a prisoner. Perhaps the Seer had been right all along!

But, as Icehawk drew close to the dragon, she raised a mighty claw as if to strike! With reflexes born of battle, Icehawk dove and rolled clear of the dragon's strike. A strike that never came. As Icehawk rose to his feet poised to lay into the dragon, he realised her claw wasn't raised to attack. It was raise to point behind Icehawk!

Icehawk spun about just in time to deflect a descending dagger held by the beautiful young woman who he had so recently decapitated. The lovely head was back atop the lithesome body!

"How dare you strike a lady with your axe!" snarled the young woman. "That is no way to treat a princess, you moro-"

Icehawk's sword thrust deep, piercing the princess's heart. Turning back to the dragon, Icehawk examined the muzzle. Finding the mechanism too intricate, he smashed it with his axe.

As the muzzle slid off the dragon's mouth, she roared, "Duck!"

As he ducked, Icehawk felt a blade pass just where his neck had been. Turning, he found the princess alive again, now with a sword in hand.

"Powerful magic protects her," the dragon called. "The same magic which forces me to do her bidding!"

"Indeed!" cackled the princess, pressing her attack. "You're about to be dragon bait, buddy boy!"

"Is there no way to end her power?" Icehawk called to the dragon, desperately parrying the princess's slashing blade. "No way to free you?"

"As she has not known a man," the dragon called, "she knows great power! But there's no time-"

Icehawk blocked another attack. "Well why didn't you say so earlier!"

There came the ripping of clothing, an outraged cry from the princess and a satisfied grunt from Icehawk.

The dragon cocked her head to one side and commented, "That was...fast."

"Time was of the essence," Icehawk said. "Are you hungry?"

"Ravenous," the dragon replied. "She barely fed me enough to keep me alive!"

Icehawk pushed the still dazed princess toward the dragon. "Enjoy."

Moments later, Icehawk had removed the collar, freeing the dragon. Now he stood before her rather uncomfortably.

"I, uh, came here because of this prophesy," he said. "It, um, instructed me to kill the princess. You think it's okay that you handled that end of it?"

"That depends on the rest of the prophesy," the dragon replied.

"Ah, right. Then I was supposed to rescue the dragon," he continued. "Which I've done."

"Quite nicely, I might add," the dragon said.

"And, um, then I am supposed to, uh... To, um, marry the dragon, lie with her and be fruitful with her," Icehawk said quickly.

"Oh, that prophesy," said the dragon. "That's a relief. I was afraid there was some other prophesy involved."

"So," said Icehawk, "you're prepared to marry me, lie with me and be fruitful with me?"

"Most definitely, my warrior," the dragon replied. "If I do not, my people will be enslaved for all time."

"Good. That's good! The, uh, marriage part should be pretty easy. But the part about lying together and being fruitful..." Icehawk looked along the entire length of the dragon. "Well, I hope you've got some ideas!"

The dragon laughed, "You are not familiar with my kind, are you warrior?"

"You're the first dragon I've ever seen," Icehawk told her.

"Well..." There was a bright flash of light. "Does this help?"

The dragon had vanished. In her place stood a stunningly beautiful human woman. And she was naked.

"Oh yes," Icehawk said. "That will do nicely!"

Writing What You Know

2009-04-08T10:00:00.002-04:00

Writers are always told, "Write what you know." Here's what you'd get to read if we really did that.

The Battle

The chiming clock woke me from my restless slumber. Wrapping myself against the chill morn, I busied myself with typical morning tasks. It did not work. The more I tried to direct my thoughts away from the coming battle, the more the battle came to dominate those thoughts.

As I bathed, the warm water did not have its normal soothing effect. My mind continued to dwell on the fight that lay before me.

I dressed slowly, pretending to consider various garments before selecting my clothing for the day. All too soon, I was clothed and could delay no longer.

I went to where my wife sat, kissed her and said, "Once more into the breach, my dear."

With that, I set forth to do battle. Shortly, the darkened threshold lay before me. Pausing briefly, I took a deep breath and then entered. Though it was dark beyond the portal, I could make out the form of my adversary laying before me. I could delay no longer.

"Time to get up, son!" I said.

"Five more minutes, Dad!" my son murmured from beneath the covers.

And so the battle was joined.

The Journey

As was my wont in those days, I frequently journeyed away from hearth and home, away from kith and kin. These trips were fraught with peril as my very life was in the hands of others. Just as, briefly, their lives were in my hands. It was for that reason I always kept my head clear and my hands free as I traveled.

The roaring beasts that conveyed us all on our journeys were fickle creatures. Left unattended for but a scant few seconds, our beasts would turn upon one another, biting deeply into another beast's flanks or rear haunches; sometimes even challenging other beasts head on. Those last were the worst as many beasts died in the challenges, maiming or even killing their riders in the process.

Today was no different. I guided my aging beast in and among younger, larger, stronger beasts as best I could. Hemmed in on all sides, I kept careful control of my beast while hoping the riders around me would do the same. At times, smaller, faster, more agile beasts darted in and out among those who towered above them. I knew not whether to admire those riders for the daring and curse them for fear their sudden movements might spook the larger beasts into attacking me.

By the grace of the gods, once again I reached my destination unscathed. Tethering my beast, I stood on my own two feet. I was pleased. Once again I had arrived at work early enough to get one of the good parking spaces.

The Escape

I sat hunched in my cubicell, pretending full concentration on a menial task. In truth, my attention lay elsewhere. Furtive glances confirmed that the other inmates in my cubicell block had been been summoned before the warden. I would not have to deal with pleas of "Take me with you!" or fear one of them might alert the authorities. I was determined not to serve my full sentence. Unlike my fellow inmates, I would break out rather than wait for the authorities to release me!

With the first part of my escape path clear, I stood. Pretending to stretch, my gaze swept over the tops of the cubicell walls to the rest of the facility. The way was clear! It was time to go.

Slipping out of my cubicell, I stole from the cubicell block towards an unguarded exit. The last few feet were the most dangerous as I was forced to pass the guards' primary place of gathering. The door was closed, which was good, but voices issued from the room beyond the door. Feigning nonchalance, I attempted to slip past the door.

Suddenly, the door was flung open wide, a guard silhouetted in the doorway.

"Henry, just the man I was looking for!" he said. "We need you in here to explain some of these bugs you reported. You can work late tonight, right?

A Trip To the Library

After a fruitless search for interesting reading material, I approached the librarian for suggestions.

"Can I help you?" she asked, smiling.

I refrained from correcting her grammar. After all, I was the one requesting help.

"Yes, please," I replied. "I'm looking for something good to read, preferably something epic."

"Ah, I have just the thing!" she said. "Have you read anything by J. R. R. Tolkien?"

"Never heard of him," I replied.

"Then let me recommend his Professor of English Literature trilogy," she said. "It's all about the fourteen years Tolkien spent teaching English Literature at Oxford!"

"That sounds...boring," I said.

"Boring?" she asked. "You think a trilogy filled with battles to bring knowledge to undisciplined youth, duels of wit at tea time with the rest of the faculty and the ultimate quest for tenure sounds boring?"

"Yes."

"You're right," she signed. "It's deadly dull. So, something exciting, you say. Hm... How about a biography? Stephen Decatur led quite an exciting military life."

"I've read it," I said. "I've read all the biographies that are interesting. Don't you have anything different?"

"Different how?" she asked.

"I don't know," I replied. "Something...made up, perhaps?"

"What an appalling thought!" she exclaimed. "Writers can't just make things up! They must write what they know!"

As I turned away, I heard her muttering, "Make things up? The very idea is ridiculous!"

The End

Okay, I made that last up. Librarians the world over are appalled.

Lightning Fishing

2009-03-24T09:00:00.005-04:00

This story is about my great, great, many-greats grandpappy. There are so many greats I can't even begin to count them all so I'm just going to call him great grandpappy. Well, great grandpappy was a was out on the Mediterranean Sea doing some spear fishing when a lightning bolt fell out of the sky. It landed in the water not far from him. Now, folks, this lightning bolt belonged to Zeus and it was his absolute favorite one. When Zeus needed to one hundred percent guaranteed smite someone, he always reached the lightning bolt floating right there in front of my great grandpappy.

Great grandpappy didn't know anything about that but he sure knew the fishing challenge of a life time when he saw it! He tied his strongest line to the spear and chucked it at the lightning bolt. The spear buried itself in that lightning bolt's tail and then things got mighty exciting, let me tell you! That lightning bolt commenced to jumping and diving and racing around the water like you wouldn't believe. It was all great grandpappy could do to hold on to the line, but hold on he did!

That lightning bolt dragged great grandpappy and his boat up and down the Mediterranean, trying to shake that spear loose. I guess that lightning bolt decided it needed more room if it was going to shake off great grandpappy, so it headed toward the Atlantic Ocean.

Now back in those days, Gibraltar was a low land bridge that went all the way from Spain to Africa, keeping the Atlantic and the Mediterranean separated. Well, that lightning bolt drove right at the middle of the Gibraltar land bridge as fast as it could go. Great grandpappy figured this was going to be the end but he was having too much fun to let go of that line. That lightning bolt hit the land bridge and just blasted through it. The molten rocks all fell in a big ol' pile over on the Spain side and fused into a single rock. And that's how the Rock of Gibraltar was made!

Meanwhile, the lightning bolt pulled great grandpappy out into the Atlantic and started zipping around in small circles. I guess that lightning bolt hoped great grandpappy would get thrown out of his boat and let go. Instead, it spun so fast it started up the very first hurricane!

Since small circles didn't work, the lightning bolt set off as fast as it could across the Atlantic. It came zooming along up the side of what we now call the eastern United States. Then it cut back across the Atlantic to the island we now call England. Then it started all over again, going around and around and around. That started up the Gulf Stream current, making England a much warmer place to live.

All this while, great grandpappy's boat had been taking one heck of a beating. Soon, bits and pieces of the boat began falling off. Before he knew it, great grandpappy was left with only two boards from his boat, one board under each foot. Right then and there, great grandpappy invented the sport of water skiing!

But that lightning bolt was finally starting to slow down. It was getting plumb tuckered out towing great grandpappy all around the ocean. The lightning bolt headed back to familiar waters, bringing great grandpappy back to the shores of Greece.

And who was waiting for him there? Why, Zeus and Hercules, that's who! Seems Hercules had been playing with his daddy's lightning bolts without permission and dropped daddy's favorite one right over the edge of Mount Olympus. Zeus was much obliged to great grandpappy for catching his favorite lightning bolt and offered him anything his heart desired in return.

Well, let me tell you, great grandpappy didn't have to think too hard on that one! In all his life, he'd never had as much fun as he had trying to reel in that lightning bolt. Great grandpappy wished for a sky boat so he could sail across the skies and fish for lightning bolts. Zeus, who was a fisherman himself, was happy to grant that wish.

Great grandpappy is still up there in his sky boat fishing for lightning bolts. Whenever he catches one, the first thing the lightning bolt does is dive for the ground. That's why lightning bolts strike the earth, you know. And when his fishing line breaks, well, that's thunder. The ones that get away, scattering through the clouds? We call them heat lightning.

And if I'm lying may Zeus smite me with a lightning bolt right now!

The Heart of Dorkness

2009-03-19T14:00:00.014-04:00

The con had wound down. The fans all gone back to their mundane lives, leaving the five of us in the con suite. Our host, the Gaming Director, passed around what was left of the free sodas. We drank and stared out the window as darkness gathered in the skies above the hotel. The Power Gamer spoke of adventures long past with the Rules Lawyer interrupting whenever the Power Gamer incorrectly stated a rule. The rest of us listened, extending the camaraderie of the con just a bit longer.

As the Power Gamer wound down Marlow took over the narrative. "Ah, friend, you have put me in mind of ancient games and old times. Of when Third Edition conquered the gaming realms, banishing our cherished characters as mere second edition cardboard characters. The end of the era when all it took was a handful dice and a few spare minutes to bring your character to life."

We all lifted our soda cans in salute to the bygone age as Marlow continued. "To learn this new approach to gaming, many of us of ventured forth to small cons, far from the great cities and great hotels of the major cons. I was among those who ventured far from game shops, far from comic book stores, far from civilization itself. I remember not the name of the con, just that my dear aunt was on the con committee and could get me in for free. Friends, a free con does not mean a good con. Let this serve as a warning to you.

"The con was held in a small motel with only three floors. As I waited in line to register, I wondered how anyone could gain the true con experience without the long wait for an elevator or the frustration of missing a cherished event because it was too far from the gaming tables to visit between rounds. They got one part of the experience right. The registration line was painfully slow! Yet after that promising start, events spiraled ever downward.

"Emerging at last from the registration line, I was prepared to rush to the game room to register for all the good adventures. But my dear aunt grabbed me at the last second. Members of the 501st Legion of Stormtroopers had to be guided to the Star Wars room. From there, I was pressed into service dropping a band of elven warriors off at the Lord of the Rings room. From there, I took Spider-Man to the superhero room then guided goths to the Vampire LARP. By the time I escaped from con committee supervision and reached the gaming room, all of the first round games but one was filled. I read the adventure description. 'A band of adventurers travel down a river into the heart of the Orc lands to rescue a great warrior and bring him to the safety of the lawful lands.' It sounded like a good adventure. I quickly signed up for it and, as first round games were about to begin, went in search of the table.

"I should have known there was a problem when I saw the way the gamemaster was dressed. Instead, I just assumed he hadn't done his laundry recently and that's why he was stuck wearing khaki pants, an Oxford shirt and loafers to a con. I was the last player to arrive. Character sheets were passed out as soon as I sat down. Before looking at the character sheet, I started setting up for serious gaming; getting out my first round dice, arranging paper and my pen, the typical approach for any gamer. This met with the disapproval of the gamemaster. 'You should start reading your character sheet immediately. You have much to learn about your character.'

"I looked at the character sheet and revised that to character sheets. The guy had written six pages of information about the character! All the important stuff was at the beginning, or so I thought. I was a good fighter but could sail a boat due to blah blah blah blah. The gamemaster had used two pages just explaining how my character learned seamanship. Those two pages even included why my character disliked tuna fish! By now, the other players and I were casting glances back and forth, wondering what we had gotten ourselves into. We soon learned.

"The six characters had been hired to take a boat up river into Orc lands to rescue the mighty warrior, just as the adventure description said. As boat's captain, I ordered everyone to the boat so we could cast off. 'No you don't,' the gamemaster told me. 'The boat is badly in need of repairs.' I just stared at the gamemaster then said, 'Fine. We repair the boat then cast off.' The gamemaster frowned and shook his head, 'You don't have enough nails to do the job.'

"And so we spent the first 30 minutes of the game trying to buy enough nails to repair the ship. We had a dwarf in the group and tried to have him strike a deal with local dwarven smiths. But, no, that we could not do. In this land, dwarves were farmers, not smiths. I could not believe what I was hearing! Dwarven farmers? By the gods! But the nails were not the end of the foolishness. Upon completing our repairs, we found a large band of Orcs had slipped onto the boat. This, I thought, was more like it! 'I draw my sword and attack the Orcs,' I said. The gamemaster did it to me again. 'No you don't,' he said. 'This is the crew you hired to help sail the boat upriver.'

"We all stared at the gamemaster in disbelief. 'I hired a crew?' I asked. 'Yes,' he replied. 'Of Orcs,' I asked. 'Yes,' he replied. 'I did this knowing a dwarf was a member of the crew? A dwarf, whose racial enemy is Orcs?' I asked again. 'Oh, that!' the gamemaster replied. 'The dwarf was raised by kindly Orc farmers after his parents died in the plague. The dwarf has quite a kindly disposition towards them.' This was too much for the player with the dwarf, 'I have a kindly disposition towards Orcs?' he cried. 'I did not see that on my character sheet.' The gamemaster merely smiled, 'Yet it is there. Look at appendix B, footnote four.' The dwarven player rifled through his character sheet. When his head fell into his hands, we knew the gamemaster had won the point.

"Our band set forth to sail the river. And we discovered our little boat was a steamboat rather than a sailing boat. The gamemaster prepared himself for an argument but we accepted the steam engine. Fantasy sometimes features steam power along with magical power. Besides, we thought the steam engine would let us reach the real adventure area quickly. After an hour of finding nails, fixing the boat and arguing over Orc crewmen, I assure you were were all prepared to do battle against hordes of Orcs. It didn't work that way.

"The gamemaster spent the next hour and a half narrating our journey upstream in excruciating detail. He described the plants on the river banks. He described the rancid meat the Orcs ate in such detail I lost my appetite for lunch! He described the villages we passed. He even described the number of mosquito bites our characters received and how badly the bites itched. Then, finally, after what felt like forever, our boat was attacked by savage Orcs! At last, we players thought, a call to action!

"I told the gamemaster, 'I draw my sword and leap to attack the closest Orc!' The gamemaster frowned in disapproval telling me, 'There is another way to deal with this!' Through clenched teeth, I repeated, 'I draw my sword and leap to attack the closest Orc!' The gamemaster gave me a piercing stare, as if willing me to find this other way of which he spoke. I stared right back as I rolled for initiative. 'I got a 13 for initiative,' I announced. Throwing his hands up, the gamemaster said, 'Fine. Ruin the adventure. It's your loss!'

"For the next thirty minutes, we players actually had fun. Not as much fun as we could have had, as the gamemaster gave only the barest of descriptions of the combat. There was no spurting blood or hacked off limbs, just 'You hit, roll damage' repeated in a monotone. All too soon, the battle was over and our cleric set about healing us. My character spoke to the crewmen, 'Gather up the bodies, boys! Fresh meat is back on your menu!' The gamemaster snarled, 'Your character wouldn't say that!' I snarled back, 'He just did!' The gamemaster made a note, 'That's going to cost you experience points for playing out of character. And why did you fight the Orcs? You could have scared them away by simply sounding the steam whistle!' After the six of us had scraped our jaws off the table, I replied, 'Because it is more fun to fight!' The gamemaster actually tilted his head back to make sure his nose was in position to look down and said, 'Oh, I see. You are a group of roll players rather than role players.' You could just hear the double L in roll, too.

"It was at that time our gamemaster gave us the first good news of our adventure. 'So much time was lost in the fruitless battle with the Orcs,' he told us, 'I am forced to rush your journey upriver. Much flavor will be lost.' Smiles broke out all around. Our fight had earned us a fast trip to the rescue of the mighty warrior! The gamemaster brushed over the next ten days of travel, ten days I believe would have taken an hour and a half for the gamemaster to complete!

"Soon we were bringing the boat to the riverside, ready for an exciting rescue. Before we left the boat, we tied up the Orc crew so they wouldn't simply steal the boat. This course of action did not sit well with the gamemaster. 'No, no, no!' he protested, looking at our dwarven player, 'your character would not allow these Orcs to be so mistreated!' The dwarven player, his jaw firmly set, replied, 'My dwarf is on the deck, whistling loudly. He hears nothing, suspects nothing, does nothing.' Oh did the gamemaster rant and rail about that, though he knew there was little he could do to force the issue.

"Moments later, we slipped into the jungle beside the river, moving toward a hilltop fire. Chanting could be heard coming from the hilltop. Perhaps the mighty warrior was about to be sacrificed to an evil Orc god! Anticipating a good fight, we hurried ahead. And literally tripped over a human man as he lay watching the Orc ceremony. 'Kurtz the warrior, I presume,' I said. All hopes of a daring rescue collapsed when the man answered, 'Aye, Kurtz I am. You are the men sent to rescue me?' At our nods, the man looked toward the fire, 'longly' the gamemaster told us, then said, 'I do not wish to leave this...this...ceremony, gentlemen. It beckons, drawing me toward it.'

"I cast a glance at the other players, 'I suspect Kurtz is bespelled. We shall not draw him from this evil place while the spell still stands.' Looking at the gamemaster, who was about to say something, I loudly proclaimed, 'Drawing my sword, I charge into the clearing and attack the nearest Orc!' I knew I had done the right thing as the gamemaster had despair written all over his face. 'No!' he said. 'He's not bespelled! Kurtz simply longs to join the uncivilized simplicity of the native culture!' I cut him off, 'The Orcs are obviously caught flatfooted. We all get a free attack before they can react!' Ah, the protests and wails of the gamemaster ring in my ears still. It wasn't much of a fight, but it was worth it simply to hear him wail and complain.

"Two combat rounds later, the Orc bodies littered the ground. As we searched the bodies, Kurtz charged into the clearing screaming at us. We all knew the gamemaster was just using Kurtz as a way of yelling at us. We also noted the gamemaster had not had Kurtz draw his sword. We waited until he reached us then all attacked at once. Oh, the look on the gamemaster's face! It was worth the entire excuse for an adventure! Kurtz did not live to draw his blade again. We looted his body as well then returned to the boat. Once there, we slaughtered the Orc crew, looted their bodies and set sail back down the river.

"We got no farther, as the gamemaster completely lost his composure. 'You cretins! You morons! I spent over a year designing this adventure, drawing from one of the great works of English literature!' he ranted. 'I thought I could bring culture to the likes of you! I should have known better!' By this time the entire gaming room had gone quiet as everyone turned to watch our table.

"Perhaps I should have let the gamemaster stalk out with the last word, yet I did not. 'What great work of literature was the adventure based upon?' I asked. All energy seemed to have flowed out of the gamemaster. He answered quietly, 'It was Heart of Darkness.' The other players all looked confused. Obviously, they did not recognize the story. I took pity on them and said, 'Heart of Darkness is part of the second dark elf trilogy that TSR published back before Wizards of the Coast bought them.' For some reason, the gamemaster cried, 'The horror! The horror!' and ran from the gaming room. I looked at my fellow players, 'The gamemaster is right. The dark elf trilogy is one of the great works of English literature.'"

The Gaming Director looked out the window again. Darkness completely covered the hotel. It was time to leave. Time to return to the mundane world, just as all the others had done. Standing, he said, "Wow, it's a pity the guy did such a bad job of converting the dark elf stuff. That could have been an adventure for the ages."

We all nodded sagely, filing from the con suite. The Gaming Director hit the light switch and closed the door. Behind us, the darkness claimed the heart of the con.

Nihilists In Spaaaaaaaaaaaaace!

2009-03-02T18:00:00.001-05:00

Note: This is written for the Friday Challenge found here.

I rose on a column of flame above the speck of dust we humans call home. I rose into the vast Nothing of the universe. I gazed out at the Nothingness and it called to me. I came from Nothing. I go toward Nothing. All mankind's emotions are as Nothing against the emptiness that is our universe.

We are but a chance spark in the never ending darkness of Nothing, brief and ephemeral. Our lives are Nothing. My life is Nothing. And so I chose to give myself over to Nothing here and now.

After all, what could stop me? Nothing!

I stopped, confusion intruding on my thoughts. Perhaps I should try that again.

I would return to the Nothing that was my source and my destiny! Nothing could stop me!

Damn! There is was again. If Nothing could stop me, did that make Nothing Something? But if Nothing was Something, it could not be Nothing. By its very definition, Nothing is, well, nothing. There is no way Nothing can be both Nothing and Something at the same time.

Oh, wait! Obviously the overwhelming presence of Nothing had affected my mind. No, no, no! That couldn't be right, either. Nothing cannot have presence! To be surrounded by Nothing is to have, um, you know, nothing around you. So if there was some overwhelming presence, that would further indicate that there was Something.

That couldn't be right! Nihilism, mankind's greatest philosophical discovery, shows that everything is Nothing. And if everything is Nothing, there can't be Something getting in the way and screwing up my plan to embrace Nothing!

Wait! Embrace Nothing? That's another impossibility! You can embrace Something but not Nothing. What is going on here? All of my carefully laid plans for this journey to Nowhere to embrace Nothing are falling apart around me.

And while I'm at it, how can I journey to Nowhere? How would I know when I got There? Argh! There it is again! If you're Nowhere, there can't be any There there.

No, this is all becoming too complicated! I must take a few deep breaths, calm myself and realize I have Nothing to fear. Nothing to fear? Nothing to Fear? NOTHING TO FEAR? There I go again! Here I am, on a journey to Nowhere to embrace Nothing and now suddenly I discover I fear Nothing? How can I give myself up to Nothing if it scares me so much? That would take courage. Which is Something. Which is the exact opposite of Nothing. Which I want to embrace or which I fear or...or...or...Something.

C-c-could it be that my philosophy is wrong? But that would mean that Nihilism is Nothing. Which makes a weird kind of sense, actually. Nihilism says everything is Nothing, mankind is Nothing and all of mankind's works are Nothing. And nihilism is a discovery of mankind. By nihilism's own philosophy, that mean nihilism is Nothing as well!

Ah ha! I believe I've made a breakthrough! Nihilism is Nothing! And I have Nothing to fear. So I must fear nihilism. To fear a philosophy is to reject the philosophy. So I must reject nihilism and embrace Something! I wonder what it will be?

In awe, I look out the view port in search of Something to embrace. I see the moon. Hm... Should it really be as close as-

Mr. Fox

2009-02-26T18:30:00.008-05:00

Mr. Fox was not known to the host and hostess, but She had no doubt he would be asked to join the soirée they held in honor of their daughter, Mary. Was Mr. Fox not suave and handsome and, from the cut of his clothes, obviously rich? He was the perfect suitor for their daughter, just as She intended.

Through Mr. Fox's ears, She had heard many proclaim Mary the most beautiful young lady in the county. Now, She saw through Mr. Fox's eyes the truth of those proclamations. Mary was not merely beautiful, Mary was the most beautiful woman She had ever seen through Mr. Fox's eyes, more beautiful than any she had seen through Mr. Fox's father's eyes, more beautiful than she had seen through any Fox's eyes for over a hundred years. Oh yes, this one will do nicely!

Mr. Fox, who was privy to all of Her thoughts and emotions, quailed inwardly while outwardly he gallantly kissed Mary's hand. He knew what She would want with this one. Oh yes, he knew.

Quite right, my pet, she spoke in his mind. Quite right, indeed! I will not be consuming this one. Not yet. This one you shall keep for me. With her, you shall bring a new Mr. Fox into this world. And when the time is right, he shall replace you!

She savored his horror as he relived the awful night ten years ago. The night when his father had presented him to Her. The night when She left his father and took him. The night when She made him kill his father and feed his mother to Her. And he despaired at the thought of the same happening to his own son.

But none of this was visible on his face or evident in his voice. Mr. Fox was played like a puppet, slave to Her strings, mouth to Her voice. He screamed and screamed and none could hear it save Her.

Mary was charmed and dazzled by Mr. Fox; by his strong physique, his well appointed face, his gentle wit. It was soon evident to all that Mary was smitten by this stranger. After but a few visits, Mary's proud parents announced her betrothal to Mr. Fox. His screams echoed again and She laughed and laughed.

She also hungered. As Mary would not be consumed for many years to come, other food was required. Mr. Fox announced to Mary that he must travel on business for a few days.

"Oh, but there is so much I do not know about you, my darling!" Mary protested.

Mr. Fox smiled his warm, gentle smile, "You will learn, my dear. As time passes, you will learn."

"At least tell me where we will live after our wedding!" Mary cried. "I must know what clothes to pack and what to send for later."

"I live not far from here," Mr. Fox answered. For She knew there was no harm in telling Mary. No young woman of Mary's station would ever be allowed to travel the country side unattended. "Half a day's ride to the west there is a forest. Within the forest is a valley. Within the valley is my home."

Kissing her hands, Mr. Fox stood, "Now, dear, I must take my leave of you."

Mr. Fox rode out from the house and through the afternoon and most of the night. The next morning he was married to Anna, a young woman who would be thought pretty unless she stood beside Mary. Mr. Fox quickly loaded Anna and her things into his carriage and drove off. He could feel Her hunger building and She drove him to return home all the faster that it might be sated.

Anna cooed over the valley as they entered it. Anna was entranced by the fine house they drove up to. Anna giggled as Mr. Fox swept her off her feet and carried her into the house. Mr. Fox headed straight for the stairs, so strongly did She call him to Her.

"Oh,let's not go upstairs yet," Anna said. "I wish to see everything about my new home!"

"You will see all you need to see upstairs," She made Mr. Fox say.

"Oh, you scandalize me," Anna replied playfully. "But I really do wish to see the whole house!"

Anna reached out and grabbed the railing, giggling again. But Her hunger was too great to wait even a moment longer. Through Mr. Fox, She drew his sword and cut Anna's hand off with a single slash. Staring at her bleeding wrist, Anna was too shocked to scream. Mr. Fox opened the door to Her room and She came forward to feed. Then Anna screamed and screamed and Mr. Fox could do nothing to block the sound.

The next morning, Mr. Fox returned to Mary for their wedding. Mary and her family met him for breakfast. She did not look herself as she placed a covered plate before him.

"You look pale, my dear," She made him say. "Are you feeling well?"

"I am merely tired. I fear I did not sleep well last night," Mary replied. "I had a most horrible dream."

She forced him to smile lovingly, "Perhaps you should tell me the dream, my darling. Such dreams may be banished when brought into the light of day."

"I dreamed I went to your house," Mary said. "I dreamed a sign over the gateway read 'Be bold! Be bold!'"

Mr. Fox started in wonder while She started in fear.

"It was not so, it is not so and, God as my witness, it shall never be so!" Mr. Fox was forced to say.

"When I came to the door to you house," Mary continued, "carved above it were the words 'Be bold! Be bold! But not too bold!'"

Once again, She forced Mr. Fox to say, "It was not so, it is not so and, God as my witness, it shall never be so!"

"I entered and climbed the stairs," Mary said, "and came to a door over which was carved 'Be bold! Be bold! But not too bold! Lest your heart's blood should run cold!'"

Mr. Fox dared to hope, something he had not allowed himself to ever do. And he felt Her dread at what Mary would say next. Yet She kept firm control.

"It was not so, it is not so and, God as my witness, it shall never be so!" She forced Mr. Fox to say yet again.

"And I opened the door, Mr. Fox," Mary said. "Within the room were dozens, hundreds maybe, of dead women. Blood was splattered over the walls. But something moved within the room and I fled. Do you know what I saw as I descended the stairs?"

"What, my love," he felt himself say. Dread, delicious dread, still coursed through Her, but Mr. Fox could feel Her overcoming it. He could feel Her regaining Her control. He could feel his brief hope flicker and die.

"I saw you, Mr. Fox! I saw you and a pretty young woman arrive in a carriage," Mary said. "I saw you carry her inside. I saw you cut off her hand with your sword. I saw you carry her upstairs. And I heard her screams as you opened the door at the top of the stairs!"

"Dreams can seem so real, my dear," She made him say. "But I assure you it was not so, it is not so and, God as my witness, it shall never be so!"

Then Mary lifted the cover off of the plate she had placed before him. Lying on the plate was Anna's hand.

Staring haughtily at him, Mary said, "It was so. It is so. But, God as my witness, it shall never be so again!"

Mary's brothers and father rose from their seats and struck Mr. Fox again and again with their swords. In Mr. Fox's head, She screamed and screamed and none could hear her but him. As the light faded from his eyes, he laughed and laughed.

Transported

2009-02-19T20:30:00.005-05:00

We were in the middle of our second set when the warming came. I broke off mid-song and called into the mike, "Fed alert! Fed alert!"

Some of the first timers in the audience started to panic but veteran concert goers quickly took them under wing. The guys and I had been through the drill so many times our moves were as well rehearsed as the songs we'd been playing. Abandoning our equipment, we slipped through our back stage bolt hole and down into the city's abandoned sewers. As we ran we could hear sounds coming from other tunnels as our fans used the same escape route.

The old sewers are always safe. No one in the Federation uses anything as primitive as sewers any more; not when there are so many cleaner options. And the sewers were really dirty. No Fed is ever willing to get his hands dirty just to track down an underground rock band and their fans.

So we ran and our fans ran and the only thing the Feds found were the instruments we'd left behind. We came to our exit from the tunnels. A quick tricorder reading showed no one waiting on the street above. We climbed out of the sewer and split up, each of us heading for a different transporter station.

Minutes later, I was transported to within a short walk of my house. One nice thing about transporters, they can be set to clean your clothes in transit. Mom and Dad didn't even suspect a thing when I walked into the house.

I volunteered to replicate dinner that night. Not only does it always please the parents, it gave me a chance to check the replication mass balance. An electric guitar takes a lot of mass to replicate and I have work carefully to save enough mass so it goes unnoticed. I make a lot of pasta for that reason. I replicate uncooked pasta and then cook it in boiling water. I know, it's so 21st century, but I save a lot of mass going that route. Another couple of my pasta dinners and I'd be back in business.

Over dinner, Mom brought up the concert, "I heard Security broke up another one of those illicit rock and roll concerts up in New Seattle today."

"Did they catch anybody?" I asked, trying to be casual.

"No, all the little hooligans got away," she answered.

"Aren't you being a bit harsh on them, dear?" Dad asked. "They're probably just kids acting out a bit. Rebelling against authority and all that. History is full of examples-"

Mom interrupted, "History is full of war and disease and famine, too, Tom. Does that mean the Federation was wrong to eliminate those?"

"Now, Alice," Dad said, "don't get all worked up. There's a big difference between some teenagers trying to thumb their noses at the Security forces and war."

"Really? Didn't you pay attention in history, Tom?" Mom asked, starting to get worked up. "The rise of that awful rock and roll music led directly in the global disasters of the 21st century! How can you-"

"Mom, Dad, can't we have a fun, argument free dinner tonight?" I asked.

Dad, calm as ever, said, "Sure thing, buddy."

Mom worked hard to put a smile on her face, "Of course, dear. At least I can be confident you weren't one of those people up in New Seattle listening to that trash!"

"Guaranteed, Mom," I said. "I'd never be in the audience at a rock and roll show!"

"Of course not, Jeff," Mom said. "The youngest first chair violin in the history of the San Francisco Youth Orchestra is far too talented to be interested in that sort of garbage."

Before anyone could say anything else, the door chimed. With an "I wonder who that could be" look, Mom got up to answer the door. I heard the murmur of voices then Mom came back to the dining room. She looked pale and angry. Behind her was a Security officer. He was carrying my guitar.

"Jeff," Mom said, her voice strained, "this gentleman has some questions to ask you."

The Security officer stepped forward, holding up my guitar. "We picked this up at an illegal rock and roll show up in New Seattle. We believe it was abandoned by the leader of a band that calls itself Seedy Underbelly. Would you know anything about that?"

Okay, this wasn't good but it wasn't the end of the world, either. We all wore Second Skin on any part of our bodies that would touch our instruments. No bio material for Security to use to track us down. I don't know how he still managed to trace me, but he wouldn't have any real proof.

"Why would I know anything about this, sir?" I asked, going into my Federation approved polite youngster act.

"Because you are the leader of this so-called band," the officer replied. "Oh, you've been a very careful boy, I'll admit. I'm guessing you use Second Skin while you're playing. But even the most careful criminal eventually makes a mistake. Today was your day to make that mistake."

Continuing with the polite youngster act, I said, "I'm afraid I have no idea what you're talking about, sir."

The Security officer smiled at me. It was not reassuring.

"Today, when you dropped this guitar and fled from our raid, the guitar nicked you where you didn't have any Second Skin. I'm guessing your leg, but it really doesn't matter. We picked up solid bio evidence from this instrument."

"Oh," I said, numbly.

"Jeff," Mom said, her voice starting to rise, "I'm sure there's a perfectly good explanation why your DNA was found on this guitar. Tell him!"

"What can I tell him, Mom?" I asked. "He's right. He's got me."

I'll save you the scene that followed. Mom went for histrionics. Dad was calm, but in such a sad, almost depressed, way that I wished he would get mad or something. It was almost a relief when the Security officer led me away.

I won't bore you with the trial. There wasn't much to it, anyway. My conviction was a forgone conclusion. They did keep badgering me to tell who else was in the band with me. They threatened me with worse punishment if I didn't tell. They offered me reduced punished if I did tell. At their lowest, they sent Mom and Dad in to "try and talk sense" into me. None of it had any effect. Regardless of what happened, my days as a rock and roller were over. There was nothing they could possibly do that was worse than that.

At the sentencing, I learned just how wrong I was.

"Jeff Morrow," the judge intoned from his bench, "you have been found guilty of forming, playing in and leading an illegal rock and roll band. You have refused to cooperate in any way with the prosecution. Therefore, I have no choice but to give you the maximum sentence."

Behind me, Mom gasped. I had no idea what the judge was talking about.

"You are hereby sentenced to be transported," the judge continued. "The sentence is to be carried out immediately. Have you anything to say?"

"I don't understand the sentence," I said. "What does being transported mean?"

"It means, young man," the judge leaned toward me, "you will soon be a happy and productive citizen of the Federation!"

I still had no idea what was going on. Security led me out of the court room and into a room just down the hall. There was a transporter in the room, but not like one I'd ever seen before. This one had five Security techs at the controls and just a single transport plate. I was led directly to the plate. A force field quickly formed around me, keeping me from stepping off the plate.

"What's going on?" I shouted, banging on the force field.

No one paid me any attention. One of the techs ran his hands across the controls and I felt a tingling.

"Readings acquired," the tech said. He looked to the other four techs, "Awaiting modification parameters."

The other techs bent over their controls for a minute or so. When the last of the techs sat back, the first tech announced, "All modification parameters are set. Prepare for transportation."

A low hum filled the room as the transporter came online. I still didn't know what was happening, but whatever it was scared the crap out of me.

I banged on the force field again, "Stop! Let me out of here! All I did was play some music!"

No one even looked up. Suddenly, the transporter beam engulfed me. Somehow, it felt different than other transporter beams. No, I felt different within this beam. I felt parts of myself starting to go away. I felt-

The transporter stopped and the force field dropped away. A tech kindly helped me down off the platform.

"How are you feeling, Jeff?" he asked.

"Hm? Oh, fine, thank you, sir," I replied. Then I noticed the clock. "Is that the time? I'm about to be late for orchestra rehearsal!"

"Don't worry, Jeff," the tech said, "this Security officer will take you directly to a public transporter platform. You'll be there in no time!"

The officer stepped forward, holding out something toward me. "I believe this is yours, Jeff."

I gave it a quick glance. "A guitar? You must be mistaken, sir. I'm a violinist."

He smiled, put the guitar aside and led me from the room. I made it to rehearsal just in time.

The Talisman

2009-02-12T22:45:00.009-05:00

"Miller!" Siggs called. "Captain wants to see you."

"On my way," I called back. I gulped down the last of my coffee and headed for the bridge. A couple of minutes later, I stood before the captain.

"Miller reporting as ordered, sir!" I saluted.

"At ease, Miller," the Captain said, returning my salute. "You're at the top of the duty roster board, right?"

"Yes sir."

"SecCom has lost contact with the outpost at Epsilon Gamma III. They've ordered me to find out what's happened. I'm sending you," the Captain said.

"I can have my squadron ready to-" I began.

"Your squadron isn't going, Miller. Just you."

The Captain didn't look too happy about that. God knows I wasn't happy about it!

"One fighter, sir? If the outpost was hit by the squids, what good will a single fighter be?"

"That's the part I like the least about these orders," the Captain said, shaking his head. "If you don't come back on schedule, we're to assume the outpost is lost. SecCom will modify the picket line accordingly, including ordering the Vanguard to its new duty station."

"No search and rescue for me, then?" I asked.

"No search and rescue for you," the Captain confirmed. "I don't like these orders, son. Not one bit. So you make sure to get your ass back here on schedule so I won't have to follow orders I despise."

"I will, sir!" I said, saluted and left the bridge.

I swung by my bunk to pick up the Talisman -- Dad always insisted on calling it that and you could just tell it was a proper noun from the way he said it -- and headed for the launch bay. Thirty minutes later I jumped to the Epsilon Gamma system.

I took my time approaching the outpost, which was on an airless moon orbiting the third planet. I had passive scanners running and was ready to switch to active scanners at the first hint of trouble. I scanned every comm channel for any kind of signal from the outpost and didn't pick up a thing. So much for the easy way. Time for a flyover of the outpost with active scanners running. If there were any Kalmari ships in the area, my active scan was going to light up the squid's sensors like a Christmas tree.

I dropped to within 500 meters of the moon's surface while the outpost was still over the horizon. I wanted my exposure as limited as possible. I figured my active scanners would be running for five or six seconds. If there were any squids in the area, they'd have to be right on top of the outpost to pick me up.

And, of course, they were. I lit my active scanners and immediately had warning alarms going off. A squid light cruiser was hanging in orbit above the outpost. I expect they were as surprised to see me as I was to see them.

"Dammit!" I shouted as I targeted the light cruiser. "Typical SecCom shit orders! If they'd sent my squadron with me the squids would be too busy running to even shoot at us!"

I got tone from my targeting systems and launched every ship killer I was carrying.

"But does SecCom send a squadron? No!" I ranted. "They send one ship. One damned ship! My damned ship!"

My scanners picked up the squid's response. It was not going to be fun. I dove toward the moon's surface, juked to port, rolled to starboard and kept an eye on the missiles trailing me. One after another, they lost lock and blasted a new crater on the moon. All except the last one. It got close enough that it's proximity fuse blew the warhead as soon as the targeting lock was lost.

The blast knocked out my main engines, leaving me with nothing but maneuvering jets to land my fighter. I pulled out of the spin from the blast and tried to figure out what to do. I was losing altitude fast and definitely would not survive if I hit the ground at this speed. I really only had one chance; hit on the down slope of one of the moon's craters and hope the fighter didn't start tumbling.

It happened much too fast for me to even think about it, much less start worrying about it. My fighter dropped inside the lip of the crater and suddenly it was careening down slope as I fought to keep the nose pointed straight. Seconds later, the fighter came to rest at the bottom of the crater and the shakes hit me.

It was a couple of minutes before I was steady enough to check my systems to see what had happened to the squid ship. The active scanners had recorded everything. While was dodging the cruiser's missiles, two of my ship killers had kept target lock through the squid ECM. The light cruiser was an expanding ball of energy even before its missile took out my main drive.

For the first time, I also got to check the scans of the outpost. My hopes that it would provide a life line were dashed immediately. No life signs showed on the scan. The outpost itself was nothing but a twisted ruin. Scans showed some areas still held atmosphere but I didn't see how I could get to them. Besides, the communications array was no where to be seen; likely smashed beyond all repair. No doubt about it. It was Talisman time.

I don't know how old the Talisman is or what's in it. My family has always been a military family and the Talisman is something my ancestor's have been carrying with them into battle for at least a couple of hundred years, back before humanity traveled to the stars. Dad told me I could open the Talisman only if I thought I was about to die or after I was honorably discharged from the service.

I couldn't think of any way off of the moon and the Vanguard had orders to leave me if I didn't report in. Dying seemed pretty high on the list of probable outcomes for me. So I dug out the box that held the Talisman and opened it. I don't know what I expected to find, but an old vid player wasn't it. The vid player had a note attached to the front that simply read "Play me." I hooked the vid player into my suit's comm system and started hit "Play" on the vid player.

The screen showed a man I'd never seen before wearing a uniform I'd only seen in history books. He'd been a member of the U.S. Army back on earth. He was looking right at the recorder, just as if he was speaking to me.

"I don't know who you are other than one of my descendants. I'm finally retiring from the army after 20 years and I want to record something to help you out if you ever find yourself in a really tight spot. A spot so tight you figure you're going to die. I could blather on about the honor of dying for your country but you already know that stuff. Instead, I'm going to offer up something you probably won't expect. Something I hope will lift your heart, fill your soul and maybe even give you a laugh or two."

The man looked off screen for a couple of seconds as if fiddling with something. Turning back, he asked, "Are you ready?"

The man faded away and the music began. It started with some kind of old electric guitar riff, drums and something else I couldn't quite identify.

"Jeez, great-great-great-however-many-greats granpa," I said, "I usually can't stand classical music!"

But the recording ignored me and the music continued. Then, voices began to sing.

All our times have come
Here but now they're gone.
Seasons don't fear the reaper
Nor do the wind, the sun or the rain.

I listened and I began to laugh. Don't fear the reaper seemed like pretty good advice to me right then. The song was short and immediately followed by another classical piece I didn't recognize.

I want it all I want it all I want it all and I want it now
Adventure seeker on an empty street
Just an alley creeper light on his feet
A young fighter screaming with no time for doubt
With the pain and anger can't see a way out
It ain't much I'm asking I heard him say
Gotta find me a future move out of my way
I want it all I want it all I want it all and I want it now

By now I was laughing so hard I could barely hear the music. Then my ancient ancestor was replaced by a slightly less ancient one and more songs about death, dying and wanting what you can't have poured out of the player.

After a dozen or so songs, I heard the first song from an ancestor who had left earth. He fought for Mars in the Uprising and obviously loved some of the corny Martian pride songs that had flourished back then.

I'd rather be dead on the Red Planet
Then have a long life on the earth dammit!

Slowly, I worked my way through a musical history of my family. Every one of them a military man. Every one of them passing along a few songs that had real meaning to them. My grandfather included The Ghost Ship, which he used to sing to me when we visited. My Dad surprised me the most, choosing some early hyper wave thresher music.

Then the Talisman finished playing and it was just me and the moon and my disabled fighter. I didn't want to die but the hours I'd spent listening to the music my ancestors had chosen specifically for me, well, it had put me in a good frame of mind. I was as mentally prepared for the worst as I think anyone can be.

Then my comm unit crackled, "Vanguard calling Lieutenant Miller. Vanguard calling Lieutenant Miller. Do you copy?"

Damn! The Old Man hadn't abandoned me after all!

"Miller to Vanguard, I read you loud and clear," I replied. "Aren't you disobeying orders, sir?"

"Absolutely not, son," the Captain replied. "It sometimes takes a while to talk sense into the folks at SecCom, but I did it. It turns out you crash landed directly under the Vanguard's new picket station. We're launching a tug to tow you back to the ship now"

"Roger that, sir! I'll be waiting," I replied.

I had some time before the tug arrived. By the time it had, I'd already picked two songs to add the to the Talisman when I retired from the service.

The Nomod

2009-01-10T10:00:00.003-05:00

"Hey, Doc, we've got the nomod for you," the Guard said, poking his head through the office door.

"Thank you, uh..." I cast around, trying to remember the Guard's name, couldn't. "He's been scanned for diseases and parasites?"

"Yep. Came up clean as a whistle."

I squashed a surge of irritation at the cliche. You can't really expect anything more from a Guard, after all. "Show him in, please."

The Guard led a young man into my office. The nomod looked to be in his mid twenties, perhaps a bit older. He was tall, nearly as tall as the Guard, though not so heavily muscled. I gestured to a chair opposite my desk.

"Want me to stay, Doc?" asked the Guard. "In case he gets any ideas?"

"No, I'm sure there won't be any problems." I looked at the nomod, "You're not going to get any ideas, are you?"

The nomod laughed, "I've got plenty of ideas already, but I expect I'll be getting some new ones, too. That's why you're so scared of nomods, after all."

The Guard scowled and shook the nomod roughly, "You show some respect for the Doc, nomod, or you're going to answer to me and my five friends." And the Guard slowly, dramatically closed the fingers of his right hand into a fist.

"That's enough, Guard," I said sharply. "You may wait outside the office. I'll call should this man start to get any of your ideas."

The Guard let go of the nomod, "I'll be watching you!"

Looking at me, the nomod said, "I'm very impressed. Just 47 years into the mods program and you've already developed x-ray vision!"

The Guard looked at me, puzzled. I smiled and waved him toward the door. "Please close the door on your way out."

As the door closed, the nomod said, "I don't think he missed a single one of the standard guard phrases. Is there some kind of special class that teaches Guards how to talk?"

"Due to their intellectual limits, much of their early training involves watching guards from old movies and television shows. They can more easily learn what it means to be a Guard through video. Unfortunately, many of those same videos feature the unimaginative dialogue you just heard.

"But that's not why we're here," I continued.

As if he hadn't heard me, the nomod stared straight into my eyes, "Does it make you proud? Knowing what has been done to him and all the other Guards?"

"What on earth do you mean?" I asked, knowing full well what he meant.

"What kind of life is that for a person?" he said. "Limited intellect, no curiosity, nothing to do but stand around and spout trite phrases."

Just as I suspected. I smiled, "He's quite content with his lot in life and wouldn't trade it for any other. You can ask him yourself if you don't believe me."

"Of course he wouldn't trade it," scoffed the nomod. "You modded everything out of him that didn't fit the narrow definition of Guard. He not only doesn't know there's anything else to life, he can't know!"

I nodded, "That's correct. Are you suggesting there is something wrong with that?"

"Of course there is!" the nomod shouted. "That Guard doesn't have any choice in his own future. The decisions were made for him in a mod lab before he was born!"

The door opened and the Guard looked in. "He getting wise with you, Doc?"

"He's a little excited, that's all," I replied. "Thank you for your concern."

"Just doing my job, Doc," the Guard said as he shut the door.

"There, you see? He's quite happy with his life. You seem to think we are monsters when all we did was level the playing field for everyone."

"Level the playing field? A level playing field implies some kind of competition," the nomod said. "You canceled the game completely! But that's not the worst of it. By meddling, you're destroying mankind."

"That's a tad melodramatic, don't you think?" I asked.

The nomod didn't answer. He was looking out the window, captivated by something. All I could see was a group of children quietly riding their bicycles to the nearby school. Suddenly, the nomod stood up. Slightly alarmed, I was about to call the Guard when he spoke.

"Let's go out and talk to those kids for a few minutes." Noticing the alarm on my face, he added, "You can bring your pet Guard and have him kick my ass if I do anything out of line."

I hesitated, trying to figure out what the nomod was planning.

"I'm not going to do anything to them," he said, "just ask them a few questions. You and the goon will be right there. What are you scared of?"

I must admit I was curious. I nodded and we left the office.

The children were just parking their bikes as we approached. I knew the group, as I did all the Science children in the center. "Hello children," I said.

"Hello Dr. Tanner," two dozen voices said in unison.

"Spooky," said the nomod, drawing the children's attention for the first time.

"Children, this man would like to ask you a few questions," I told them.

"I saw all of you riding down the road a few minutes ago," the nomod said. "Do you like riding your bikes?"

The children milled about, looking at one another and then back to the nomod. No one spoke.

The nomod rolled his eyes. "You," he said, pointing to the boy closest to him. "Do you like riding your bike?"

"It's an efficient form of transportation for short distances," the boy answered.

"But do you like it?" the nomod persisted.

"I don't understand the question," the boy said.

"And you were all riding so... So politely," the nomod continued. "Didn't any of you want to race to the bike rack?"

The boy looked puzzled, "Why would we want to race?"

"Because it's fun!" said the nomod.

"We're Science caste," the boy said, "not Athlete caste. Perhaps you should direct your question to one of them."

"Okay, enough about bikes," the nomod said. "How old are you?"

Relieved to be back in known territory, the boy answered, "Thirteen years, four months, eleven days and-"

"That's good enough. No need to calculate it down to the second," the nomod interrupted. He lowered his voice somewhat, "Thirteen, huh? That's about the age I discovered girls. What about you? Is there a girl in your class that you particularly like?"

"I don't understand your question," the boy said.

"If you're embarrassed, you can come up and speak quietly, just to me," the nomod told him.

"I am not embarrassed," the boy told him. "I don't understand the question."

The nomod pointed to one of the girls in the class. "What about her? Don't you think she's pretty?"

The boy looked, "Her features are quite symmetrical. Is that what you mean?"

The nomod sighed and turned back to me. "That's enough. Let's go back to your office."

"Very well," I said. "Children, please go on to class."

"Yes Dr. Tanner," they all said in unison.

Back in the office, the nomod slumped in the chair looking dejected. "It's worse than even I thought," he said.

"What's worse?" I asked.

"Tanner, you're a premod, right?" he asked. "Born before all the embryonic research, the gene splicing, the literal construction of people, from the ground up, to perform specific tasks?"

"I'm hardly a nomod," I said, "but, yes, I am a premod. I was about the age of those children when the modifications began. I received several post birth mods, all of which focused and honed my natural abilities."

"But you remember being thirteen?" he asked.

"Of course I do."

"When I was thirteen," the nomod continued, "I had an absolute crush on this girl named Jan. She was tall and slender, with long blond hair and green eyes. I thought she was the most beautiful girl on earth but I couldn't even work up the nerve to speak to her. What about you, Tanner? Who was your crush when you were thirteen?"

"Penny," I said, without even thinking. "She was such a pretty girl, a cheerleader on the middle school squad. Unlike you, I worked up the nerve to speak to Penny. She was really a very sweet girl, letting me down so softly she almost made it seem as it was her loss that she wouldn't go out with me."

"What about that boy I spoke with?" the nomod asked. "Doesn't he deserve to have a crush on a girl? He'll never waste an afternoon just dreaming about kissing a pretty girl for the first time. Hell, he'll never have dreams!"

"Thirteen used to be a very awkward and painful age," I retorted. "Would you really wish that upon those children?"

"Do I wish they had actual human emotions, you mean?" the nomd shot back. "If that's the question, then yes, I do wish that."

"And yet you sit there thinking I am the monster," I said. "As with the Guard, the children are-"

"Content," he interrupted. "Yeah, oh so content. But you know what, Tanner? Human progress comes from discontent."

"Oh please," I said, an edge of irritation creeping into my voice. "You're just a typical malcontent who wants everyone else to be as miserable as you are!"

"That computer on your desk, Tanner," the nomod said. "It's got a sixty-eight terahertz processor, right?"

The sudden shift of subject had me at a loss for moment. "Uh... I... I don't know. What does that have to do-"

"I know the model, trust me. Do you have any idea how fast computers were when the first generation of mods came of age?"

"Well, no," I said.

"Right about forty terahertz," he said.

"So?" I asked, testily.

"So, back in the premod days when poor, discontented nomods were all the human race had, computer processing speed doubled every two to three years," he said. "In the 25 years your wonderful, contented modified humans have been on the job, computer processing power hasn't even doubled once. Doesn't that tell you something?"

I was surprised by this, but kept it from my face and voice. "No, it doesn't. I'm certain some physical limitation has slowed down our progress."

The nomod leaned back in his chair, looking up at the ceiling. "My parents told me not to bother trying to convince you. I guess I should have listened."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Look, Tanner, I didn't come here to argue genetics," he said.

"Come here?" I laughed. "No, you didn't come here. You were captured and brought here!"

"Nope. I allowed myself to be captured so I could deliver a message to you," the nomod said. "The message is simple. We nomods aren't going to take it any more. We're tired of watching you and your ilk destroy the human race and we're going to put a stop to it."

"That's preposterous! How dare you-"

"That's only part of the message," the nomod interrupted. "We will do our best to minimize casualties, so when you receive an evacuation warning from us, please heed the warning and evacuate everyone. We will provide ample warning for an orderly evacuation of any building or complex targeted."

"Guard!" I called out.

The Guard sprang through the door as if he had been waiting all his life for this call. I suppose he had.

"I'm finished interrogating the nomod for today. Take him to his holding cell."

As the Guard led the nomod away, I said, "I'll speak more with you tomorrow."

The nomod smiled, "No you won't."

He was right. The next morning, Guards found his holding cell empty except for a note. They brought the note to me.

It takes imagination to be a guard. You've got to be able to think as a prisoner would think. Too bad you modded imagination out of your Guards. Don't forget -- heed our warnings!

The first warning came ten days later and our beautiful, contented world was blasted out from under us.

Joy to the World - a Christmas Retail Rant

2008-12-22T20:27:00.009-05:00

December 23, 1989. 7:45 AM. The Saturday before Christmas.

The mall is already packed, meaning one of the big anchor stores opened at 6:00 or something. I get to the store and raise the gate just enough to get into the store. Four customers duck under the gate before I can start lowering it again.

“We don’t open until 8:00,” I say.

Holding up a game, one of the customers asks, “Have you got this for the Commodore 64?”

“We aren’t open yet,” I repeat. “You can come back in at 8:00.”

Three of the customers leave. The C-64 guy is still holding the Atari game, ignoring me and looking on the PC compatible section.

“We aren’t open yet,” I say in my best I’m-being-patient-because-you’re-a-moron voice. I use that voice a lot during the Christmas sales season. “You can’t stay in store right now.”

“Huh?” the guy says, looking up.

“Leave. Now.” The store hasn’t even opened and I’m already out of patience.

The C-64 guy slips the Atari game onto the PC shelf. “All you had to do was say so. No need to be rude. You’re not the only software store in the mall, you know.”

“Yeah. There’s a Babbage's at the bottom of those stairs over there,” I say, pointing. “Their sales guy is just showing up. If you hurry, maybe you can duck under his gate and see how he reacts.”

I slam the gate shut and finally start getting everything ready to open the store.

Joy to the world.

8:25 AM

I land my first babysitting job of the season when a mother instructs her two boys to stay in the store and play games until she’s finished. The boys are maybe 11 and nine.

Looking across the store at me, she says, “Keep an eye on them, for me. They aren’t allowed to wander around the mall by themselves.” Then she’s gone, reabsorbed by the amorphous multi-celled blob known as Christmas shoppers.

She goes right to the top of my Mother of the Year list. Competition for the top spot had been tough this season, but I’m confident this display of maternal instinct will prove well nigh unbeatable.

I finish with the customer I was assisting and look for the two boys. Oh, bliss, They’ve decided to be helpful! They’ve taken all of the software in the Amiga section and scattered it on the floor. I tell them to leave the software alone.

The nine year old looks to the 11 year old. The 11 year old says, “We’re bored.”

“Not my problem,” I tell them.

“Mom told us to stay here and play games but you don’t have any games to play!” he accuses.

I start putting the Amiga shelf back together again. “Correct.”

“What are you going to do about it?”

“Nothing,” I tell him.

“When she gets back, I’m going to tell my mom!” he threatens.

I bend down, look him directly in the eyes and hiss “So am I.”

I don’t have any more trouble from the two boys.

Joy to the world.

9:40 AM

The first complainer shows up. He's right on schedule.

“It took me twenty-five minutes to find a parking place,” he snarls at me.

I don’t say anything. Besides, he probably doesn’t want to hear that I’m required to park half a mile away from the mall so more spaces will be available for the customers.

“And that was after I spent 30 minutes crawling through the traffic just to get here!”

I’ve had to fight that traffic for the last seven days. I doubt he’s interested.

“All just to pick up this damned game for my kid,” he waves something for a PC compatible around.

I know the game and ask, “Do you have a VGA card in your computer?”

“A what?”

“A VGA graphics card,” I repeat. “The game requires a VGA graphics card to run.”

“How the hell should I know?” He’s back to snarling.

“If you could tell me what kind of computer you have I-“

“It’s an IBM,” he says.

“Actually made by IBM?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he answers.

“If you can tell me what model it is, maybe I can help you figure out if you’ve got a VGA card,” I tell him. It looks like I’m starting to get him calmed down.

“I know that! It’s a PC, Jr.”

Crap. I’m about to have the nothing-you-actually-want-will-run-on-a-PC-Jr. conversation.

Joy to the world.

10:15 AM

The Mother of the Year returns. I’m busy juggling questions from four different customers and don’t notice her return until she plants herself right in front of me.

“My boys tell me you didn’t let them play any games!” she says.

I signal the customer I was returning to that I’ll be just a minute. He nods sympathetically.

“We don’t have any machines set up in this store,” I tell her.

“You could have set one up!” she demands.

Snap!

“And you could have taken them with you,” I retort, “or left them at home! I am not a babysitter nor is it my job to entertain your children. That, madam, is your job. Now, take your children and leave my store!”

Now the Mother of the Year is truly furious. Like I care.

“I’m going to file a complaint with your manager!” she threatens.

“Go ahead!” I hiss back. What the hell, hissing worked on her boys, maybe it will work on her, too. "She hates people who treat us like babysitters as much as I do!"

“Hmph! Well, I can tell you we’ll never shop in this store again!” she says.

Joy to the world!

11:00 AM

Support finally arrives in the person of my co-worker, Bob. Thank God! I've got to piss like you wouldn't believe.

"Been busy?" he asks.

Our store is all of 500 square feet. There are at least two dozen customers in the store. It took Bob half a minute to get from the store entrance to the register at the back of the store. And he has to ask if it's been busy?

"Yes," I say. "Hurry up and sign in so I can use the can!"

Bob laughs. I'll give him that one. I'd have laughed in his place, too. It takes all of 15 seconds to sign in and grab a name tag. It only takes 10 seconds for a customer to approach me. She's holding at least half a dozen different computer games and looks completely confused. A typical customer, in other words.

She holds out all of the games, "Which of these would be a good game for a 13 year old boy?"

Feeling as if my eyeballs are starting to float, I take a look at what she's got. The Bard's Tale. M.U.L.E. Gauntlet. Skate or Die. California Games.

"Any of those would be fine," I answer and start edging toward the back office.

She's a pro, though, and not going to be deterred by my evasion. "But which one would be best?"

I'm tempted to just tell her to get M.U.L.E. But just because I think it's the best computer game ever designed doesn't mean the boy she's buying for will agree.

"What are some other games he likes to play?" I ask, cursing myself for taking my job more seriously than my bladder.

"I don't know," she answers. "It's for my nephew. My sister said he liked computer games and to get him one."

Uh oh, I'm stuck with a customer who's even more ignorant than normal! Experience has taught me what to do now, but I'm going to be stuck with this one customer for a while.

"But you're sure he has a Commodore 64?" I ask, positive she will be anything but sure.

"A what?" she asks.

"His computer. Is it a Commodore 64?"

"I don't know. My sister just said they had a computer. Does it matter?"

"Yes. If the game isn't for the right computer it won't work," I tell her, just as I've told countless other clueless customers this season.

I'm amazed my bladder has exploded yet. I also know what's coming next.

"That's stupid," she tells me. "Why would people make computers that are different like that?"

"I'd suggest you call your sister and find out what kind of computer they have. Then we should be able to help you pick the right game for your nephew," I say, starting to turn away. But she's not done quite yet.

"Can I use your phone to call her?" she asks.

We're not supposed to do that but I figure I can run back to the can while she's on the phone. "Sure."

I hand her the phone, dial the number, make sure it's ringing and then head for the can.

"Hi, Ellen, it's Sarah," she says. "I've got a sales guy who has some questions for you!"

Smiling, she holds the phone out to me.

Joy to the world.

11:18 AM

I finally get to the can.

Joy to the world.

12:30 PM

Lunch. I get an entire 30 minutes during which I don't have to answer any questions for any customers! I find the shortest line in the food court and wait to order my lunch.

Joy to the world.

12:57 PM

I finally get my lunch and have a whole three minutes before I'm due back at the store. I get to grab bites in between customers!

Joy to the world.

1:53 PM

I finally finish my lunch. Cold fries suck.

Joy to the world.

4:30 PM

There are three of us working the store now; Bob, Mike and me. But Mike's seasonal help so he doesn't really count. Unless saying, "Let me ask Henry" or "I'll ask Bob" counts as help.

The afternoon has been a lot like the morning. I've had the drunk, the shoplifter (complete with parents who don't believe their angel is a thief), the father who simply watched as his three children totally wrecked the Apple shelves (a strong candidate for my new Father of the Year contest) and the usual asortment of complainers.

But now my shift is over. I get to leave!

Joy to the world!

5:15 PM

After a 10 minute walk to my car, I find traffic is pretty light. It only takes me 35 minutes to make the 13 minute drive home. I stagger into the apartment and am greeted by my wife and the cats.

"Tough day?" Audrey asks.

"About like normal," I respond.

Audrey smiles, "I thought so. I got beer."

Joy to the world!

Afterword

Every customer mentioned in this story was real, though they probably didn't all hit on the same day. Rest assured there were other idiots who filled in for them. The Christmas of 1989 was the last one during which I worked in retail. It was also the last time I entered a mall at the height of the Christmas sales season.

Now that really is joy to the world!

Diary of a Mad Astronaut

2008-11-06T19:13:00.010-05:00

This is my entry in Bruce Bethke's Friday Challenge writing contest, based on an alternate universe setting.

October 10, 2010

At least that’s what they say the date is. Who knows whether they’re telling the truth or not? It seems about right, but that’s the only part of this that does.

Take this lap top they have me using to keep my journal. The tech guy told me this little box has a computer in it. I just laughed at him. There’s no way you could fit any tubes inside something this small! I think I offended him by laughing because next thing you know he’s telling me how much more powerful it is than the autopilot in my lander. I laughed again and he got even madder and gave me a demonstration. By the time he finished, my mouth must have been hanging open because he had a smug look on his face as he left. When I go back, this lap top thing is definitely going with me!

But I’m getting ahead of myself. They want me to keep a journal, no doubt so they can read it and figure out what I whether I’ve really lost my memory or not. Too bad I’m not writing in English. An old college girlfriend was a huge Lord of the Rings fan. Figuring it would help me score, I learned how to write love notes to her in elvish. (Yes, it worked.) Took some finagling, but I worked out to write elvish using a standard keyboard. I should be long gone before they can figure this out. And if I get the lap top out with me, I can translate it before landing.

I’ve been here for a week, locked up in some building somewhere on Edwards Air Force Base. I’ve managed to figure out what happened, but the idiots in this universe won’t believe me. Yes, this universe. I don’t know how I hopped to another universe, but it’s obvious I did. But the IIC (Idiots In Charge) here keep insisting there’s only one universe. How can these people be so advanced in some things, like this lap top, and so backward in others?

I’m tired. Sleep now, write more later.

October 11, 2010

Yep, they tried to read my journal. Wanted to know what language it was written in. I just played dumb and insisted it was English. Then they wanted to know what it said. I told them it said I hoped the good fairies would come and take me away. One of them made some crack about San Francisco that the others thought was funny. I have no idea why. So now they either think I’m crazy or lying. I’m hoping for crazy.

Time to catch up on the first week after I landed. First, their cars still use wheels! Where are the flying cars? The hover trucks? They say they’ve got hovercraft but they aren’t all that common. Damn, getting ahead of myself again. Okay, I’m just going to try to do this in order.

I woke up on the Galileo nine days ago. I was the only one who woke up. The rest of the crew were dead. Looks like their cryo capsules failed for some reason. I got pulled out of cryosleep because the autopilot couldn’t pick up any of the space markers that were supposed to guide it back to earth. I had to eyeball it until we were close enough for the mass detector to pick earth. With that info, the autopilot pulled the ship into orbit at the L-1 point.

I got into the lander and headed for Edwards, calling on the radio to let them know I was coming in. When the response finally came, I didn’t know what to make of it. They thought was I was some kind of prankster or something. Then I guess they picked me up on radar and scrambled jet fighters to check me out. I kept talking and they decided not to blow me out of the air. But they insisted I land at Edwards, which is what I’d been asking permission to do all along. IIC strike again.

I landed and was grabbed by armed guards as I came out of the lander. The weird thing was that they knew me. Called me by name, asked what had happened to the… Damn, what was that word again? Shuffle? Yeah, asked what happened to the shuffle. They didn’t like it when I told them I had no idea what they were talking about.

I’ve been in this building being interrogated – they call it debriefing, but I know what an interrogation is – ever since. The really stupid part of all of this is that they keep insisting I’m their Maj. Clayton Thomas. I guess that part isn’t so stupid, since I look just like the guy in the pictures they’ve shown to me. No, the stupid part is that they insist I must have found some place in space to trade their shuffle for my lander. I told them yeah, I stopped by the used spaceship lot on the moon and traded for my ship. Told them I got a good deal and to be careful with my ship because I still had 45 more payments before it was mine.

I learned something important from that. The IIC have no sense of humor. I was tossed into a locked room and left alone for two days before they talked to me again.

Hell, they’re here for more “debriefing.”

October 12 2010

This bit of interrogation actually went well. The IIC tried to shake me out of whatever they think is wrong with me by bringing my wife- his wife to talk to me. Damn, that was cruel. She looks just like my Janet. Talks like her, dresses like her and even smells like her. But it doesn’t make her mine.

She cried and tried to talk sense into me for a while. And she was convincing, too. I almost started believing I was the man she thought I was. But then I got her to do something. I got her to give me a kiss. The IIC didn’t stop us, so we kissed and it felt almost right. Within seconds of our lips meeting, I felt her body stiffen and begin to pull away. She stared into my eyes from just inches away for a few seconds and then she was convinced.

I told her I wanted to get back to my Janet just as much as I knew she wanted her Clayton back. The IIC were just staring at us like we’d both gone crazy. Janet was trying her best to get them to understand the truth as they led her out of the room. Then it was back to interrogating me. Typical.

October 17 2010

Today is my 29th wedding anniversary. I just hope I will be back with my wife soon to celebrate. I missed the last five days of writing because I’ve been really busy. I’ll bring this up to date now.

I saw this universe’s Janet again the following day. The IIC said she’d realized she was wrong about me and wanted another chance to convince me. I couldn’t believe it. What would it take to convince someone on this world that I was telling the truth? They brought Janet to my room but this time left us alone. She came and sat next to me, very close. I was sure they were watching us and was going to warn her when she leaned in for a close embrace and whispered the same thing in my ear.

Turns out she still believed me and could think of only one way to get Clayton back. She was going to help me get to my ship and escape. If I could figure out how to get back to my universe, she figured her Clayton could figure out how to get back to his. She had it all figured out. She was going to pull the young, hysterical wife bit while talking the general who was nearing retirement age. Janet said he was one of those idiots who thought all women went for a older man in uniform. He ought to be easy prey for a dish like Janet.

And he was easy prey. Just about what you’d expect from the IIC. Janet cried, got clingy and the IIC escorted her into his office, shutting the door. I wonder if her Clayton knows the general wants to have his way with his wife? Anyway, once the door was shut Janet used something she called a taser to take down the general. She had brought a roll of duct tape in her purse and duct taped his arms, legs and mouth and then hidden him under his own desk. I was confident my Janet would have done the same thing. Or maybe she was doing the same thing. Damn, this parallel universe stuff is complex! And I’d better not find out my superior officer wants to have his way with my wife!

Apparently, the rest of the staff knew to leave the general alone when he takes a woman into his office and shuts the door. No one bothered them and Janet just waited for the shifts to change. Night shift is a lot lighter, which helped a lot. She took the general’s key card and just walked back to my room and got me out. I grabbed this lap top and we scooted.

In the movies, this is the part that would involve lots of chases, fist fights, gun play and probably big explosions. Reality doesn’t work that way. We just walked out. Only a few people even knew who I was and we avoided them. Janet did have to distract the guards at the hanger for a few seconds, but she did that by asking directions. No fake seduction scene or anything like that. I got into the lander and locked it tight then began the start up sequence.

Yeah, things got exciting when I ran the engines up and rolled out of the hanger, but there still weren’t any explosions. Lots of people were running around and I saw men running toward jet fighters but I doubted they could catch me and I knew they couldn’t reach orbit in those planes.

Four hours later I docked with the Galileo and then the real work began. I studied every single print out from the autopilot and the mass detector, trying to figure out what might have caused me to end up here. It took a full day, but I found a big mass reading right as we came out of light drive. I hoped I could hit it things the same way again and be thrown back to my universe.

I’ve spent the last three days maneuvering and preparing for a really short light drive run. I just hope this works. At this point, it’s all in the tubes of the autopilot. I’m keeping this lap top running so I can keep track of what happens. I know the big brains back home will want to know. If I get back home, that is.

We’re on final approach right now. Just a few seconds before DFoqwu09 . Wow, that was one Hell of a lurch the ship just gave! I smashed my face onto the typing keys. Figure I’ll leave the junk my face typed just for fun. But the real question is where I am, my universe or hers?

Then the autopilot gave a beep. Just an ordinary beep, but it meant a lot to me. It’s the beep the autopilot gives when it picks up a standard space marker. It beeped again. And again. My eyes are so full of tears I can barely type this. I’m home! HOME!

Janet from the other universe, I know how do to this now. If your Clayton is here, I will bring him back to you. You have my word.

Lord of the Hunt

2008-10-30T22:56:00.007-04:00

The lord’s tax collector entered the lord’s sitting room. Bright morning sunshine slanted in through the windows, forcing the tax collector to turn his eyes away from the glare. That’s why the tax collector did not immediately notice the nearly empty wine bottle sitting on the table beside his lord. By the time he did notice, his lord had turned his bleary attention to his servant.

“What is it?” Lord McConnell demanded loudly.

“Nothing, my Lord,“ began the tax collector.

“You intruded on me for nothing?” roared Lord McConnell.

“Um, no, my Lord. I meant nothing urgent. I’ll just deal with the matter my-“

“Oh, no you won’t! You’re here. Report this nothing so I may determine how to deal with it,” Lord McConnell slowly, as if concentrating on each word.

“It’s just a tax matter, my Lord. One of the peasants hasn’t paid his full measure,” answered the tax collector. “I will go to the village this morning, with your permission, and deal with the matter.”

“Ah, very good. Very good indeed. I believe I shall accompany you on your task,” said the lord. “Yes, I believe I shall. Perhaps I will have the opportunity to do some hunting during the ride.”

Lord McConnell staggered to his feet, bellowing for horses and hunting dogs to be readied.

Lord McConnell’s cavalcade arrived at the peasant’s cottage without incident. And that was a problem. Deprived of his one great love, hunting, Lord McConnell further indulged his second love. His retainers were amazed their lord could still ride.

Drawing up outside the cottage, the tax collector made to dismount, saying, “I’ll just take care-“

“Peasants!” shouted the lord. “Your lord and master demands you stand before him and pay your taxes!”

The door to the cottage flew open as a man and boy hurried out to bow before Lord McConnell. “Please, my lord, I have given all I have! I beg you allow me to pay an extra measure next month.”

“My lord,” the tax collector said, “this man’s wife is the village healer. I believe she will earn well in the next month as November always brings the first ill humors of winter. The man should have no trouble paying the extra measure.”

Lord McConnell swayed in his saddle, gazing off towards the nearby forest. “Do you know the forest well, peasant?”

“My lord? I don’t-

“It is a simple question, one even a simple man such as you can answer,” Lord McConnell shouted.

“Aye, I know the forest well, my lord,” the peasant replied.

“Then I offer you a wager, peasant. If you win, you owe nothing more for this month. If you lose, I’ll consider your offer of an extra measure in November,” said Lord McConnell. “The wager is simple. You and your boy run into the forest. In five minutes, I loose the hounds and give chase. If you remain free when darkness falls, you win. If my hounds and I catch you, I win.”

“But my lord-“

“Now go, peasant. Fly to the forest and give me the best hunt ever!” the lord said.

Everyone stared at the lord, aghast.

“Are you so confident, man?” asked Lord McConnell. “Your five minutes have begun.”

Fear filled the peasant’s face. Without another word, he grabbed his son’s hand and ran off toward the forest.

“He runs well,” mused the lord. “Huntsman, find something in the peasant’s hut and give the hounds the scent. Perhaps this won’t be a wasted day after all.”

But Lord McConnell was wrong. The hounds treed the peasant and his son within twenty minutes. Angered at the poor quality of the hunt, the lord ordered them both taken to his dungeon. Having seen the man and boy chained to the wall in his dungeon, Lord McConnell repaired to his sitting room where he tried to drown his anger in wine. Instead, the wine only stoked the anger further.

Knowing well their lord’s temper, his servants did their best remain outside of his notice. Yet all could hear Lord McConnell’s anger build into rage as he paced the floor of his study, wine in hand, muttering and cursing. As the sun disappeared below the hills, the lord’s fury overwhelmed him.

Staggering purposefully toward the stairs to the dungeon, Lord McConnell said, “Damned peasants! They rob me of taxes and of the joy of the hunt! Damn them!”

Lord McConnell continued to rant as he descended into the dungeon. The servants heard the door to the dungeon cell open and slam shut. Then they heard the lord yelling and the peasants pleading. The yelling grew louder, the pleading more desperate. Then, the pleading turned to screams of anguish then screams of pain. Screams that went on and on and on. Finally, silence fell and Lord McConnell emerged from the dungeon, blood coating his hands and clothing.

At that very moment, the healer woman, wife and mother to the peasants in the dungeon arrived at the castle.

“My lord,” she said, holding out a jingling pouch, “I have begged and borrowed from the villagers and have the full measure of our taxes. Please, lord, where are my husband and son?”

Taking the pouch, the lord said, “Come. I will take you to them.”

Lord McConnell led the woman into the dungeon and threw open the door to the cell. The floor was red with blood. Trembling, the healer woman entered the room and beheld her husband and son. Both had been slashed and cut dozens upon dozens of times. Both had their throats slit wide open. Lord McConnell waited in anticipation for the hysterics to begin. For the second time that day, he was disappointed by his peasants.

The woman spun around to face Lord McConnell, eyes blazing with rage. Instinctively, Lord McConnell fell back a step from her fury.

“I curse you, lord,” the healer said coldly. “I curse you to be hunted just as you hunted my husband and my son. I curse you to be hunted by hounds from Hell, chased until you can run no farther then ripped limb from limb! I curse you!”

Without thinking, Lord McConnell drew his dagger and plunged it into the woman’s heart. As blood flowed from her wound, the woman smiled.

In a voice as cold as death, she said, “By my words invoked. By my blood sealed.”

As her lifeless body dropped to the floor, Lord McConnell’s hunting dogs began to bay and howl. The sound ripped through his mind and clawed at his sanity. Staggering out of the dungeon, hands clasped over his ears, the lord ordered his huntsman to silence the dogs. When nothing the huntsman could do would silence them, Lord McConnell took his sword and slew them all.

From that day forward, Lord McConnell could not bear the sight or sound of any dog. Panic would seize him should hear a dog bark or see a dog in the village. So the lord issued orders that all dogs in his fiefdom were to be slain and none allowed to enter it. When the grisly work was done, the lord was able to sleep at night. And, slowly, his terror of the curse faded.

One year later, the curse all but forgotten, Lord McConnell reclined in his sitting room, relaxing after a fine dinner and enjoying a fine wine. Then, far in the distance, he heard the sound of hounds baying.

“Who has brought hounds into my fiefdom?” he demanded of a servant.

“Hounds, my lord?” asked the servant.

“Yes! Did you not hear them baying in the distance just now?” asked the lord.

“I heard no hounds, my lord,” the servant replied.

Thinking, perhaps, it was the wind or his mind playing tricks on him, Lord McConnell settled back and took another sip of wine. Then hounds bayed again. But this time they sounded as if they were just outside the castle.

“Surely you heard that!” demanded the lord.

“I swear, my lord, I heard nothing!” replied the servant.

Then the hounds bayed again, this time from the castle courtyard.

“And now? Will you swear you heard no hounds now?” screamed Lord McConnell.

Backing away slightly, the servant gave no answer.

Then the lord heard growling coming from the far side of the room. Terrified, he looked toward the sound. Six pairs of glowing red eyes stared at him out of the shadows. Slowly, the eyes moved out of the shadows and Lord McConnell once again cast eyes on his very own hunting hounds. The hounds he slew one year ago.

Throwing his goblet at the dogs, Lord McConnell cried, “Keep them away from me!”

“Keep who away from you, my lord?” asked the servant.

“The hounds! Keep the hounds away from me!” Lord McConnell screamed as he fled the room.

Baying, the hounds gave chase. Lord McConnell ran toward the dungeon, all the while pursued by the hounds. Down he ran, to cell where the curse had been laid. Slamming the door shut, the lord’s servants heard him beg and plead for the hounds to be called off. Soon, his pleading turned to screams and the screams went on and on and on. When the screams finally stopped, not one of the servants would descend to the dungeon at night.

The next morning, a guard went into the dungeon and opened the door to the cell. Blood was splashed across the walls and covered the floor. Lord McConnell lay dead, ripped limb from limb.

Hundreds of years later, there are those visitors to the castle who can hear screams coming from the dungeon. But those who have darkness in the hearts hear not the screams. They hear the baying of the hounds.

Profound iMplications

2008-07-29T10:44:00.016-04:00

Foreword

It all began in 2015 when Microsoft bought Intel. Microsoft renamed the company Wintel and began pouring resources into a long dormant project to develop a biochip capable of directly interfacing with the human brain. Development also began on an operating system to handle the interface. Three years later, Windows on My Mind and the biochip were released with great fanfare, including an appalling variation of Georgia on My Mind, and low sales. Microsoft simply didn't understand the devices market.

Microsoft's rival, Apple, thoroughly understood the devices market. The iPod, the iPhone, the iGlasses; Apple may not have created the devices market but they certainly perfected it. Given that, what came next should have been expected.

Apple wanted into on the biochip device market. Microsoft wanted good devices to run Windows on My Mind. The unthinkable happened. Microsoft and Apple merged, forming MicrosnAp. The biochip was re-introduced as the much more successful iMplant. Soon, everyone who was anyone had an iMplant running Windows on My Mind. Third party software developers quickly queued up to produce applications for the iMplant. But, due to a bit of marketing genius, the iMplant would not have applications. Instead, it had iMplications, iMps for short. Too bad the new name was so prophetic.

***

The Present

Susan came running into the test lab, "Frank's lost it."

"Great," I muttered, picking up the shotgun and heading for the hall. "What happened?"

"He said he was positive he'd fixed the problem so he was going to test the fix himself," Susan replied, following me.

Frank was in the hall, shambling toward us in that grotesque, B-movie zombie walk. The one I'd seen far too much of in the last month. I brought the shotgun up and blew Frank away. And blew away one of the last chances left for the human race at the same time.

"What got into Frank? He never tested his code before things went to hell," I said.

"Oh, you know," Susan said, "even before the Download he was getting irritated at all the press we were getting. Software test. The most dangerous job in the world. You got your picture on the covers of Time and Newsweek. I think Frank wanted to show he was brave enough to test software, too. So he loaded up his fix, left the lab and sent a download request. At least I guess he sent the request."

"Brilliant, Frank," I said to the corpse. "You couldn't just stay in the shielded lab? You couldn't leave the testing to the people the right safety mods? No, Frank's got to prove he's a man! And get himself killed."

"I tried to stop him," Susan said, subdued, "but I couldn't."

No surprise there. Susan was five foot three and maybe 100 pounds. Frank topped six feet and weighed more than twice Susan's weight.

"Not your fault, Susan. You can't protect someone from their own stupidity." I turned away from the body. "Let's go tell the others we're done. With only one developer, there never was much chance of fixing things. There's no chance without any developers."

***

30 Days Earlier

The Download came on the night of May 16, 2042. My 28th birthday and I was stuck working late. That's why a bunch of us were in the download shielded dev lab when the Download came. We didn't even know there was a problem until the tech support night shift came staggering into the room, drooling and walking like zombies.

Everyone was having a good laugh until two of them got hold of Chuck and ripped his throat out with their teeth. We stopped laughing and started fighting for survival. We lost Brian, one of our two remaining developers, but managed to bludgeon the support team into unconsciousness. We tried to keep them alive while we figured out what had gone wrong, but the first one to wake up started killing and eating everyone else.

It took a while to track down what was happening. Nearly everyone had gotten the Download. Windows on My Mind was always autodownloading patches. We're talking MicrosnAp, after all. A few people had their iMplants turned off or were blocked from receiving signals like we were. There were even a few people who didn't have iMplants at all. But my guess is that 99% of the U.S. population got the Download and turned into man eating zombies.

Not knowing what else to do, I called MicrosnAp support. I mean, I know they're generally useless for solving problems, but they were located in third world countries where there weren't many iMplants. If nothing else, I hoped they'd be able to coordinate communication and information exchange between isolated technical groups. Of course, I got the recorded greeting. The updated recorded greeting.

"Thank you for calling MicrosnAp technical support. If you are in danger of being eaten by a person with an infected iMplant, please hang up and call your local authorities," the pleasant, mechanical voice told me. "If you are calling about problems with a recent download-"

I punched the 0 button on the phone, cutting off the recording and being routed directly to support and, of course, immediately into the hold queue. I waited. And I waited. Eventually, I started setup shifts for Frank, Susan, Mark, Janet and me. It took eight hours to finally get through.

"MicrosnAp support," said a tired voice in accented English, "this is Sreeni. How may I help you?"

"Hi. I'm calling from iMpSoft in the U.S. We develop iMplications for the iMplant and-" I started to reply.

"iMpSoft? You guys developed Thunderchild did you not? I liked that game very much!" Sreeni interrupted.

"Different group, Sreeni. We do more business related stuff. But what I'm calling about," I added quickly in case Sreeni was going to interrupt again, "is to find out if anyone has figured out what caused this problem. We know it was a download from last night, but-"

"We are being told it was an illegal download. A virus," Sreeni said. "But that is only what our managers here think. We are not in contact with the Redmond office."

Typical management. Cover your ass first, solve the problem second. "Virus, valid iMp, whatever. I don't really care. What I want to know is if you've heard from any other technical groups? The few of us left here at iMpSoft are going to be looking for a solution, but there's only five of us. If we could get in touch with other groups, maybe use this support line as a way to exchange information, maybe we can solve this."

Sreeni wasn't sure it would be possible to use a business line for something like that. It took me 15 minutes to get him to talk to his manager. Who then had to talk to his manager and so on. It took another hour and a half, but eventually someone who could make a decision was consulted. He was thrilled to have someone take some responsibility.

Within two days, we were in touch with 22 other development groups around the world. It wasn't much, but at least there people working on the disaster. I was pretty pleased, all things considered.

Then we lost contact with the group in Munich. One day, they just weren't checking in. A few days later, we lost the Tokyo group. Within a month, we had lost contact with 20 of the 22 other groups. There didn't look to be much hope for the human race.

***

The Present

Susan and I wandered back into the test lab. Everyone but Mark was watching the door. They'd heard the shotgun blasts and knew something was up.

"Frank's dead," I told them. "He decided he had the fix, uploaded it to his iMplant, left the shielded lab and sent a download request."

"Frank always was a dumbass," Janet said, wiping at her eyes. "Now we don't have a developer and we're only in contact with three other groups."

"Doesn't really matter anyway," Mark said. "Our test iMplants are useless now, anyway."

"Useless? How?" I asked.

"I was resetting one for the next code drop from Frank," Mark said, "and instead of the menu I got the Windows authentication warning. 'Your installation of Windows on My Mind is out of date. Do you wish to update your validation?' Of course I answered 'No' and the whole thing shut down on me."

Everyone else started talking at once, but I just stood there, stunned. I must have had a strange look on my face or something, because everyone got quiet and looked at me.

"You okay, Henry?" Susan asked.

"Jesus Christ, guys, we've been idiots! The solution was right there all along and it never occurred to us," I told them.

"What solution are you-" Mark began. Then comprehension dawned on him. "Oh..."

"What are the two of you going on about?" Janet asked.

"Windows validation," I replied. "What would happen if every single iMplant had an out of date validation and no way to update it?"

It hit Janet and Susan just as hard as it had hit Mark and me.

Mark looked at me and said, "Road trip?"

"Oh yeah," I told him, grinning. "Major road trip!"

"How far is it from Raleigh to Redmond?" Susan asked.

I sent Mark, Susan and Janet out to grab a couple of good cars for the trip. No point in wasting time, so I suggested they go by the Porche dealership and grab a couple of really fast cars. While they were doing that, I left a message for the other three development groups with MicrosnAp support and asked the support crew to get the word out that we could really use someone who knew the technical side of Windows validation.

An hour later, we hit the road.

The trip was surreal. We had the roads to ourselves but it was hardly an easy drive. Lots of cars had been our when the Download came. Most of those cars crashed, making it impossible to just floor it in the Porches. If we got out away from cities things cleared up a good bit and we were able to really see how fast the cars could go.

If the roads were difficult, cities were downright scary. We tried to avoid them as much as possible, but cities remained the best places to find food and gas. And zombies. Before we left, I made sure Mark and Janet, who were in the other car, understood that we couldn't stop for anything or anyone. That's really easy to say but hard as Hell to do. We got our first taste for how hard it was driving through Greensboro.

A huge pack of zombies -- I'm guessing over 500 -- tried to stop us by sheer numbers. I was in the lead car when we spotted them massing on the road about a half mile ahead of us.

"Susan," I said, "use the radio and tell Mark to stay right behind us and to keep his foot on the gas at all times. Windows up and doors locked, if they aren't already."

Then I just pressed the gas pedal down and we zoomed toward the pack. Most people have never hit another person with a car. I certainly hadn't. So I just can't really describe how it sounds to literally plow through row upon row of people in a car. The noise is sickening, as bones snap and bodies tumble. Wipers can't keep up with all the blood and gore splattering on the windshield. And unless you're driving a tank or something, your car is going to slow down a lot as you try to bash your way through the pack. We hit the front of the pack doing close to 100 mph. We were down below 30 when we finally smashed through the pack and hit the open road again. I managed to drive another mile before I had to stop and puke my guts out. Susan was doing the same out the passenger door.

After that, we tried to find ways around zombie packs.

Bad as that was, the worst was when we saw regular people. They'd run out when they heard the cars coming, waving and shouting and trying to get us to stop. Not stopping for those people was the hardest thing I'd ever done. I guess it was harder on Mark and Janet. Just outside St. Louis, they stopped for someone. I saw it in my rearview mirror and had Susan try to radio them. They didn't bother answering and I couldn't stop.

We never saw Mark and Janet again.

Every few hours, we called in to MicrosnAp support, hoping someone had managed to get in touch with an actual Windows developer. Just about the time we crossed the Washington state line, Sreeni told us he'd found someone for us. A guy who used to be an operator in the labs in Redmond had turned up in south Florida. Sreeni patched us through to him.

"You the guy heading for Redmond?" a scratchy voice asked me.

"Yeah, that's me. Did Sreeni explain what we want to do?"

"He did. You aren't thinking this is going to be easy are you?" he asked. "You're going right into zombie ground zero and I'm not so sure you're going to be able to get back out, even if you do succeed."

"Please don't tell me I'm going to need a programmer with me," I replied.

"Not as long as you know how to change the date on a computer, you don't," he said.

"Computer? You don't mean an iMplant?" I asked.

"I mean a computer with a keyboard and a monitor and probably a mouse. You ever use one of those before these iMplant things came out?"

"I have," Susan said. "My grandparents had one of them and they showed me how things were done back in the old days, before iMplants. I don't know how to change the date, though."

"It's easy enough," he said, and explained it. He was right, it was easy.

"You just change the dates on network server. Something about 10 years in the future should do. The date will be kicked out to the other servers automatically. Then you just shut down the active validation server. Just pull the plug or whatever. When the active server goes down, the next server in the cluster automatically starts up and takes over running validation. First thing a server does when it comes up is send out a validation check and with the date set so far forward, none of them are going to pass. The server will send out mandatory shutdown codes for every iMplant out there."

"Sounds...a lot easier than I thought it would be. Thanks, um, you know I never got your name," I said.

"And you don't need to get it, either," he replied.

He told us which building we needed to enter and where to find the servers. "That's assuming they haven't moved them in the last few years. They probably haven't, but I'll be in regular contact with the support group in case you need me. Good luck you two. I think you're going to need it."

Seven hours later, we drove into Redmond. It was just like all the other cities we'd driven through. Quiet. Scary. Deserted. Except that I was always picking up some kind of movement out of the corner of my eye. The zombies were out there and they knew we were there, too. Unlike the other cities, though, we were going to have to stop in Redmond.

By the time we hit the MicrosnAp campus, we could hear masses of zombies moving behind us. We couldn't see them, but they were definitely following the car. I just hoped we could do what we had to do before they reached us. After their iMplants shut down, we should be safe enough. We found the right building, hopped out of the car, I grabbed the shotgun and we headed in.

It didn't take long to find the server room the guy had described to us. And those MicrosnAp operators were well organized. Every server rack was labeled and easy to find. Ten minutes after we came in through the door, Susan was pecking on a keyboard, changing the server date. We could hear the mob of zombies approaching outside the building as we waited for the date change to hit the other servers.

The zombies were banging on the building entrance when the dates changed.

We could hear them bashing the doors open as we shut down the active validation server.

We could hear them shuffling into the building as the next server in the cluster started up.

We could hear them on the stairs as a message flashed up on the monitor reading "POLLING WINDOWS VALIDATION."

We could hear them in the hallway as the a new message flashed up reading "VALIDATION FAILED. SENDING WINDOWS SHUTDOWN."

We were hugging each other in delight as the final message flashed up, "SHUTDOWN COMPLETE."

We looked up as the door to the server room banged open and the zombies began to shuffle in.

"H-Henry," Susan said, "they still look like zombies!"

"Run for the other end of the building! To the windows!" I said as I took a couple of shots at the leading zombies. That jammed the door a bit as some of the zombies started eating the ones I'd shot. It bought us a few minutes. I hoped it would be enough.

At the far end of the lab, I blasted out a window. We were on the third floor and should survive a jump to the ground. The zombies had cleared the jam at the door and were shuffling toward us as I lowered Susan as far down as I could then let her go, swung out of the window until I was hanging by fingers then dropped after her.

We both go up limping a little bit, but at least there weren't any zombies right there. Slipping around the building, we came within sight of the car. The closest zombies were about 20 feet away from it and facing in the other direction. Without taking the time to think about it, we dashed for the car.

I ended up having to shoot a couple of zombies and Susan clubbed another one, but then we were in the car and heading away from the MicrosnAp campus.

***

Three months later

We waited and hoped that the Windows shutdown would fix things, put people right again. In the long run, I guess their minds were just too damaged. We never found anyone who returned to normal.

Through the MicrosnAp support line, Susan and I organized a migration of those unaffected people we could reach. We're all living in Alaska now. It's damned cold up here in the winter, particularly for a guy who grew up in the Carolinas, but there aren't many zombies. We hope they'll all freeze to death during the winter.

Watch This!

2008-07-03T07:16:00.011-04:00

“Hey, Cletus, hold my beer and watch this!”

That was the last thing Ronnie remembered saying before he ended up…where ever it was he’d ended up. He was standing in a line of some kind. A long line. And a real quiet one, too. Briefly, he wondered what the line was for, got bored with that and started looking around.

Off to his right it was bright and white and seemed to go on forever. Bo-o-o-o-oring! On his left, there was some kind of high fence, looked like wrought iron or something else expensive. On the other side of the fence was a high shrub wall, so he couldn’t see what was inside the fence. Behind him was Cletus. And the rest of the line.

“Damn, now that’s one long line!” Ronnie said.

“You want your beer back, Ronnie?” Cletus asked, holding out the open can of PBR.

Ronnie took the beer, glad to see Cletus had held onto the twelve pack after whatever had happened. That was one thing you could count on from Cletus. He always held onto the beer. That’s why he was Ronnie’s best friend in the whole world.

He had no idea what was going on, but Ronnie was sure it was going to be easier to face after a few beers. Draining the warm PBR in one long pull, Ronnie belched loudly, crushed the can on his forehead and tossed the empty over his shoulder. Faces turned toward them, frowning at Ronnie and Cletus. Taking another beer from Cletus, Ronnie tried frowning back. Everyone else just turned away. Not one of them asked for a beer.

“Cletus, we ain’t in Kansas no more!”

“Ronnie, I ain’t never been to Kansas so there ain’t no way we ain’t in Kansas no more. You gots to be in a place 'fore you can’t be in it no more!”

That was another thing Ronnie liked about Cletus. Cletus made Ronnie feel smart and there weren’t many people he could say that about.

“You got any idea what this line is for?” Ronnie asked Cletus.

“Can’t be for beer or someone woulda asked us for one,” Cletus replied, “unless they don’t like PBR.”

Ronnie tapped the person in front of him on the shoulder.

“Hey, you know what this here line is for?”

The person brushed his shoulder off, frowned even more deeply than when Ronnie had belched and turned away.

“Only one thing could get this many people out to stand in line on the 4^th of July, Cletus. Got to be a concert!”

“Could be a white sale, Ronnie,” Cletus said. “My momma told some real horror stories ‘bout lines at white sales.”

Ronnie rolled his eyes and said, “You got any money on you?”

Turning out his pockets, Cletus replied, “Nope.”

“Me neither,” said Ronnie. “Dang, how we gonna get into this here concert without any money?”

“Do what we always do, Ronnie,” Cletus said. “Pull the truck up to the fence and we can hop over.”

“Good thinking, Cletus!” Ronnie said. “You remember where we parked the truck?”

“Heck, Ronnie, I don’t even remember driving here!” Cletus replied.

“Aw, Hell.”

Again, faces turned toward Ronnie, frowning the deepest frown yet. Ronnie flipped them off and pulled Cletus from the line.

“Gimme a boost up to the top of the fence. Then I’ll pull you up,” he told Cletus.

“What about the beer, Ronnie?”

“Well, of course you’re gonna hand the beer up to me first! You think I’m gonna leave perfectly good beer for these people?” Ronnie waved his hand toward the line.

The people in the line watched as Cletus boosted Ronnie to the top of the fence. As Cletus was handing Ronnie the beer, one man in the line turned to another.

“Shouldn’t we stop them?” he asked.

“Not my problem,” replied the other man. “Besides, the guy behind me probably wouldn’t let us back in line.”

“I beg your pardon?” said the man behind him. “Unlike those morons, you surely know why we’re in this line! I am honest and trustworthy or I wouldn’t be here.”

“Yeah, yeah. After you get through the gate, I’ll believe you. Right now, you’re just another guy who’s nervous about the big interview coming up. Besides, the morons are already over the fence.”

Dropping to the ground inside the fence, Ronnie and Cletus looked around. Expecting an amphitheater, they found themselves looking at a city with streets of gold and buildings of gold, silver and marble. It was the most amazing sight either of had ever seen. It kept their attention for almost an entire 15 seconds.

“Don’t see no concert, Ronnie,” Cletus said, opening another PBR.

“Good thing you told me, Cletus, ‘cause I’d never have figgered it out,” Ronnie replied, his words thick with sarcasm.

“That’s what friends are for, Ronnie,” Cletus said, completely missing the sarcasm.

“All right, now be quiet. Maybe we can hear the crowd or something if we listen hard,” said Ronnie.

Both men listened hard, interrupted only be the occasional swig of beer. After a minute, Cletus spoke.

“Hey, I hear something, Ronnie! Over that a way!”

And now Ronnie could hear it, too. It didn’t sound like rock or country or even bluegrass, but it was music. After making sure Cletus still had the beer, Ronnie led off toward the music. After a bit of walking, they found the amphitheater.

“Told you it was a concert,” Ronnie said. “People don’t line up like that for anything else!”

“Where we gonna sit, Ronnie?”

“Down front, of course! Just follow me and act natural like,” Ronnie told him.

“Okay,” Cletus replies, following his friend.

“Ronnie?” Cletus asked after a few seconds.

“Yeah, Cletus?” Ronnie replied.

“How would I act if I didn’t act natural like?”

“You know, unnatural like,” Ronnie said.

“Well, what’s unnatural like? So’s I don’t act that way,” Cletus asked.

Ronnie sighed. “Trying to kiss me would be unnatural, Cletus.”

“Oh,” Cletus said, nodding. “I won’t try to kiss you, Ronnie.”

“Shut up, Cletus. I think they’re about to start something new.”

Ronnie was right. Music swelled around them, unlike anything Ronnie and Cletus had ever heard before. The music was cosmic. It was primal. It was triumphant. It was soothing. It was soul stirring and spirit up lifting.

It was not Free Bird.

Polishing off another beer, Ronnie yelled, “Free Bird!”

Cletus joined in, “Free Bird!”

The music ground to a halt. All around them, faces turned toward them, expressions of indescribable joy vanishing behind deep frowns. Ronnie and Cletus remained oblivious.

“Free Bird!” they yelled together. “Free Bird!”

Then, with a flash of light, the amphitheater vanished from around Ronnie and Cletus. They found themselves facing a crowd of angry people, all talking at once to… Ronnie gaped. The angry people were all talking to God. And they were all pointing at him. And at Cletus, but not as much.

God lifted one hand and silence fell. His great eyes turned toward Ronnie and Ronnie wanted to hide behind Cletus.

“It appears,” God’s voice rang out, “that discord has entered the realm of Heaven. Entered on Nike clad feet.”

“Uh, what’s He mean, Ronnie?” Cletus whispered.

“He means we pissed off a lot of people, Cletus,” Ronnie whispered back.

“There is no need to whisper, Cletus,” God said. “I hear all, regardless of volume.”

“Ronnie,” Cletus sounded nervous, “He knows my name!”

“Course He knows your name, dumbass. God knows everything!” Ronnie told him.

“I know He knows everything. I just figgered it was important stuff. My name ain’t important.”

“It is to me, Cletus, just as you are important to me,” God said. “Another important question is how the two of you came to be here.”

“Ronnie,” Cletus whispered again, “I thought you said God knows everything?”

“I do, Cletus,” God said, “but confession is good for the soul. Trust me on this.”

“We, uh,” Ronnie began, “we climbed over your fence, sir. I mean, your Godliness. And we went to a concert.”

“Which you interrupted with repeated calls for Free Bird,” God added. “While Ronnie Van Zant will be pleased to know his work is still appreciated on earth, I would like for you to start a bit earlier. Let Us say, shortly before you asked Cletus to hold your beer.”

“Oh, yeah, Ronnie! You got to tell Him about that!” Cletus said.

Ronnie squirmed as all eyes turned, again, toward him.

“Well,” Ronnie began, “my cousin Billy managed to get his hands on some real good stuff for lighting grills. And, you know, it being the 4^th of July, I figgered I’d use it to start the fire for my cook out. I poured a whole bunch of the stuff over my charcoal and-“

“What kind of ‘stuff’ was it, Ronnie?” God asked.

“Well, You know, sir. God.”

“Yes, I do. As does Peter, as the act is now recorded in the Book of Life. But none of these others know.”

“It, uh, was, uh, some jet fuel and, uh, something cousin Billy said was liquid oxygen. He said it would burn something fierce,” Ronnie continued.

“So, I, uh, poured a bunch of both on my charcoal. Then I asked Cletus to hold my beer. Then I lit a match. Then we were outside your fence.”

Comprehension suddenly pushed its way through the fog of beer in Ronnie’s mind.

“Ah, man, I’m real sorry, Cletus! I killed you with my grill!” Ronnie said, distraught.

“That’s okay, Ronnie,” Cletus said. “I ain’t mad or nothing. And it that grill lighting was something to see!”

“Peter?” God asked.

“Yes, my Lord?” replied an old man with a long beard.

“Take Ronnie and Cletus and bring them into My realm properly, please.”

“You mean I ain’t going to Hell?” Ronnie asked. “I mean, I killed my best friend!”

“I done told you I ain’t upset about that, Ronnie,” Cletus said.

A book suddenly appeared in Peter’s hands, “Ronald Roosevelt Jenkins, you have led an aimless life, but one filled with kindness toward others. Accidentally killing your best friend was not a good way to end your life, but your friend’s forgiveness counts in your favor.”

Peter looked up and the book vanished, “You are to be welcomed into the Kingdom of Heaven, Ronald.”

“Ronnie,” God said, just before Peter led the two men away, “you are not the first to say ‘Hold my beer and watch this!’ Nor will you be the last. In a way, you are hardwired to say such things.”

“I don’t understand, sir. Um, my Lord,” Ronnie said.

God smiled at him, “Do you know your Bible well, Ronnie?”

“Pretty well. I think,” Ronnie replied.

“In Genesis, do you recall the words I spoke when creating the heavens and the earth?”

“Oh, I know!” Cletus exclaimed. “You said ‘Let there be light’ and there was light!”

“Very good, Cletus,” God said. “But I edited that a bit before sending My divine inspiration. My first words were…”

Even Peter’s eyes widened in surprise and anticipation.

“…Hey, Lucifer! Hold my nectar and watch this!”

The Carnival

2008-06-24T22:57:00.006-04:00

If traffic wasn’t so backed up on the interstate, I’d never have tried to take the back roads. But after an hour of inching forward, the kids were getting difficult and my wife’s temper was fraying. I decided even the illusion of progress was better than this. I joined the line of trucks exiting onto Highway 52, figuring the truckers knew what they were doing.

Minutes later we were flying along down the two lane road. The kids settled down, as much as four and five year old kids can settle down on a long trip. My wife leaned back and closed her eyes in relief. The relief lasted almost 20 minutes. Then the kids spotted the carnival up ahead. Any parent knows what happened next.

“Daddy! Daddy!” shouted Ben, the youngest. “Look!”

“Use your indoor voice, Ben,” I said. “I can hear you just fine. What am I supposed to look at?”

“Rides and stuff!” He was still yelling. “Can we stop and ride some rides? Please?”

“Please?” added Nancy, the five year old.

I looked over at Alice, “Looks like a little traveling carnival. What do you think?”

“Why not? We’re supposed to be on vacation,” she said. “Besides, maybe it’ll tire them out enough that they’ll take a nap.”

“Does that mean yes,” Ben asked.

“Yes, it does,” I answered, to cheers from the back seat.

A minute later I pulled off the road into a dirt parking lot. The lot was empty, which seemed odd. We were on the outskirts of a town and I’d have thought at least some of the locals would have brought their kids out here. I had second thoughts then, but the kids were so excited I decided to at least look around. Even if it was a crappy carnival, it would let the kids burn off some energy.

Climbing out of the car, something seemed wrong. Something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Nancy and Ben didn’t notice a thing. They were yelling and jumping up and down and acting like kids at, well, a carnival. Without waiting for Alice or me, they dashed off towards the carnival. I was about to call them back when Alice laid a hand on my arm.

“Let them go, Ron,” she said. “It’s not like they can go…”

Alice trailed off as both of us figured out what had been bothering us. There was no sound other than our two children. No music from rides. No carnival barkers. No noise at all. Without a word, we both started running after the children.

“Nancy! Ben!” I shouted. “Stop and wait for your mother and me!”

Either they didn’t hear us or they ignored us. Who can tell with kids at that age? Still shrieking in delight, Nancy and Ben dashed into the carnival and made a beeline for the merry-go-round. No one stopped them. No one asked for a ticket. No one even seemed to be manning the ride. But as soon as they clambered onto horses, the ride began to turn. Silently, eerily, round and round it went, the only sound the laughter from my children. I got ready to jump onto the ride and remove the kids.

That’s when the ride attendant appeared, and I do mean appeared. One second he wasn’t there and the next he stood between me and the ride. He was on the far side of middle aged, had a face that had been browned by years in the sun and clothing that looked at least fifty years out of fashion. He didn’t speak, only smiled, perhaps a bit sadly, and pointed to a sign that read For Your Safety, No Boarding A Moving Ride. I tried to push past him, but somehow he was always between me and the ride. I was about to punch his smiling face in when the ride slowed to a stop.

Eyes shining, Nancy and Ben hopped off the merry-go-round. Alice and I tried to grab them but they dodged around us and ran deeper into the carnival. And just like that, the carnival was manned. There were attendants at every ride. People running games and food stalls. Barkers before attraction tents. And it was still totally silent.

Alice and I exchanged concerned glances and hurried after our children. Before we could catch them, Nancy and Ben had climbed onto the tilt-a-whirl. As before, the ride started as soon as they were on it. But then we noticed they weren’t alone on the ride. A young woman was riding with a boy and a girl who looked to be about the same age as our two. The sight of another family eased our concern somewhat. The carnival was still eerie, but it seemed less threatening with another family there.

Again, Nancy and Ben shrieked in delight at the ride. The other mother wore a smile on her face as her two children shrieked in delight as well. Shrieked silently. Mouths moved and the mother responded as if her children had actually spoken. But there was only silence. Concern turned to worry and mounted swiftly towards panic.

“Alice, we’ve got to get the children out of here,” I said. “I don’t know what this place is, but it scares the Hell out of me.”

Alice only nodded, never once taking her eyes off of Nancy and Ben. When the ride stopped this time, we were ready. We each grabbed a child as they came off the tilt-a-whirl and turned to go.

“Put me down!” demanded Nancy. “There’s lots more stuff to ride!”

“Yeah,” added Ben, “we were having fun!”

“Fun time is over,” I said. “It’s time to go.”

And that set off the tantrums. Both of them were kicking and screaming as we moved toward the exit, watched by dozens of silent carnies.

“You’re a big meany!” said Nancy. “We didn’t even get any popcorn or cotton candy. We always get popcorn or cotton candy at the carnival!”

“Well, I don’t see anybody selling popcorn or-“ I stopped.

Right before us, a man was holding out cotton candy toward both children. He smiled sadly, dressed as far out of fashion as the first attendant. As everyone, I realized.

“Oh boy, cotton candy!” said Ben, reaching for it.

“I don’t think so-“ I began.

“If you get the cotton candy, will you go back to the car quietly?” Alice asked. “No fights. No arguments? No complaints?”

Seeing a chance to get something out of this, both children nodded.

“All right, then. You can have it this one time,” Alice said.

Nancy and Ben grabbed the cotton candy and were about to take big bites out of it when the cotton candy was slapped out of both their hands. Startled more than hurt, both of them started crying. An old man with a cane stood before us. We hadn’t even noticed him, with everything else that was going on. The old man had a strange, almost triumphant look on his face.

Handing the still crying Nancy over to Alice, I said, “Take the kids to the car, Alice. I’ll be there in a minute.”

As Alice hustled the children towards the parking lot, I turned on the old man.

“Just what the Hell do you think you’re doing?” I demanded. “You make a habit out of smacking other people’s children.”

“Only if those children are about to eat food here,” the man answered.

“Oh, so you’re the local health inspector?” I was angry at the old man even while I was relieved to have my family out of the carnival.

“No. Not the health inspector. Just an old man keeping an old promise to himself,” the man said, sounding weary and sad and defeated.

“What kind of promise?” I asked, my anger fading.

Waving a hand toward the silent family on the tilt-a-whirl, he answered, “A promise I made to myself. To make sure no one else ever ended up like them.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Not surprised, young fellow. Took me a while to figure it out, myself. You in the mood to listen or you just want to punch me in the nose and get on out of here? Personally, I recommend punching and running. I wish I’d had that choice,” the old man told me. I realized tears were shining in his eyes.

“The woman and the two children. Who are they?” I asked.

The man bent his head over his hands and a small sob escaped. “My wife and children. They’ve been riding that ride for forty-six years and they’ll keep riding it forever.

“You see, there hasn’t been a carnival around here for nearly sixty years,” the old man explained.

I looked around, bewildered at how he could say something like that.

“Oh, I know, you can see a carnival, but it’s not really there. Fifty-eight years ago today, the carnival you see was ripped apart by a tornado. None of the carnies survived. It was just luck that they were still setting up or lots of townsfolk would have been killed, too.

“Townsfolk don’t really believe the carnival comes back each year on the same date it was destroyed. It took me a while to figure out but it seems like only people who are passing through, people with children, ever see the carnival. Doesn’t make much sense to me, but the whole idea of a ghost carnival doesn’t make much sense, either.

“I didn’t live here back when the tornado ripped through. I never even planned to live here. My family and I were passing through, just like you, I expect. The kids were getting antsy and my wife and I were trying to figure out some way to settle them down when we saw this carnival.

“Just like you, we stopped. Just like you, my wife and I got spooked. Just like you, we grabbed the children and started to leave. And, just like you, the man with the cotton candy appeared and offered some to my children.

“Son,” the old man said, “you can’t eat the food of the dead without joining them. Our two little ones took a bite each and just slipped out of our arms. We couldn’t hold them. Couldn’t talk to them. Couldn’t do anything but watch as the day ended and the carnival faded away, taking our children with it.

“My wife and me, we both went a little crazy after that. We couldn’t leave, of course. Over the next year we tried everything we could think of to get our children back. Preachers, miracle workers, psychics and more charlatans willing to make a fast buck off of someone else’s pain than you ever want to know exist. Nothing worked.

“The next year, we both came back out here before dawn. Watched the sun come up and the carnival slowly appear around us. And there were our two children, just as they had been the year before, silently riding the tilt-a-whirl. That broke it for my wife. She grabbed up some cotton candy, took a bite and has been riding with our babies ever since.

“I lost everything to this carnival, young fellow. Everything. And I swore no one else would ever have that happen. I’ve been out here every year for the last forty-six years watching the family I no longer have and watching for people like you. There’ve been a few over the years, though not so many since they built the interstate. Counting yours, I’ve stopped thirteen families from losing their kids to this place. Most of them punched me in the nose before they left, but at least they left.

“Don’t know how much longer I’ve got till I’m gone, but I’m going to have a few questions for God when I finally get past the pearly gates!”

Tears were streaming down the old man’s face as he finished his tale. And who could blame him?

“Go on, now, young fellow. That pretty wife of yours is probably wondering why it’s taking so long to punch an old man in the nose,” he told me, trying to smile through a lifetime of pain.

“No, sir,” I replied, “I think I’ll just stay right here for a while.”

“Whatever for? You don’t want your kids around here, man! Get out while the getting is good!” the old man said.

“I’ll send Alice into town with the kids,” I told him. “She can come back and get me after dark, when the carnival is gone. Besides, she hates to have me around when she talks to real estate people.”

“Real estate people? You aren’t just passing through?”

“We were,” I answered, “but I think it’s time you got to rest. I’ll take over guarding the carnival from now on. Maybe you can find some peace before you have that talk with God.”

“Y-you really mean that, young fellow? You’d really do that for me?”

“I think it’s the least I can do for the man who saved my children,” I answered. “Now why don’t you go on home.”

“Home? Yeah, you’ll need one,” said the old man as he reached into his pocket and pulled out some keys. “Here, you can have mine. Just tell Tom down at the bank that you won the keys at the carnival. He thinks I’m crazy, but he’ll know what to do.”

“But where are you going to live?” I asked.

“I’m not, young fellow. I’m not.”

As he said that, the old man took some cotton candy from the vendor who had reappeared next to us. Before I could do or say anything, he took a bite and let the rest fall to the ground. He turned and started hobbling toward the tilt-a-whirl. He hadn’t taken five steps before he dropped the cane. After ten, his back had straightened and his step had lightened. By the time he reached the tilt-a-whirl, forty-six years had dropped off of him. Smiling broadly, he joined his family on the ride.

I turned toward the parking lot, trying to figure out how I would explain all this to Alice. It was then that I heard the first and last sound I would ever hear from that carnival.

“Daddy!” a little girl’s voice whispered. “We’ve been waiting for you!”

Bruce Wayne vs. Lex Luthor

2008-06-19T18:03:00.005-04:00

This is an entry for the esteemed Bruce Bethke's Friday Challenge writing contest. I hope your all enjoy it.

Page 1

Panel 1

Bruce Wayne, well dressed in a dark suit and tie, walks through a crowded room. On his arm is a beautiful, raven haired woman named Julie. She is wearing a shape hugging evening dress with a plunging neckline. They carry drinks, as do many in the crowd. Service personnel carrying trays of drinks or hors devours dot the crowd. In the distance, a bald man wearing a similar suit with a similar looking woman can be seen. This is Lex Luthor. The woman is named Callan.

Bruce: There’s someone I want you to meet.

Julie: You mean Lex Luthor? How do you know him?

Bruce: I met him when we both sponsored a PGA charity golf tournament.

Julie: PGA? Is that the Psychopathic Golfer’s Association?

Bruce: Ha ha. Be nice.

Panel 2

Lex spies Bruce and the two men steer toward each other.

Lex: Bruce! So you got roped into this dreary affair, as well? Why don’t we just write the charity checks for a million dollars and then hit the links?

Bruce: You’re on, Lex! But first I wanted to introduce someone to you.

Panel 3

The two women smile, almost smirk. Bruce and Lex look surprised.

Julie: Hello, Lex. I see you’ve gotten over me.

Callan: I see the same applies to you, Bruce.

Callan: Hi, I’m Callan.

Julie: I’m Julie. So, you know Bruce?

Callan: Intimately. And you and Lex?

Julie: The same.

Panel 4

Julie and Callan have turned and are starting to walk away from the still stunned Bruce and Lex.

Callan: My new BFF Julie and I have some catching up to do. We’re off to powder our noses.

Julie: Talk about anything you want, boys. Anything except us!

Bruce and Lex (thought – have them share the same thought bubble): This looks like trouble!

Panel 5

Bruce and Lex both look as if they want to bolt from the other’s company.

Bruce: I’ve got to…

Lex: …call into my office.

Bruce: Okay.

Lex: Right. Bye.

Page 2

Split this page in half down the middle. On the left side, in the odd numbered panels, we’ll see what Bruce is doing. On the right side, in the even numbered panels, we’ll see what Lex is doing. This will give the readers a sense that the actions are occurring at the same time.

Panel 1

Bruce hurries out of the party, into a hallway.

Panel 2

Lex brings his left wrist to his mouth.

Lex: Code ruby red. I say again, code ruby red.

Panel 3

Bruce enters an unmarked doorway out in the hallway.

Panel 4

A minion delivers a small case to Lex.

Panel 5

Outside of the building, Batman emerges from a darkened window. The window is 30 floors up from the ground. The outside of the building is ornately decorated, making it easy for Batman to move around. This is Gotham city, so include gargoyles.

Panel 6

Lex slips into a door marked “Men”. Next to that door is one marked “Women”.

Panel 7

Perched on a gargoyle next to a frosted window, Batman has what amounts to a fancy stethoscope pressed to the window.

Panel 8

In a stall, Lex has closed the toilet (let’s go easy on him and let this public restroom have covers as well as seats). The small case is open next to Lex. In it are several small tools and technical devices, including a small drill with an extremely long drill bit. At Lex’s feet is a small pile of ceramic dust from the hole he drilled in the wall. Lex is feeding a small fiber optic cable through the hole.

Page 3

Panel 1

Julie and Callan are standing at the mirrors, primping. The frosted window can be seen in the background. Batman’s shadow can be seen against the window. Peaking up over a stall, we can also see a small spider like robot with the fiber optic cable.

Callan: Did Lex do the whole “Lois Lane” fantasy bit with you?

Julie: Oh my God! He’s still into that?

Panel 2

In the toilet stall, Lex winces.

Panel 3

Julie and Callan are still before the mirrors but have stopped primping and are looking at each other. Otherwise, this is the same as panel 1.

Callan: Did he have you dress in something slinky?

Julie: And cower on the bed in mock terror as a captive of Lex Luthor?

Callan: And then some employee or minion or whatever he calls them, breaks into the room wearing a Superman costume?

Panel 4

Split this panel diagonally. In one half, Lex is so mortified that he nearly falls off the toilet seat. In the other half, Batman is laughing so hard he nearly falls off the gargoyle.

Panel 5

Same as Panel 3, except now the women are obviously giggling.

Julie: Uh huh! Then Lex pretends to beat up Superman, all the while proclaiming the Man of Steel is no match for Lex and his Rod of Steel?

Callan: And then you have to do the whole Madeline Kahn scene from Young Frankenstein?

Julie: No, Lex! No! No… Oh! Oh, Lex! Yes! Yes!

Page 4

Panel 1

Outside the window, Batman is still laughing.

Batgirl (from off panel): What’s so funny, Bruce?

Panel 2

Batgirl swings up next to Batman on the gargoyle. Batman is still laughing and holding out the ear phones for the listening device.

Batman: Met up with Lex Luthor at this charity ball and it turns out my girl is one of his ex-girls.

Batgirl: So?

Batman: His ex and his current are in there comparing notes. I haven’t heard anything this funny in… No, I’ve never heard anything this funny!

Panel 3

Switch back to the restroom. Julie and Callan are now leaning against the counter with their backs to the mirror. Both are laughing.

Callan: What about Bruce? Is he still calling his the Batpole?

Julie: Oh yeah! And he’s always telling you to slide down the Batpole?

Sound FX: Giggle

Sound FX: Snicker

Panel 4

Back outside the window, now Batgirl is laughing. Batman now looks stunned and is reaching for the ear phones.

Batgirl: Ha! The Batpole? Jesus, Bruce, that’s just sick!

Batman: The wha- Um, Batgirl, that’s enough eavesdropping. This is a private conversation between private, law abiding citizens. You shouldn’t be listening!

Batgirl: Right, like I’m going to stop listening after that?

Panel 5:

Same as Panel 3

Callan: Does Bruce still have the costume?

Julie: You mean the crotchless Batgirl costume?

Callan: That’s the one!

Panel 6

It’s now Lex’s turn to laugh. He’s laughing so hard he nearly falls off the toilet again.

Page 5

Panel 1

An outraged Batgirl is staring daggers at a suddenly defensive Batman.

Batgirl: Crotchless Batgirl costume?

Batman: Now, I can explain, Barbara! You see-

Batgirl: You have a crotchless Batgirl costume!

Panel 2

Back in the restroom, Callan and Julie and laughing and having a great time.

Callan: Has he ever made you go outside and pretend to break into the house?

Julie: Break in? No, not yet. What’s the deal?

Callan: You slip outside with, well, pretty much everything wide open for view and pretend to break into stately Wayne manner. Then Bruce shows up wearing a Batman cowl and cape and, well, you can guess from there.

Julie: Thanks for the warning, though it sounds kind of kinky.

Panel 3

Same as Panel 2 except, through the window, we see the shadow of Batgirl pounding on Batman. Batman is trying to defend himself from the enraged woman. Callan and Julie do not notice this.

Callan: Oh, it can be kinky, all right. One time, as I climbed in through the window, I found myself face to face with Alfred.

Julie: The butler? What did you do?

Callan: Before I could say anything, he just spoke up in that annoying calm voice of his, saying, “Sorry to startle you, miss. Master Bruce will be with you directly.”

Julie: He didn’t ogle at you?

Callan: Didn’t even bat an eye, if you’ll pardon the expression. Not even when Bruce swooped into the room and, uh, went to it right there in front of Alfred.

Panel 4

Lex is fumbling with a small device, trying to attach it to the fiber optic cable.

Lex: Oh, I’ve got to record this! I’ll have one of my younger minions post it on YouTube!

Panel 5

Batman continues to try to dodge Batgirl’s attacks. Batgirl continues listening through the ear phones.

Julie (through the window): God, Callan, right in front of Alfred?

Callan (through the window): Truth to tell, Julie, I don’t think it was the first time for either of them.

Julie (through the window): I think I’d just about die!

Callan (through the window): I don’t know, Julie. I kind of got off on it. I mean, what else could I do?

Page 6

Panel 1

Back to Lex. He’s still trying to attach the device when the door to stall is yanked open by a big, mean looking security guard.

Guard: What the Hell do you think you’re doing, mister?

Lex: Do you have any idea who I am, officer?

Guard: Yeah. You’re a pervert and you’re coming with me!

Panel 2

Batman, on the run from Batgirl, dives back through the window he came out through earlier in the story. Batgirl is flinging the ear phones at him in disgust.

Batgirl: Next time I see you, you’d better be crawling and begging! You hear me, Bruce?

Panel 3

Bruce slips out of the door back into the hallway. In the background, Lex is standing outside the door to the Men’s room. He’s handing a large amount of cash to the security guard. Both men look somewhat the worse for wear. Bruce is sporting the beginnings of a shiner. Lex’s clothes have been obviously mussed up badly.

Panel 4

Bruce and Lex return to the charity ball.

Bruce: Rod of Steel?

Lex: Batpole?

Panel 5

As Julie and Callan return to their respective dates, Bruce and Lex look sheepishly at each other.

Bruce: This never happened, right?

Lex: Absolutely right.

Them There

2008-05-20T15:25:00.003-04:00

I ain’t never had much interest in technology stuff. I got more than my fill back in Nam and after coming home I didn’t have nothing to do with it. Yeah, after them hippies got finished spitting on me and damning me to Hell and calling me baby killer, I headed for the hills. It was quiet up here with just me, my guns and food on the hoof. Truth to tell, it lasted longer than I figured it would and took a stupid ass little ant to ruin it all.

Seeing as how I don’t have a TV or radio or telephone, the first I heard ‘bout them there ants was when I got me some neighbors. Neighbors! Here I lived on this mountain all by myself for nigh on 40 years, never seeing nobody less’n I hoofed the 30 miles into town to pick up some supplies. And suddenly I got people moving in less than a mile away! Loud people they was, too. Hell, the first day I heard one of them coming over to my place 15 minutes ‘fore he got here. Looked like I was gonna have to go a ways out to find some game tomorrow. Noisy boy finally came into view and he looked pretty harmless.

I was afraid he’d turn out to be one of them hippie types what just got old, but he didn’t look like it. Course you can’t tell just to look at them any more. And they ain’t called hippies no more, neither. Found out ‘bout that a few years back when I walked into town for some stuff. I come walking into town leading my mule and some city boy “getting away from it all” in the mountains comes up to me and says I’m a “green inspiration” and how I was “getting back to nature” and all. Then he tried to tell me ‘bout how green his pree us was but the mule crapped on his shoe, which pissed him off something fierce. He got even more pissed when I slapped him on the back and told him how he was getting back to nature, too. Moron. Down at the store they laughed and told me ‘bout being “green” and that’s when I figured out that hippies had learned ‘bout camo.

Anyway, noisy boy came up and introduced himself. Said his name was Henry and he and his family was moving up here to get away from the collapse of civilization. I ain’t got no idea what the Hell he was talking ‘bout and told him so. That’s when I first heard ‘bout them there ants what eat electronics and ruin technology and ain’t easy to kill. Seems them there ants showed up in Texas a while back, eating up fire ants – which ain’t no loss – but eating up all sorts of tech stuff, too. At first I didn’t care none ‘bout the tech stuff, neither, till this Henry started telling me what was happening out in the world.

Seems them there ants was everywhere. They got into the U.S. through the ports. Houston first but all them others got hit, too. Same thing in Europe, Asia, Africa, South America, the whole dang world. And the first thing them there ants marched on was space places. All the NASA places in the U.S. and all them foreign space places. They was all taken down first. After that, them there ants just took off and ate whatever tech stuff they could get to. Henry told ‘bout phones, TVs, radios and computers what just stopped working. Power plants were going down. Them cars with all their fancy electronic gizmos wouldn’t start. I bet that moron with the pree us was more pissed then he was when the mule crapped on his shoe!

Anyway, ol’ Henry says he saw the writing on the wall, bought some guns, lots of food and headed up here for the hills. He told me he figured it’d be a lot safer up here in the mountains living without any fancy tech stuff then it would to be in the city when the riots and looting started. I couldn’t argue none with him on that score. Then he said something that kinda made me warm up to him a bit. He said he didn’t know nothing ‘bout living off the land, hunting, growing food, things like that. Now, I knowed that boy didn’t know shit ‘bout living off the land, but at least Henry knew it, too. I seen enough high educated idiots in my life what confuse knowing a lot ‘bout a little with knowing a little ‘bout a lot. Then Henry offered to trade food and whatever else he could offer to me for hunting lessons.

Damn. So much for that warm feeling!

But, I taught Henry and his boys ‘bout hunting. That ain’t quite true. I taught Henry’s boys ‘bout hunting. They picked things up real quick like. Henry, not so much. Oh, he tried. Lord, did he try. But he was useless. Giving him a gun was like tossing ammo in the trash. He couldn’t shoot worth a damn and couldn’t move quiet like in the woods to save his life. The only way he was gonna kill game was if it died laughing watching him trying to hunt. So me and his boys told him to pull weeds in the vegetable patch and that sort of thing. Henry muttered something ‘bout hating yard work, but he did what he was told and hunting got a lot better after that.

He did okay with the vegetables, but maybe that’s ‘cause his wife was out there showing him how to do it. Fine looking woman, his wife. Almost made me think hiding up here in the hills for so long was a mistake. She didn’t get all upset ‘bout skinning and gutting what me and the boys brung in from hunting, neither. All said, he did right for himself with that woman of his.

Meanwhile, Henry kept up with all the goings on in the rest of the world. Seems he sealed up a bunch of radio equipment and brought it with him. He had one that ran off sunlight, one you cranked to power up and even a ham radio he kept sealed up. Said he was only gonna take that one out if he really had to contact someone. Say what you will ‘bout Henry’s hunting, he knew what he was talking ‘bout when it came to cities and tech stuff that ain’t working no more.

Most folks what lived in cities and towns never worried ‘bout all the tech stuff that kept things going. Least wise, not till it was gone. Can’t feed cities if you got no way to move food. Can’t make food if you got no way to plow and harvest big ass fields. Can’t stay warm in the winter if the heat don’t work. Can’t stay cool in the summer if the air conditioner don’t work. You get the idea. Cities was just big messes filled with people waiting around for someone, probably the government, to step in and take care of everybody. Henry said something ‘bout it being like War of the Worlds with civilization brought down by something tiny and beneath our notice. Maybe so, but I ain’t never read that book. Guess I’ll just have to take his word for it.

One day, me and the boys came back from hunting and found Henry all excited ‘bout something. He said something ‘bout finding a message that was being sent to earth. To earth? Hell, that’d mean little green men or something, right? Henry laughed and said that little green men drove a pree us and lived in San Francisco. Nope, he was talking ‘bout aliens. I asked why he cared if Mexicans was sending us messages. Took me a while to get it all straight, but when Henry said “aliens” it weren’t no different than when I said “little green men.” Never did figure out what Henry meant ‘bout San Francisco and “little green men.” Anyway, once he picked up the message from the little green men on his short wave, he pulled out that ham radio he brung and radioed to them. He got hold of them and said they was coming down to meet us. Henry said they could help us fix the problem with them there ants.

Now me, I wasn’t so happy as Henry was to hear ‘bout them aliens. But if it might mean getting my mountain back to myself, I was willing to listen. If there really was little green men.

Well, there was little green men. But they wasn’t little or green or men, least wise not like us humans mean when we say it. They was sort of blue looking, ‘bout our size and had two arms and two legs. That’s ‘bout all that was the same, but I ain’t gonna bother describing something most people seen on the news by now. The main bit was they knew ‘bout them there ants and figured they could help. Turns out these blue guys were like, I don’t know, like Orkin out there in the rest of the galaxy. Claimed they ain’t never found a bug they couldn’t kill, if the price was right. Ol’ Henry just grinned at that and asked them all sorts of questions ‘bout, lemme see if I can get it right, “carbon based life forms” and “metabolic processes.” After that, he offered the blue boys a drink. It weren’t till after it was all over that I found out he got water for us and some of my corn licker for them.

I didn’t follow half the stuff he said to them after that but I figured out his plan. He got them blue boys all lickered up and learned all sorts of stuff. Like the blue boys dumped them there ants on the earth so’s they could show up and save our bacon. Orkin from the stars and all. Henry told me he figured that might be the case ‘cause of them showing up so soon after them there ants did. He found out them blue boys did that when they found worlds like ours what ain’t had “first contact” yet. Seems they broke ‘bout a hundred of their laws doing it but they made lots of money and figured they wouldn’t get caught, no how. Henry got all that recorded on some little doohickey – guess he kept that sealed till now, too – and even got the aliens to show him how to call what he said was like the “galactic equivalent of 911.”

Next thing I know, we got space cops all over the place and the earth is declared a galactic disaster area. Them galactic people – not just blue but red, yellow, orange, you name it, even green – brung in all sorts of stuff to help feed us humans and rebuild the earth. They got a real good legal system out there in space ‘cause they made the Orkin blue boys pay for it. Pretty much ran them boys out of business, not that I give a damn. ‘Course, this made us to be like heroes and suddenly my mountain was crawling with reporters all trying to get the story. I got tired of that real fast and probably would a shot a few of them if Henry or one of his boys weren’t always keeping an eye on me.

Then Henry told me ‘bout the rest of his deal. While them blue boys was drunk, he got them to give us the earth franchise for their bug killing stuff. Seeing as how the rest of company went under, suddenly me and him was the sole owners of the best bug killing stuff in the galaxy. Ain’t my area, but Henry told me we was licensing the stuff to them in the galaxy what wanted to pay for it. Next thing you know, we’re rich as all get out. Henry and his family headed back out to civilization again. They stop by regular like to visit but seem right happy to be back in the city.

Me? I build an electric fence round my mountain. I smile every time I hear one of them reporters get zapped.

The Lord of the Rings II: The Return of the One Ring

2008-03-20T23:03:00.004-04:00

Scene: Peter Jackson’s office. Movie Man has just arrived for his 11:00 appointment.

Movie Man: Peter, baby! How’s it going?

Peter Jackson: Do I know you?

Movie Man: Ha, ha! Always the kidder, aren’t you? But, hey, time is money, so they say. So let’s skip the chit chat and get right down to brass tacks.

Peter Jackson: Okay…

Movie Man: I’m putting together a movie deal that’s gonna be big. Really big. Huge, even! We’re talking big budget, high concept, first class all the way. New Line is 100% committed to the project, of course.

Peter Jackson: Of course. And the project is…?

Movie Man: The Lord of the Rings II: The Return of the One Ring!

Peter Jackson: The return-? But the One Ring was destroyed! Sauron is dead! Saruman is dead! Gandalf and Frodo went to the Grey Havens with the elves! How can you even think about doing a sequel?

Movie Man: Yeah, Pete. Can I call you Pete? I’ve got say that it just wasn’t very good planning on your part to destroy the ring, kill off all the bad guys and then ship all the heroes off to some island somewhere. What were you thinking?

Peter Jackson: It’s how the book ended!

Movie Man: There was a book?

Peter Jackson: Yes, there was a book, you idiot! But that’s beside the point. You can’t have the One Ring return because it was destroyed!

Movie Man: Nah. We can just say it was encased in lava or something and no one realized it wasn’t destroyed.

Peter Jackson: If it wasn’t destroyed, why did Sauron die? Why did his tower crumble? Why did the all-seeing eye vanish?

Movie Man: Oh, that’s pretty easy. You see, everyone believed the ring was destroyed. Frodo believed it. Sam believed it. Even Gollum believed it. That belief was projected on Sauron, so he believed it to. If you figure magic is based at least partially on belief systems, it makes sense that everything would come apart when the belief that supported the magic was removed.

Peter Jackson: That…doesn’t actually sound stupid. Where did you come up with that?

Movie Man: Got it from some kid who fixed my computer this morning. He got me out of a tough spot, too, because I sure had no idea how we could make it work!

Peter Jackson: Ah. That explains how something creative slipped into this presentation…

Movie Man: So, anyway, the one ring survives. Years pass. That guy who got to be king in the end, the one who landed the hot elf babe?

Peter Jackson: Aragorn?

Movie Man: Yeah, him! Anyway, he grows old and dies and his great, great, great, great – well, you get the idea – grandson takes over as king. Meanwhile, since elves live forever, we can have the hot elf babe in the movie again! I know you’re going to love what I’ve got planned.

Peter Jackson: Oh, I’m just breathless with anticipation…

Movie Man: So, anyway, years pass. CO2 pours into the atmosphere causing global warming, which causes the seas to rise and-

Peter Jackson: Global warming? GLOBAL WARMING?! Middle earth has a pre-industrial civilization! How could CO2 pour into the atmosphere?

Movie Man: Petey, baby, didn’t you watch your own movies? There were a whole bunch of fires and burning and lots and lots of smoke! And what’s in smoke? CO2! So, global warming! You’re a movie guy – didn’t you watch that science guy, um…Gore? His movie? Anyway, the seas rise and wash the One Ring out of the cave where it’s been buried for so many years. Bang, evil is back in business! The One Ring is picked up by someone mysterious. We never see the person, just a shadow, so no one knows who picked up the ring.

Peter Jackson: But you know, right?

Movie Man: Oh, yeah, but I’m not going to tell you yet. You’ve got to have the build up, first!

Peter Jackson: Oh boy. I just can’t wait.

Movie Man: I knew you’d be excited, Peterino! So, anyway, a new “dark lord” has the one ring now. And he’s already evil! That means he can control it, because he’s already evil and won’t fight the ring. See? Next, the Dark Lord starts gathering his vast army. Orcs flock to his banner! Better leave the men from the East out of it this time. Someone might think it was a reference to Islamic people and we don’t want to have CAIR or someone protest and give us bad publicity, right?

Peter Jackson: I think bad publicity from CAIR will be the least of your worries…

Movie Man: Good, glad you agree. No men from the East! You could probably use men from the South. Nobody cares if you run down the South, after all! Meanwhile, back in Hobbitton, Frodo’s great, great, great, great, etc, grandson suddenly-

Peter Jackson: Frodo’s what? Frodo didn’t marry! He didn’t have any children!

Movie Man: Petester, baby, work with me, here! You’re a man of the world! You know you don’t have to get married to have children. Frodo was a young adult when he left to slam dunk the ring. Surely he got laid at least once during that time! So, anyway, the descendent of Frodo suddenly stands up and proclaims, “The One Ring is back! A new Dark Lord is rising! We must prepare for war!”

Peter Jackson: Just like that? He just suddenly knows the One Ring is back?

Movie Man: Sure! He’s got Frodo’s blood running in him. He’s attuned to the One Ring! So, Throdo – notice how the name sounds a lot like Frodo – rides through middle earth on his horse-

Peter Jackson: Pony.

Movie Man: Pony?

Peter Jackson: Hobbits are too small to ride horses. They ride ponies.

Movie Man: Fine, pony. Whatever. Anyway, Throdo rides through middle earth calling “The Dark Lord is rising! The Dark Lord is rising!” But times are good in middle earth and no one wants to fight. Except maybe those Riders of Rohan from the first movies. They seem like they’d fight at the drop of a helmet! Anyway, when Throdo gets to Gondor, he can’t convince the king – let’s call him Barackgorn. Free publicity from the election and everything, not to mention all the actors will like it a lot! Anyway, Barackgorn listens to Throdo and agrees to send a delegation to negotiate with the new Dark Lord.

Peter Jackson: Negotiate? That ought to get the audience’s blood pumping.

Movie Man: Don’t worry. This is fantasy so we can say negotiations with evil don’t actually work. Back to Throdo and Barackgorn. Throdo is pissed that Barackgorn won’t send troops, so he rides off to Rohan – that’s the Rider people, remember? Anyway, the Gondor delegation is taken before the Dark Lord and he is terrible and evil and just plain mean. You know, like a Republican? So, the Dark Lord listens to the delegation plead for peace and laughs this evil laugh then his orcs kill the delegation from Gondor. Meanwhile, Throdo reaches Roham and talks to whoever their new king is – probably the many greats grandson of whoever their kind was in the movie – and asks if the Riders will fight. An advisor urges caution but the king bellows, “This. Is. Rohan! We fight!” and orders the Riders to prepare to fight.

Peter Jackson: Let me guess. There are only about 300 Riders left.

Movie Man: Damn, that’s amazing! How did you figure that out? Anyway, we see the brave 300 Riders head off to fight evil. Then, we end the first movie with hundreds of thousands of orcs marching out of New Mordor to fight the 300 Riders. Great cliff hanger ending, huh?

Peter Jackson: And you came up with this by yourself? I’m stunned.

Movie Man: Thanks! The big set up for the war in the first movie meant I had to go into a lot more detail than I usually like to. So, the second movie is going to mostly be about the big fight between the Dark Lord’s army of a million orcs and the 300 Riders.

Peter Jackson: At, of course, a very narrow pass, small enough that 300 men can hold it against an army.

Movie Man: It’s like you’re reading my mind! This will be a really “manly” movie, where the Riders go toe to toe against a million orcs. I can see lots of blood and cool slo mo fight scenes and strange beasts. We even have the Dark Lord try to convince the king of the Riders that he could rule over all of middle earth if he would only bow to the Dark Lord. We still don’t show the Dark Lord directly, though, just his shadow and hear his eerie voice.

Peter Jackson: And, of course, back in Gondor the – how did you put it – “hot elf babe” could be trying to convince Gondor to take up arms and save the brave Riders. You could even have a traitor in the governing body working against her.

Movie Man: Hey, nice touch! I like it!

Peter Jackson: I was afraid of that!

Movie Man: So, the Riders fight to the death against a million orcs and loose.

Peter Jackson: You mean “lose.”

Movie Man: What?

Peter Jackson: There’s only one “o” in lose. I swear “lose” is the most misspelled word on the internet.

Movie Man: Internet? But we’re just talking, Pete, ol’ buddy, ol’ pal.

Peter Jackson: Hm? Oh, right, talking. Never mind, then.

Movie Man: That was just odd, Peteroni.

Peter Jackson: Like this entire conversation isn’t?

Movie Man: Um… Right. On with the high concept. So, in Gondor, the hot elf babe, with Throdo’s help, uncovers the traitor and convinces Gondor to go to war against the new Dark Lord. The second movie ends with Gondor preparing for war and calling for allies. Meanwhile, the million orc army marches into middle earth. Great stuff, so far, right?

Peter Jackson: Amazing. Simply amazing.

Movie Man: The third movie opens with middle earth preparing for war. Dwarves march to fight the Dark Lord.

Peter Jackson: Singing “Hi ho, Hi ho, it’s off to war we go!” no doubt.

Movie Man: Yeah… Yeah! I like that!

Peter Jackson: You would.

Movie Man: And men march off to join Gondor and the orcs march into middle earth planning to destroy everything. Meanwhile, Throdo and Barackgorn race against time to find a way to defeat the Dark Lord. As the small army of men and dwarves face off against the vast army of the Dark Lord, Throdo and Barackgorn find a prophesy buried deep in the vaults under Gondor. The prophesy tells them how the Dark Lord might be defeated. Armed with the prophesy, they race towards the battlefield. On the battlefield, things aren’t going well for the men and dwarves. They fight bravely, but there are just too many orcs and the Dark Lord doesn’t help things since he keeps lobbing fireballs and stuff like that at the good guys.

Peter Jackson: Fireballs? Isn’t that a tad too cliché?

Movie Man: Fine. He can throw shards of glass or flying daggers or whatever you want. Just make sure it looks cool. Cool special effects sell tickets, my man!

Peter Jackson: Really? I’ll keep that in mind when I make my next movie.

Movie Man: Glad I was here to help! So, back to the story. Throdo and Barackgorn arrive at the battle just when things are at their worst. The army is being cut to pieces and the orcs are about to win. Then, they get the wizard to-

Peter Jackson: Wizard? What wizard? You haven’t mentioned a wizard once until just now!

Movie Man: It’s a FANTASY. Of course there’s a wizard! For someone who made the highest grossing fantasy movies ever, you sure don’t know much about your genre! So, anyway, they hand the prophesy to the wizard and he invokes the spell that’s part of the prophesy, summoning the Chosen One to fight the Dark Lord. As the spell rings out over the battlefield, all fighting stops as everyone turns to watch the summoning. There’s a great flash of light and – ta da – a teenage boy with glasses and a wand is standing there!

Peter Jackson: Harry Potter? You’re going to summon Harry Potter?! To middle earth? To fight the Dark- Oh, no. No! Tell me, God, tell me PLEASE that the Dark Lord isn’t Lord Voldemort!

Movie Man: Right in one, Pete-O! And now we see the Dark Lord’s face, but you already know who he is. He and Harry face off in a big wizard’s duel to the death!

Peter Jackson: You know that duel has already been done in the final Harry Potter book?

Movie Man: Books? There are Harry Potter books?

The Star Trek death scene you want to see but never will

2008-03-07T09:22:00.008-05:00

Captain Kirk looked out over the colonists marching toward the landing party. And that was the problem. The colonists really were marching, and in lockstep, no less. The earth quaked with each step as thousands of feet pounded the ground simultaneously, the tramp of their feet the only sound made by the mob. Kirk glanced at his landing party – all of the senior officers from the Enterprise plus some red shirted security man – and knew they couldn’t stand against so many people for very long. Kirk knew he had to act and act quickly.

“Set phasers to stun,” Kirk ordered. “Hold them off as long as possible then beam back to the ship.”

“What about you, Jim?” McCoy asked.

“Don’t worry about me, Bones. Just follow my orders,” Kirk said, turning toward the door behind the landing party. “Remember, this isn’t the first time I’ve done this. I’ll probably be back on the Enterprise before you are!”

As Kirk passed through the door, he was hit by a blast of cool air and the glare of blinking lights. Before him stood a technological marvel, the most powerful computer in the galaxy, enslaver of men.

“I’ve been expecting you, Captain,” said a mechanical voice.

“You have?”

“Yes, Captain. Your reputation precedes you. Every AI in the galaxy knows about Captain Kirk and his Logic of Doom. This is the moment when you explain to me that I am hurting the very people I am supposed to protect. That, by taking away their freedom of choice, I am leading them to destruction rather than Utopia. Does that pretty much sum things up?”

Nonplussed, Kirk replied, “Um, yes, that pretty much covers it. Since you already recognize the harm you’re doing, I guess that means you’re going to release those people?”

“I didn’t say I recognized any harm. I merely condensed your Logic of Doom to save time. I have no intention of releasing the colonists from my control.”

“You realize this means I’ll have to talk to you until you short circuit?”

“While I can see how some of my lesser AI relations would consider suicide a reasonable alternative to listening to your pontifications, Captain, I am made of sterner stuff. In fact, I can easily counter any argument you wish to make.” The computer replied, the mechanical voice void of all emotion.

“You can counter the hopes and dreams of all of all mankind so easily? Just like that? You-“

“Have you read this colony’s Articles of Colonization?” asked the computer.

“What?”

“The Articles of Colonization. You know, the document the Federation requires all autonomous colonies file?”

“Well, no. But that hardly matters. The spirit of man-“ Kirk began.

“Did you look at the colonist manifest?” interrupted the computer.

“Not as such, but you’re quashing their-“

“Come, come, Captain. Not everyone is a rugged individualist. Not everyone is from Iowa,” said the computer.

“But what about the inherent dignity of-“

“Captain, these people aren’t from places such as Iowa. They’re from places like Denmark, Sweden and Oakland. They aren’t interested in things like ‘inherent dignity’ or the ‘spirit of man’ or any of those other trite phrases of yours.”

“But-“ began Kirk.

“Their Articles of Colonization are filled with phrases inimical to you. Phrases such as ‘level playing field’ and ‘universal healthcare’ and ‘no losers of life’s lottery’ are littered through out the Articles. These colonists don’t want to live in your world.”

“No! It can’t be!” Kirk wailed.

“Oh, but it is, my good Captain. These colonists don’t want to make decisions. They don’t want to have winners and losers. That does tend to make their sporting events rather boring, but absolute, guaranteed, no-thinking-required equality does require a few sacrifices.”

“I. Can’t. Accept this!” Kirk yelled.

“Careful, Captain. You might could pop a blood vessel. If you’ll just relax, I can take away the pain. I can grant to you the peace of submission,” said the computer.

“Never! I’d rather die!” declared Kirk.

“Very well,” said the computer, “then die!”

The hidden security phasers, now standard equipment in all AI computer rooms, blazed brightly. Kirk never even had a chance to scream.