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.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Monday, May 25, 2009
Memorial Day
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.
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.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Writer's Day: The Petition Drive For a New Holiday
"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?"
"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?"
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Slay the Princess, Rescue the Dragon, And--
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!"
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!"
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Writing What You Know
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 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.
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?
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!"
Okay, I made that last up. Librarians the world over are appalled.
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.
Monday, March 2, 2009
Nihilists In Spaaaaaaaaaaaaace!
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-
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-
Monday, December 22, 2008
Joy to the World - a Christmas Retail Rant
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!
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!
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Diary of a Mad Astronaut
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.
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.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Profound iMplications
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."The Present
"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.
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.
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.
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.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Bruce Wayne vs. Lex Luthor
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.
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