Illustrations from 2004

Here are three of the four illustrations I worked on for my short stories in 2004. I now realize from my recollection of the behavior of people on television at that time that they knew all about me and my short stories on the web and that they subtly insulted me in front of their cameras at every opportunity - especially that science show with the bearded man and his string bean of a co-host. I've left out my drawing of the statue of Immanuel Kant because it looks too much like George Washington. Illustration for Neutronia (Who told me, 'That's your atoll!'? Why did you need to tell me that?): Illustration for the Red Giant: Illustration for the Session:
Scripts	Songs	Statements

Selected Poems from 2004

© 2004. Poems by David Skerkowski. All rights reserved. POETIC JUSTICE A gang of vandals who for want of talent prey upon the throwaway thoughts of a poet Only to find their deranged effort leads them blind to a perilous place of self-torment FREEDOM Freedom a tongue of fire stolen from the gods to lash against the lofty by the will of a foot soldier Freedom a light of truth in a world oppressed by darkness a beacon for the sailor on a stormy sea of corruption Freedom a daring heart compelling the dissenter to selfless acts of protest against an army of assassins Freedom a soothing song known best by the angels yet aspired to by mortals that they may too have glory MY MEAGER MEAL My meager meal a prize for dogs sustaining only animal servitude A soaring heart shot down by fleshly gunners to crash and bleed on jagged stones of reckoning leaving life above a wistful dream My slice of bread food for doves who know only freedom Their lofty perch a gloating fortress against the howling loner imprisoned by free will to commandeer a bench outside the soothing shelter of his own flock THE CENSORSHIP CYCLE A child guiltily closes toy bunny's eyes before first bite of Easter treat AMERICAN PSYCH The Paxil rash raw and red is cured by cream the doctor said And when skin turns to ghostly white a spot of makeup hides the blight And when you find you still are blue there's always neck to give lasso THE JILTED ONE The jilted one his love returned by savage scorn ill-conceived affection lost like paper cups on stormy currents his touch reduced to canine self-soothing his open heart now more a gaping grave A SPREADING SORROW a throat worn raw the ice-pick hole from ear to ear phlegmatic agents infiltrating turning tissue to rotten waste how like the bug the proud one's leer infecting all with vicious compromise how wide the wound the fallen flock their hideous bleating a spreading sorrow like gushing blood MY SMOKEY DREAM My smokey dream a gasp of pain issuing forth from lungs made lame to rise and curl and form the cloud that hangs above like Death's own shroud My smokey prayer a song unheard with naught but vapor for its word to dissipate before the ear of Providence Her skies to clear TRUTH Truth a temptress eyes away lest fallen curtain blind you certain that evildoers have their way with self-abusers worldly losers Truth a torturer whip in hand to test the stripes that you can stand Tested, tortured, paralyzed, the thinker falls to depths unwise REALITY Only the ghastly ghost can see with clarity our futile lot his flesh a faded memory and all that once misguided it And while we run from haunted home the malady of fear remains a heart-borne burden sinking soul beneath the somber stone-marked plains HEINOUS HACKERS Heinous hackers, vicious victors, JavaScripters quoting scriptures Now I start to see the picture How the rich are growing richer How the sick are falling sicker How a pawn is called a saviour Heinous hackers! Vicious victors! Who's the priest? Who's the pastor Leading us to grave disaster At the hands of pious bastards? I run fast, they run faster Color fades to alabaster Voice a broken ghetto-blaster Lucifer must be the master! He's the priest! He's the pastor! BRING ON YOUR ARCHERS Bring on your archers, fellow bards, My chest invites their plunging pain For what is time without a wound to give it measure but inane? Bring on your terror, beloved foes, I'd rather run for want of aim than play an idle waiting game my heart is filled with triumph new I owe it most of all to you The Barrier The barrier that breaks my will as waves against its stalwart stones does not but spend its own strength now for I have broken my own bones I rise self-crippled before the mass a ghastly sight for all to wail and in so doing cruel reef pass to fetch the sun from yonder dale FOR SOMETHING NEW For something new I offer all this time my pledge to stand up tall My cringing foes bring sneaking spies to plot my moves with beady eyes But terror fades against my cause my passion sailing past the pause That once imprisoned this bold soul from crossing depths to reach his goal FOR SOMETHING NEWER For something newer now I write my former words a curse to spite Unchanging truth is hard to fashion in myriad ways by mortal passion The howling wolf, his tired song is sung anew against the wrong Of dark oppression and of greed a cause to fill his lonesome need THE CROSS OF CRUELTY Hang now your Christ of torment Upon the ugly swastika you wicked Pharisees Compassion is rewarded to those who would not spurn it but love the enemy Your cross of cruelty sickens Your wall of ignorance thickens How dare you preach Forsake a life eternal For tongues of fear infernal Are more within reach APRIL FOOL: A REALLY WEIRD POEM "Overboard soul!" cried the patrol Seeing a swimmer tossed by a wave "Throw out the line!" came siren's whine, lengthening hours to a sure grave "I've got a bite!" shouted Fisherman Kite, vigorously reeling, trophy to win "It's not a jewel but a dull April Fool," said all at once "Let's throw him back in!" MY WINTER MAPLE This tree is in tree heaven now. I heard it was cut down by the new owners of my parents' house. This morning a damp bestowal fell upon my winter maple reducing it to shivering disgrace A sparrow took shelter hapless in crippled arms thin and leafless till strength was won a skyward path to face And Springtime is round the corner And you will live to cross the border that separates accomplishment from dream So stand strong let nature nourish and suffer now that green may flourish my sappy friend amid a somber scene Civility Proponents of stability Who legislate senility Claim freedom's full ability As bowing to civility Fraternity/sorority Endowing with authority That by hand of conformity A textbook singularity May bridge a class disparity: The summit of hilarity The plummet of vulgarity Set forth by others, not by me, By slaves who tell me I am free RAUNCHY RYE raunchy rye drink it and die INVOLUNTARY KNAVE-SLAUGHTER 'You can't say that,' they said, those words reserved for dread: a widely published taunt to resurrect and haunt with every clumsy aim at literary claim by unprotected game for serial killer's shame Forgave the error once but now of all the stunts the killer's timeless place you once again disgrace So may you wear his face that we may him erase by sending to your grave involuntary knave © 2004. Poems by David Skerkowski. All rights reserved.
Scripts	Songs	Statements

Another Old Mini-Essay from 2004

To the lawyers: I forgot to mention that much of the text of this mini essay ended up in a speech by George W Bush during his re-election campaign in March or April of 2004. Could someone ask CBC's David Frum about that? I hear that he was one of Bush's speech writers at the time. I have the original files of this copyright protected work, as well as the originals of many other works that were plagiarized, if any lawyer out there has the courage to support me in a lawsuit. ON AMERICAN CULTURAL INFLUENCE We Canadians might complain about some of the poorer choices on American television or errors in US foreign policy, but let us not forget what we owe them. In my case it is an apology. Having recently been told of the disappearance and presumed death of my beloved niece and with no one big enough to take it out on, I attacked American pop culture, along with a lot of other things. Actually I love America and often feel that there is where I belong. I could stretch out my wings in America, the land of the free. They do more than tolerate individuality, they encourage it. Up here we put peace and order above life and liberty. This restrains the individual and hampers progress. Every year a new wave of our most dynamic people go south: entertainers and scientists, entrepreneurs and game show hosts. They go where they may follow their imagination in the pursuit of opportunity and the rewards of freedom and equality. They go not to escape obstacles but to challenge them. I have come close to seeking asylum in the US embassy a few times just for speaking out. During these dark hours I felt all too dearly what our nation was lacking. While more US citizens could get out and vote, they never lose sight of who’s in charge. Their defiant mockery of unpopular leaders reminds us all that democracy is alive and well. God bless the American people, those brave dreamers, my brothers and sisters, for their example, for their style. To die for the freedom in my heart is to know that I have lived. And that shining truth is the essence of American cultural influence. © 2004. Essays by David Skerkowski. All rights reserved.
Scripts	Songs	Statements

An Old Mini-Essay from 2004

ON LIFE’S GREAT MISSION Each of us has a gift. While I have been called blessed for my creative gifts, I envy those with a gift for the ordinary. They are my heroes – the ones who work hard and form the backbone of our economy. They by and large accept with good humor their burden of double exploitation – taxed from above to save those below. They have not time for lofty ideals, and yet without their sacrifice no one would. As great as my admiration is for these visceral wonders I have been forced to decline their noble calling. Very few are cut out for my job. One of my older brothers suffered for six years before he gave up writing full-time. I lasted twenty irreversible years in hell before I gave up my dream of an ordinary life and took pen in hand. While certain detractors have called my work subversive it is only a plain observation of life through my eyes. I know others share my view, but not my unique position to record it. Let me tell you that I have earned this position. Not only have I long experienced the tortures of the condemned, but I faced them head on and swallowed them. They have become part of my being, to be regurgitated in immortal words for the benefit of all, present and future. If my suffering can be turned to a force for good [who coined that one, CNN?] your taxes are not wasted. Again I did not find this job, it found me. I failed in my pursuit of an ordinary life and this is all I now have. If I must look forward to another twenty years of shelters and soup lines, let it be so that our children can look forward to better. © 2004. Essays by David Skerkowski. All rights reserved.
Scripts	Songs	Statements

42,000 or so Words of Fiction

Here are a whole pile of naively written short stories from March and April 2004, when I lived in my parents' basement and learned how to write. You've likely seen their content scattered all over television since I posted them to my 2007 Blogger account and erased the account shortly after. I know that at least one of the horror stories was stolen and used on TV in 2004. The assault against my ownership is over ten years old now. © 2004. Fiction by David Skerkowski. All rights reserved: BAD SAD It was the Easter holiday and Pappy Bowman was reunited with his family for the first time in years. They all welcomed him back with open arms except his younger brother Happy. “Who let him out of the sanitarium?” Happy groaned. Pappy was the black sheep of the family. He was the only one who hadn’t settled down with a job and a family. Happy resented him for it and also feared, with classic parental paranoia, his wayward brother’s potentially hazardous impact on the mind of his five-year-old son, Billy. At the moment he was having a hard enough time keeping Billy from wanting a bike until old enough to ride it safely. The meal went over without a hitch and Pappy went out onto the porch to enjoy an after-dinner smoke. Happy took off to visit some friends, leaving Billy in the care of Nanny and Grampa – both under strict orders to keep the boy safe from Pappy. The elderly couple was hardly up to this task and, as soon as they went to work tidying up the dishes, Billy slipped out to join his uncle. “Why won’t mom and dad let me have a bike?” asked the child. “How old are you, Billy?” “Five.” “Then you’re all grown up inside. You just need your outside to catch up. Can I answer you with a story?” “I guess.” “A long, long time ago, when I was only the same size as you, I used to have a friend named Bruce. I only ever saw him in the summer, when Nanny and Grampa would take us to the river so we could live where it wasn’t so hot. Bruce and I used to play in the water and sing ‘Rock the boat, don’t rock the boat baby! Rock the boat, don’t tip the boat over! Rock the boat, don’t rock the boat baby! Rock the boat –’” “Uncle Pappy!” “Sorry. And then we’d sit in the sand and make roads and parking lots and ride them with our Hotwheels. Vroom! Vroom! And then we’d make forts out of the sand and Bruce would attack mine with his army men. So I’d wreck his with my foot. Then he’d kick me with his foot. Then I’d push him with my hands –” “Like this?” "No like THIS!" The child laughed. "Ok, ok, no more, no more." "Uncle?" "Uncle. Finish the story." “Well, all right. But no more funny stuff. Now where was I? Oh yes...Bruce was my best friend in the whole world. Then one day he stopped coming to see me. And I wasn’t allowed out of the yard yet, so I couldn’t go and see him. It made me sad.” “Were you sad cause you were alone?” “Very sad. And when I asked Nanny what happened to him she wouldn’t tell me. She just cried. But I found out from listening to her talk to Bruce’s mom that he got hit by a car when he was on his bike. See, he was allowed to ride a bike and look what happened to him.” “Is he in Heaven?” “Sure he’s in Heaven.” “Then what’s so sad about that?” “What’s so sad about it is his mom and dad never got to see him grow up. Do you love your mom and dad, Billy?” “Yes.” “Then don’t make them sad.” “But you make Nanny and Grampa sad.” “Who says?” “Daddy says Nanny cries cause you don’t have a job.” “Nanny makes herself sad, Billy. There’s good sad – like a sad story or a sad uncle; and then there’s bad sad – the kind of sad that makes you wish you were in Heaven. You can’t stop your mom and dad from feeling the good sad, but you can stop them from feeling the bad sad.” “How?” “By trusting them to decide when you’re old enough to ride a bike, so you don’t end up like my friend, Bruce. Will you do that, Billy? Will you trust your mom and dad?” The child would not have time to answer. His father had returned for a forgotten six-pack, spotted the two, and shouted from the window. “Billy, get back in this house right now! I told you to stay away from your Uncle Pappy! Don’t you know he’s crazy?” OVERKILL Men are like movies - the ones causing line-ups are the ones worth dating. A woman Rudy had a thing for Ahngeli, a Persian princess who drew more attention from the predominantly male population of his classroom than the teacher could ever dream of. Ahngeli stood about five feet, five and a half inches with about one hundred and twenty-seven and a quarter pounds of extremely well-distributed flesh that moved around in a way so tantalizing it gave new understanding of Muslim dress codes. When she sauntered in late, she wore a haughty smirk, aware of her power over class members. When she slowed down a lesson with a dumb question, everyone complimented her for it. Ironically Ahngeli was a positive influence on Rudy’s grades since, as a married woman, the closest he could get to an intimate relationship with her was to devote himself to the subject at hand. Every academic conquest, every witty remark, every comic display of masculine bravado was aimed at her. And though he knew he could rely on feminine vanity to guide his flirtations to their target, he grossly underestimated their potential for overkill. Ami D., serving as T.A., always took extra time with Rudy, offering herself to him in the most direct way possible within the bounds of modesty. She praised his most mediocre achievements, laughed at his weakest jokes, and rubbed her thigh against him suggestively. She could see the drug-like hold Ahngeli had over Rudy and made it her cause as well as her challenge to free him of it. The more her efforts failed, the more determined she grew. Sometimes Rudy’s indifference approached sheer coldness. One time she showed up in a racy outfit that turned every boy’s head as she made a beeline for Rudy who sat, back turned, eyes glued to his computer screen. “Rudy, do you think this dress makes me look like your willing sex-slave?” “Not now, Ami. I’m trying to locate Ahngeli’s phone number on the class list. She left this empty pop can behind.” At home Rudy had struck a deal with his landlord to vacuum the halls of his apartment block in exchange for a slight reduction in his monthly rent. This task afforded him legitimacy in his search for units occupied by single women. Soon he had established friendly relationships with Carol in two-twenty-two, a vocalist; One-Owe-One, a cop; and nine-one-one, a belly-dancer named Bathsheba. Before enrolling in classes and being exposed to Ahngeli’s eclipsing sexiness, he had often made excuses to knock on their doors and be told to go home. Now they came to his door…whenever he forgot to vacuum. Or so they said. What was really on their minds was why he no longer pursued their humiliating brush-offs. Did he have a girlfriend? A quick snoop, confirming that he was still the same old loser, enabled them to return home satisfied. No one had seen Ahngeli for a week. Ami seized the opportunity to tutor Rudy privately for upcoming finals. “You know, Ami, Dave is really struggling.” “C’mon, Rudy, don’t make me waste my time on that half-wit.” “All right, but I hope you don’t mind a messy hallway.” She drove him home that night and Carol was watching from her balcony when they pulled up alongside his building. Once inside his apartment, Ami dragged Rudy into the bedroom and raped him. Rudy was wearing only his robe and an enormous smile when he answered the door. It was Carol. “I vacuumed yesterday,” he said. “I know. And I’ve come to return the favor,” she answered, dropping to her knees. “Rudy, what’s going on out there?” cried Ami. “Just having a word with a neighbor.” Ami came out to see what was up. When she did, she dragged Carol and Rudy into the bedroom and they all had a jam. Rudy was wearing only the shredded remains of his robe and a polite smile when he answered the door. It was One-Owe-One. “I vacuumed yesterday,” he said. “I know, but you missed a spot in section three, paragraph seven.” “Where’s that?” “Right here,” she said, tearing open her blouse and pulling his face in hard against her ripe melons. “Rudy, what’s going on out there?” asked Ami and Carol. “Mf hmf-mf nm nmf mf umf-m-mmf.” Ami and Carol came out to see what he was trying to say. When they did, they dragged One-Owe-One and Rudy into the bedroom and it was three on one. Rudy was only wearing bruises, fingernail scratches, and bite marks when he crawled out to answer the door. It was Bathsheba. “No more vacuuming!” he pleaded. “I didn’t come here for that,” she said. “I came here to f**k your brains out.” Rudy began sobbing helplessly. With his last vestige of energy he looked up and caught sight of Bathsheba’s exposed midriff. It was his last memory before blacking out. “Ruu-dy! Ruuu-dy!” whispered a Persian woman’s voice. It was Ahngeli. “Ahngeli! Where have you been all week?” “I have been dead. You are going to love the afterlife, darling. It is one great unending orgy!” WHAT THE HAY Francis had been in the john, perusing a high-brow glamour magazine, when he stumbled on the quote from Oscar Wilde: A good portrait is more of the artist than the sitter. Francis was a caricaturist who portrayed people as mules. As an artist he struggled to express the mystic equipoise he saw as existing between human and equine, distorting his subject’s face only to the precise point where it began to suggest a mule’s head, thus leaving its likeness recognizably intact. His wife had had the horse sense to convert this talent into dollars, circulating examples of his work to various media until enough paying clients were won to provide them a decent living. Once a year, when the carnival came to town, Francis set up a booth in the fairgrounds and invited passersby to sit for him. Little girls were always pleased with his work, being fond of horses, but most others were heartbroken at seeing themselves through his eyes. For this reason Francis always demanded payment up front, in advance. This year Francis had some competition. A gypsy caricaturist has set up across from him and was offering portraits of people as they would appear in the future. Pregnant women flocked to him to snatch a glimpse of their unborn children. Children went to him to find out what they would look like as grown-ups. The elderly were curious about how they would appear in their next life. It was a great gimmick – one that was drastically cutting into Francis’s profits. Eager to expose this upstart as an unworthy sham, Francis paid a visit to his booth. Ten minutes and twenty dollars later he held up his evidence for all to behold. “Look everyone! This guy can’t draw! See? He put my nose where my ear is supposed to be! My mouth isn’t even in the picture! And I only have one eye!” The crowd was indeed shocked at the gypsy’s apparent failure to render his subject’s likeness. For the rest of the day they shunned him in favor of Francis. Francis was counting his substantial profits at closing time when a farmer showed up with a unique request. “This here’s my Betsy. I was wondering if you could do a drawing to commemorate her winning first prize today in the mules’ competition.” “You want me to draw your mule?” “That’s right. And I’ll pay you double the money.” “I don’t do animals. Only people.” “Name yer fee.” “Can’t you just get someone to take a photograph?” “Don’t want no photograph. I want a Francis original. Come on now. I’ve seen your work. Ain’t no one can make a mule look as perdy as you can.” “Those ain’t - aren’t mules. Those are people.” “Well now, jist imagine what you can do with the real thing settin in front of you.” “Sorry. It’s closing time. Maybe tomorrow.” “I’m afraid I must insist,” said the farmer, wielding his pitchfork threateningly. Francis considered his options. He could refuse the farmer and possibly receive multiple life-threatening stab wounds or he could go home late with an extra hundred dollars in his pocket. To help him make up his mind he looked into the mule’s pleading cow eyes. How could he say no to that face? “What the hay,” he relented. “There’s always a first time. But I want a hundred dollars.” “Done,” said the farmer, slapping the money down. It took a lot longer than usual for Francis to complete the portrait. The lighting was dim and the mule wouldn’t sit still. He’d had to start over twice because his subject kept eating his paper whenever he got in close. When finally done, he signed his work triumphantly. “This is my finest portrait to date,” declared Francis proudly. “Let’s have a look,” requested the farmer. Francis turned over the page and beheld a terrifying transformation. The farmer’s face turned red with rage. His eyes bulged with homicidal lust. His mouth twisted into a malevolent sneer. “This ain’t my Betsy! This here’s my dead wife!” “It is? Well she was a very attractive lady.” “You charged me a hundred dollars for this INSULT?” “Would you like a refund?” asked Francis, fearing for his life. “No you keep it. Yer gonna need it for your medical bills.” The police photos of Francis in his hospital bed showed a face that conformed exactly to the drawing made of him by his gypsy competitor. INDEPENDENCE To twenty-year-old Ashley independence meant getting out from under his parents’ roof and making his own way in the world. He soon found a job as a cashier in a large retail chain. His boss was easy on him for the first month or so, but then started making demands. “Ashley, I want that name badge on at all times.” “Why? I can do the job just as well without it.” “You know why. If someone from headquarters comes in here and catches one of our staff without a badge we lose a whole point on our customer service assessment.” “But what good does it do the customers to know my name? They’re only here to shop.” “It’s all about trust, Ashley. They put more trust in a salesperson they’re on a first-name basis with. More trust in you means more sales.” Like a soldier laying down his weapon in disgrace before a victorious enemy, Ashley took out his badge and pinned it to his shirt. For the rest of his shift he endured the derisive sniggering and finger-pointing he had until then expected to remain the exclusive privilege of his bygone classroom peers. It was closing time when a couple appeared at the already locked door, banging to be let in – a prison guard cuffed to a uniformed inmate. The guard needed a key cut. Ashley noticed the inmate’s uniform was almost identical to his own, except that it bore a number in the same spot he wore his name badge. “I’ll let you in on one condition,” said Ashley to the guard. “What’s that?” asked the guard. “You let me trade uniforms with him.” Daryl Squawkins was a subversive writer. He had an innate contempt for authority and devoted his craft to it. Inevitably, mercenaries were dispatched to snuff him out. Daryl first became suspicious of this plot during a solitary stroll to his grandfather’s grave. On the way there he noticed a hole being dug in a secluded spot by the roadside. He was about to ask the workmen who it was for when he felt a hard push against his back. He was then about to clamor out of the hole when he felt the flat side of a shovel blade come crashing down against his skull. He was then about to take a swing at the first tweety-bird who dared to fly within range when his real assailants scattered before a passing police cruiser. The birdies turned out to be his friends. They helped him to his feet and gave him advice on what to do next. “Tweet! Tweet!” said chirper #6, which Daryl understood as meaning he needed to find a safe hiding place. “Can I hide with you in your nest?” asked Daryl. “Tweet! Tweet!” said birdie #2,004, or no vacancy, which made sense, given their overpopulation. “But what about my independence?” “Tweet! Tweet! Skeet!” said birdie #911, alluding to the danger of a sniper’s bullet outweighing any other current need. Daryl took the birdies’ advice. His parents agreed to take him in as long as he agreed to shave on a daily basis. He continued writing, every once in a while waving cordially to the gunman besieging him from across the street. Feeling trapped, his criticisms grew bitterer, endangering him all the more. Then he got into what turned out to be a fatal argument. “Why didn’t you make your bed?” nagged his mother. “I thought the agreement was that I only had to shave.” “I want that bed made, mister.” “I’d rather lie in it the way it is.” “You make that bed or get the hell out, right now!” Daryl laced up his boots and kissed his mother good-bye. His next bed was all neatly made up for him before he was laid to rest in it – permanently. Bill Sanders sat at his desk across from his new employee and reflected on his stellar achievements. He had started out as an entertainer and quickly rose to the top of the charts. He then invested in a restaurant that grew into the world’s foremost fast food chain. The wealth generated by this success enabled him to take over the lion’s share of the world’s utility companies, making him, as of the previous day, the world’s wealthiest man. To celebrate he had bought a magazine was currently being interviewed for its cover. “What do you enjoy most about your success?” asked the editor. “I suppose it’s the independence. I can fly anywhere I want whenever I want. And I don’t take orders from anyone.” “Sir, the public has threatened to boycott your fast food chain if you do not offer them more ketchup with their fries. What do you say to that?” “You’re fired.” The editor rose and left in dejected, disbelieving disgrace. As soon as he was gone Bill Sanders picked up his phone. “Tell purchasing to double the ketchup order.” THE BASKET CASE Rip was an insufferably sad person; therefore, except for a couple health care workers, he had no friends. He lived in a cheap room above a restaurant and spent as much time as possible sleeping, where, in his dreams, even a loser like him could party with celebrities and score with beautiful women. Rip knew how to dream. Subconsciously he was a fearless extrovert, but this was only due to his daytime shyness. It was how his mind filled the void of his waking life. He was having nightmares lately, ever since stumbling on a shocking scene, a woman having fallen several stories to die on the concrete right in front of him. They began as a typical dream where he is about to enjoy an intimate dinner with a dazzling starlet in a lofty restaurant. As soon as he reaches for his first bite, he finds himself falling out the window, waking up in a cold sweat. His entire lifestyle disrupted, Rip approached his friend for the quickest chemical solution. “They do have this new pill, but, as always, there are side effects to consider.” “Like what?” “It causes sleepwalking.” “I can live with that.” “Are you sure? Sleepwalking can be dangerous. Some people fall down stairs.” “I have an elevator.” “Some wander outside into busy traffic.” “I do that when I’m awake.” “All right then Rip,” she said, taking his hand and looking into his eyes with professional sympathy. “We’ll get you a prescription.” The next night Rip popped a pill before going to bed. This time his dream began in a different way. He was at his computer, composing a love note to his new favorite celebrity, a golden-haired beauty, half his age… Dear Charlene I am sorry I missed you at the Oscars this year. I clipped the newspaper photo and mounted it on my wall. You look stunning. With all the eyes of the world upon you, I do not expect any reply to this. It is natural for a female celebrity of your stature to be wary of the advances of a commoner, but please don’t sic your bodyguards on me. I intend to keep my distance, and this will be my one and only letter to you. You are perfect for me just as you are – beautiful, talented, and entirely out of reach. Let me explain why: revenge. As a modern man with little more to offer women than confirmation of their sex appeal, I have chosen you as my ideal because, even if they have your looks, few if any women could approach your talent or glamour. Thanks to you I have a way to pay women back for the inferiority complex dumped on me for my abysmal failure as a man. In return I pledge my undying devotion. I’m good for it. Just ask any of your female colleagues. I once consciously pursued fame and fortune. Maybe this note would be more than a dream if I had stuck it out. Instead I gave up, once my chances for a decent career in most everything else were spent. At least one of us made it. And if opposites attract, who knows? Maybe we belong together. You have your choice of partners, all superior to me in every respect, but you must wonder sometimes what it would be like to give yourself to a man who not only has nothing but makes selfish demands, ignoring or forgetting all attempts to satisfy him. Look how much of your time I have already used up talking about me. I haven’t even seen one of your movies. That is all. If you’re ever interested in exploring a new dimension of love – love based in primitive, deranged spite – my address is on the envelope. Otherwise, I’ll see you in my dreams and hope that you are at least occasionally crying out my name when you are in bed with your lover. Yours truly, Rip He clicked ‘send’. In keeping with his subconscious superego, he then went outdoors, climbed a telephone pole, and started yelling nursery rhymes at the startled pedestrians beneath him. Charlene had just finished her yoga routine when she sat at a computer and began sorting through her fan mail. The list was endless, but one appeared to stand out. It was a new one entitled in large block letters, FROM YOUR DREAM MAN. Just as she had come to the last line of Rip’s note, her doorbell rang. It could only be Charles. He was the only one with security clearance – much to her mother’s chagrin. “Hey hon,” said her boyfriend, following through with a tender kiss. “I brought lunch.” He lovingly held out a picnic basket as Charlene scrutinized him. He was so much like her: blonde, beautiful, popular… “I’ve changed my mind about the picnic, Charles. Could you drive me down to skid row?” “You want to run over a bum?” “Something like that.” When Charles’s sports car pulled up outside Rip’s home, a crowd had gathered beneath an adjacent telephone pole. “Let me out here,” Charlene said. “Shall I come along?” “No you go ahead to the party. I’ll be fine. Nothing will happen to me around all these cops.” “All right, but don’t let this go to waste,” he said, handing her the basket before driving off. Charlene went straight to the nearest officer. “What’s going on?” she asked. The officer didn’t recognize her behind her sunglasses. “That gentleman climbed up there a little while ago and started singing. We’re just waiting for him to tire out so we can get him down,” he explained. “I can get him down,” she offered. “I don’t know, ma’am. It’s pretty dangerous up there.” “I’ll be careful. You just wait here with the safety net and get ready to catch him.” Being a man, the cop agreed to Charlene’s whim. She hung the basket around her neck and gracefully ascended the pole, glad not to have worn a skirt. “Rip!” she called, once she got within a foot of him. “How do you know my name?” “Only a shameless loser like you would pull a stunt like this,” she declared, removing her sunglasses with her free hand. “Charlene!” “I brought you something to eat,” she said, holding up the basket for him. “Okay, but I’m warning you. I turn into a sex maniac after a nourishing meal.” Rip was about to dig in when he realized his hands were no longer holding him to his perch. After reliving his nightmare, he was relieved to find that his landing had been softened by a springy safety net. He rolled out onto his feet and greeted his audience. “Everyone, I have good reason to believe at this point that I am sleepwalking. I assure you that when I wake up none of this will ever have happened.” His friend who had given him the pills was in the crowd. “Rip I’m so sorry. I didn’t trust you with the real medication. It was only a placebo you took. You are not sleepwalking. This is for real.” “And it’s all going to be on tonight’s news,” said a reporter. “That’s too bad. I was attracted to your anonymity. Now that you’re just another star, I might as well forget I ever knew you,” said a grounded Charlene before disappearing, leaving Rip to ponder whether he oughtn’t always to have been glad for failing to make his dreams come true. HAROLD HEARTGOLD All the regulars were there. Dan the disgruntled driver sat at the table, working on a crossword. Across from him, Milo the maniac chewed on a piece of plastic fruit. Benny the bin-diver was crashed out on the hallway floor. I played with the dog in the living room. And the place’s only legitimate occupant, Harold Heartgold, struggled in the kitchen with his new coffee machine. (Naturally no women were present.). “Can any of you loafers tell me how to work this?” asked an aggravated Harold. “It’s my hash!” yelled Benny in his sleep. “Of course! A seven letter word for ‘lazy footwear?’ – loafers! Thanks Harry!” offered Dan. “Who programmed that one?” asked Milo ominously. I let the dog win the tug of war and went over to give Harold a hand. “Where did you get this thing?” I asked. “Benny brought it in last night.” “You think it might be broken?” “How can I know until I see it working?” “Well it’s plugged in and no lights are on.” “That could just mean the lights are broken.” A loud knocking interrupted our aimless argument. “Who programmed that one?” asked Milo ominously. “Just what I need: another uninvited guest!” whined Harold, peaking out through his spy-hole to check on his latest caller. “Shit!” “Who is it?” I asked. “It’s Bad News Barry.” Bad News Barry always had a story that ended in ‘I’ll pay you back’. Of course, the story turned out to be a lie and he never paid you back. Most of his victims cut him off after one fleecing, but soft-hearted Harold could be counted on to fall for the dirty ruse every time. I didn’t like the character but understood him, having a couple unpaid personal debts of my own. I’d never told stories to get the money, but I had promised to pay it back. The shame of these crimes still haunted me, more than a decade later. “Don’t let him in,” I warned. “He’s already seen Dan’s cab parked out front.” “He’s going to rip you off again and then we’re all going to have to listen to you complain about it some more,” predicted Dan. “I don’t have any money today. So there.” “I’ll bet you five bucks you break down,” I said. “You’re on,” declared Harold, swinging the door wide open. Barry strutted in, almost stepping on Benny. He offered cordial greetings to each of us, none of which were returned. “What do you want…in less than five hundred words?” insisted Harold. “Well it’s kind of complicated,” Barry began, to which we all rolled our eyes. “See, yesterday my sister got in an accident and had to be taken to the hospital and she couldn’t find a sitter, so she called me. And I told her ‘No way, Bonnie!’ cause I can’t take any more time off work, but she started crying on the phone and made me feel all sorry for her so I took the day off and, wouldn’t you know it, I got fired. And then my car got towed because I couldn’t pay the insurance so I had to steal a bike and this dog started chasing me and tore my only good pair of pants. See? And today when I got to my sister’s, after all that, my nephew wasn’t even there. He hates me, so he hid somewhere and now his friends won’t tell me where he is until I buy them each a Mister Softy. So that’s why I need your help. Not for my sister’s medical bills or my job or my car or my pants, but just to borrow a couple dollars to buy these kids some Mister Softies so I can find out where my nephew is. I’ll pay you back.” “Who programmed that one?” asked Milo ominously. “Shut up, Milo,” I said. “Barry, you don’t have a sister,” stated Harold flatly. “Half-sister on my uncle’s side,” explained Barry. “Can’t help you, Bar. Pockets is empty today, see?” said Harold, turning his pockets inside out. “Well then I guess this is yours,” I said, handing Harold a fin. “All I need is five bucks,” pleaded Barry. Harold surrendered the bill to his badgering beneficiary and glared at me with bitter incredulity. Barry pocketed it and left at once. When he returned he was licking on a Mister Softy. “Sister all better now?” scoffed Dan. “Sister? Oh yeah, she’s better now that my niece is out of the hospital. Hey do you want a lick of this ice cream cone?” “No thanks.” “You know, Harold, this ice cream is just like you, a big old softy,” reflected Barry as he bit into the dry cone. He should have kept his mouth shut. A piece of cone got stuck in his throat and he started choking so severely the dog began barking at him. I tried saving him by clobbering him over the head with Harold’s coffee machine but it didn’t work. In a couple minutes he was dead. “Who programmed that one?” asked Milo ominously. BORIS Doug spent his first six months at the Calamity Inn an emotional wreck – jobless, friendless, and aimless. At least he was not phoneless, though his one connection to the outside world never rang. When it did one grey afternoon around the time of his thirty-fifth birthday, the piercing alarm nearly knocked him out of bed. It turned out to be an employer with most celebratory news – he could start work the next day. He felt he would explode with excitement. Salvation was upon him: new clothes, decent meals, no more arguments with small-minded bureaucrats, escape from a ghetto of concentrated anguish, money in his bank account, but most of all a chance with her – that woman he had passed so often and received warm greetings from, in spite of his obvious fiscal and social failure. He surmised that she was single but had left her available to a more deserving man, an employed man. Now if it was not too late he could offer himself as that man. First he had to find out her name. It took a couple weeks to get his first paycheck but as soon as he did he approached Gus, who knew everyone. Gus liked to drink so Doug took him to the bar. After sufficient formalities Doug drove straight to his purpose. “Tell me Gus, who is that pretty girl in two twenty-two?” he asked. “I think her name is Katrina,” Gus answered with a sly smile acknowledging feminine charm. “She’s Polish.” Doug swooned. A girl from a country where poverty is so widespread that class barriers are virtually non-existent made a fanciful target. Ordering another pitcher to celebrate, he drunkenly bared his soul. “Let me tell you, Gus, I have been dreaming about her since I first moved in to the Calamity. You know what I love about her? It isn’t just her obvious physical assets but her compassion. She smiles and says hi to everyone in that miserable dump. I bet it’s often the only thing that keeps a lot of them going, especially the men. And I might be a selfish bastard for it but I want to marry that woman.” “Well you have a good job. You can give her a decent life. Why don’t you go for it? I’ll help you if you like.” “Thanks but you’ve already helped enough. I can take it from here. Drink up, my friend. Another pitcher is on the way.” Katrina and Doug shared the second floor. Close to the ground, it was home to certain surly types who were not welcome in the elevator, as well as those who could not be trusted to keep from falling out their windows. For others it was an initiation in social housing – the first rung of the ladder to be climbed on the way to total pseudo-serenity. Doug lived in an S.O.R. or single occupancy room with no toilet. Whenever nature called he had to leave for one of three functioning washrooms shared by approximately twelve and a half tenants. He was on his way back to his room after such a trip when he spotted Katrina at the end of the hall. “Katrina!” he called. “How did you find out my name?” she asked, turning round and approaching him with the poise of a runway model. “It wasn’t hard. I asked a man.” The compliment made Katrina smile and blush like a Renaissance masterpiece. Doug was all the more smitten. “Well that was very enterprising of you, Doug.” (She knew his name!) “Maybe it will pay off.” “Will you go out with me?” “There is no need for extravagance. Do you have internet?” “I do now.” “Could I stop by tomorrow for a little surfing?” “Sure, of course!” “Till then, then. Too-da-loo.” “Bye.” Over the ensuing weeks Doug and Katrina grew ever more comfortable around each other – he on the edge of his bed, singing and playing guitar; she seated before his computer, surfing the web. She was a strong individual with many opinions and an impressive history of jilted lovers, all of whom had failed her by demanding exclusive intimacy. Doug was determined not to become like them. He constantly reassured her that he would stay her friend no matter what. Then the night came when Doug got his wish. She showed up in a scanty robe. What followed filled him with such new life that he found himself dancing the next morning. And gangly-limbed Doug was an atrocious dancer. After a satisfying breakfast and kiss good-bye he realized the encounter had added more depth to his time alone. Could he hold true to his promise of eternal friendship? And where was Katrina spending all of her time surfing? It was his day off and he could no longer defy his curiosity. He opened up his history file and scanned its contents. The findings shocked him. Flogging and whipping? Face-sitting and trampling? Extreme bondage?? Clearly there was a dark side to this woman that he, blinded by shallow lust, had failed to notice. His phone calls and emails had been unanswered. He sensed he was being tested and reacted with characteristic rebellion. His spite grew as he was called upon by jeering acquaintances to explain Katrina’s absence. Inevitably, feeling he had nothing more to lose, he marched over to her door and knocked loudly. Katrina did not answer, but Boris, a Herman Munster look-alike. This turned out to be Katrina’s fetishist alter-ego. “You have some nerve coming here with no costume! Go back to your room!” she hissed. “Not until I am told why I have been dumped,” insisted Doug. “Isn’t it obvious? We’re not compatible.” For argument’s sake Doug ignored her monstrous makeup. “You think you’re the only one who can act out a fantasy? I’ll act out my fantasy with you!” “You have. We have three extra-terrestrials in our group already, Doug. Good-bye.” The door was shut, never to reopen. Doug returned to his room, feeling more alienated than ever. CHINESE KARMA Dale served as a volunteer, ministering to the urban needy who were confined to an abysmal ghetto. His job was strictly to offer a sympathetic ear but, soft-hearted, he often gave in to pleas for small cash donations. One of his clients, Thomas, perhaps his favorite, never asked him for money, content to have his ear while orally ruminating over cruel poverty for hours on end. They would hold their sessions in the park, at the soup kitchen, sometimes even on the street, but the pattern of their conversation never changed. It always led to Thomas’s suicidal dream – to kiss goodbye to the world that had forsaken him, preferably in a way that inconvenienced as many others as possible. Thomas admitted that he had tried once already, mixing antidepressants with alcohol, then lying down on his back to block pedestrian traffic during a popular fireworks show. The stunt only succeeded in landing him a week in the hospital, followed by a lamentably negligible addition to his monthly check. Dale had little patience for Thomas’s talk of self-destruction. Tom had let his scary beard grow halfway down to his belly. Why did he blame others, especially women, for spurning him? To Dale, Thomas was a closet masochist, one who tortured himself to feel alive, but, in order to sustain his delightful suffering, suppressed true self-awareness. They were in the park. Thomas was ranting about how the line, ‘Money can’t buy happiness’, is ruling-class propaganda to keep wealth in as few hands as possible. “How can you say such a thing?” scolded Dale. “Look what money buys! Look around you!” The park was teeming with tweaking crack heads, coughing smokers, tricking hookers, vomiting drunks. Thomas, seeing his error, flushed with embarrassment. “I just wish the ones who have it all would stop torturing me,” he whined. “No you don’t.” “I do so!” Dale decided it was time to share his hypothesis. “Thomas, let’s skip the tired old argument about poverty’s suffering. It’s here to convince those with tons of money that they have power. But even if it weren’t here, some new agony would take its place. We need suffering, Thomas. It makes us feel alive. Take it away and we become zombies.” “That’s why I want a break. I’ve done my time. If anyone could appreciate winning the lottery, it would be a poor wretch like me.” “I’m telling you, the thrill would wear off at some point and leave you more depressed than ever. Have you ever been dumped by the girl of your dreams?” “I wish! ‘It’s better to have loved and lost…’” “That’s my point. You want more pain.” Thomas was silent for a moment. Dale could see he was reaching him. “Maybe you’re right. It just makes me feel all the more miserable.” “Well why don’t you do something with it? You have a guitar. You can sing a bit. Why don’t you start playing Monday nights at the Open Mike? Turn your pain into art.” Thomas cackled. “You’re the musician, Dale.” “And I know how therapeutic it is. Go on, try it!” “I don’t know…” “I’ll bring Charlene.” “Monday night it is!” Charlene was Dale’s knockout girlfriend. She had fallen for his wild onstage persona, back when he fronted a band. It was the only time she ever saw anyone, for an encore, set fire to himself rather than his guitar. Afterwards she visited him every day at the burn unit, and when he was well enough to leave, offered her own apartment as his new home. His lack of steady income, however, wouldn’t do, and she coaxed him to find a day job. Eventually, outgrowing his dream of rock n’ roll glory and drained by his daily routine, he quit the band to pursue domestic bliss with his live-in love. Charlene was not altogether pleased with this decision. It had always turned her on to see Dale perform, especially in front of other women. She wasn’t sure if ‘domestic Dale’ was enough for her. For household harmony she kept secret her misgivings, hoping he might, before long, independently choose to return to music, if only as a soloist. It excited her to hear about the vagabond Thomas’s upcoming Open Mike gig. She and Dale had been cooped up in front of their DVD player for weeks. On the night of the grand occasion she put on a hot pink dress she had been saving for their next night out. “Easy,” Dale warned. “You’ll steal the spotlight from him.” They arrived late, the first act already underway. Thomas was waiting and had saved a table for them. He had learned he was going on last, which meant to Dale a long night of having to endure every amateur in the room. The opener had been a girl too frightened to play her guitar, who fell back on singing out of tune, keeping poor time by clapping her hands over her head. The next performer, badly dressed, with an even worse haircut, appeared dangerously drunk and upset over being dumped by his Russian girlfriend. Dale by then was well on his own way to alcoholic arcadia, ordering his third pitcher in less than forty-five minutes. When Thomas at last took the stage, Dale was too wasted to notice Charlene’s suspicious enthusiasm. However, he soon saw that she was cheering every mediocre song with an intensity he would rather expect at a Dylan concert. Then at the end of his show Thomas played a trump card. Crying ‘Down with the oppressors!’ he set his beard aflame. Charlene swooned. When Thomas returned to their table she offered to drive him straight to the burn unit. Dale was told to take the bus home and water the geraniums. Dale could see fireworks exploding over his former girl and former client. He only wondered where he would find a bottle of antidepressants at this late hour. CLOUD EIGHT Bonzo had three vices: booze, bon-bons, and breasts. For want of the third he gorged himself on the first and second. Mister Lee ran a small shabby corner store that Bonzo kept in business. One day, seeing that he had run out of one of his number one customer’s favorite synthetic snacks, Mister Lee made a death-defying trip down rickety stairs to his stock room. So dark was it down there that he failed to see the dead rats littering the floor around his chewed open cartons of expired product. Bonzo showed up and made his usual purchase – a mickey of vodka and a paper bag full of gelly beans. When he got back in his car he put the candies in his glove compartment, determined to save them for the next morning’s traffic jam. However, even though he only lived a block away, he was already in a traffic jam. Consequently he retrieved his snack and ate a bean at a time until both the bag and the road ahead of him were empty. Once home, secure in his room, he poured himself a stiff drink. Half an hour later, when the bottle was done, he experienced something new – more like toxication than mere intoxication. Concerned he might be about to die, he flopped onto his bed and passed out. He awoke in puffy new surroundings. An incredibly sexy woman was hovering over him. “Am I dreaming?” he asked. “No, you’re dead.” “Where am I?” “This is Cloud Eight.” “Why Eight?” “Must you know everything? Look at me! Am I not all you’ve ever desired? You can do whatever you want with me. We have this place to ourselves for all time.” “But I want to know why I have to stay on Cloud Eight. Why can’t I be on any cloud I like? Or all of them at once? Where’s Roy Orbison? What of my poor family? How can I enjoy myself up here knowing they grieve for me?” “You have spared your family much worse by dying in the way you did. You were expected to kill a little girl with your car. She would be on her bicycle, accelerating down a steep hill –” “That will do! I’m glad I’m here. Okay?” The woman beamed. “That’s more like it! See? A dishonorable death is not so bad. Let’s get kinky.” “Dishonorable?” “Oh you know, for failing to fulfill your destiny. Now where did I put those handcuffs? You see, that little girl is marked for an early death. She is a menace. Left alive she will cause one of the bloodiest traffic accidents in history, playing chicken with the cars on Interstate 295.” “How awful!” “And now that you have failed, we are forced to take her out by more extreme measures. A tornado is about to strike her home, leaving no survivors.” “Must you do away with her entire family?” “Just playing it safe. Incidentally my safe word is ‘stop’. Now are you ready for some fun?” “I don’t know. I think maybe I should go back down there.” “Again? You’ve tried seven times already.” “Well I’m really going through with it this time.” “You’re sure? Because next time we meet - if we meet - it will be on Cloud Nine, from which there is no escape.” “I’m dead certain. Let me have one more chance to redeem myself. I’ll mow that girl down good!” “All right, but your memory of all now before you will be erased.” “That’s okay. I hate memories.” “Here then. Take this,” she said, giving him the handcuffs. Just because you won’t remember me doesn’t mean you can’t have a memento. Bonzo showed up at Mister Lee’s and made his usual purchase – a mickey of vodka and a paper bag full of gelly beans. When he got back in his car he put the candies in his glove compartment, determined to save them for the next morning’s traffic jam. However, even though he only lived a block away, he was already in a traffic jam. He reached for his gelly beans but found his right hand mysteriously cuffed to his steering wheel. Avoiding struggle, he drank his booze instead. Once the way in front of him was finally clear, drunk and impatient, he floored his accelerator, only to hit his brakes even harder. A little girl had come barreling down Machinery Hill on her bicycle and now shot across his path. His car screeched to a halt, inches short of a fatal collision. “Are you crazy? I could have killed you!” “My dad told me to go play in the traffic.” “He did, did he? Well hop in and I’ll have a word with him for you. Here you want a gelly bean?” (The handcuff had vanished.) “My teacher says not to take candy from strangers.” “I’m not a stranger. I’m your Uncle Bonzo.” “…Well…you do smell like my dad.” “Sure. C’mon kid. I just want to take you home.” “How many gelly beans do you got?” “Enough for us both.” The next week both names turned up in the local newspaper, alongside an ad warning against the hazards of smoking. Rather than being numbered, the page was marked ‘O’ for obituaries. JESUS LOVES ME J.C. - Hello! Is anyone here? ME - Right here J.C. It is you, isn't it? - Sure, you can put your hand through my whole body if you like. - No that's all right. J.C. I've been having some problems with these right-wing Christians. Not only are they following me around but they are subtly attacking me via the media. - Yes, I've always had a problem with being misunderstood. How sad that my teachings have been distorted to justify the slaughter of untold millions. - They've even got some Jewish leaders to sympathize. It's called wrong to even suspect the president of being right-wing, just because US troops are supporting the nation of Israel. But didn't you offer salvation to everyone? - I most certainly did. Don't fret my child. If you have eternal life you will eventually leave this whole misguided world behind you. - But I'm tired of arguing with people who don't reason with their brains but their 'hearts' which are located in their behinds. - Most people don't have enough imagination to derive intellectual salvation. They opt for blind faith. You mustn't waste your time arguing with them. Was there something else you needed to discuss? - Yes Jesus. I wrote a story a while ago about a suicidal seagull. One of the ideas it contained was that people can not be persuaded by an Atheist ghost to commit suicide. Only animals. Am I right? - Absolutely my child. Those suicide bombers are choosing suicide entirely of their own will. They could never be persuaded to do so by a ghost - especially an Atheist. Is that all? - One more thing: I wrote a play a few years back in which a boorish pastor puts a disgusting take on your crucifixion and Paul's ensuing revelation. Will I go to Hell for it? - Actually we read it up here and got a great kick out of it. You were not perverting the Word, only expressing what you perceived to be Its perversion by unqualified authorities. If anyone's going to Hell it will be the ones who condemn you for it. - And am I right to suspect that the real terrorism is the suppression of free thinkers like me in the name of the 'War on Terror'? - Well what can I say? They want a free country but if they are suppressing the ideas of their citizens, no matter how unpleasant, then I suppose the terrorists who smashed those towers actually won. But don't make too much of a stand against it, child. Soon I will send you a woman to soothe your anger. Give my flock something positive, if you can. - Isn't it positive to tell the truth? - Tell the whole truth, not just the part that peeves you. - OK Lord. Thanks for the visit. - Bless you and bless this wonderful cyber-kingdom! CORPUS CORRUPTUS The spy was a kiss-ass little sniveling creep, sent by even more corrupt masters to plot the movements of a ‘heretical’ scientist. The whole idea was to convince the scientist that he was not free to experiment on just anybody but only those, like politicians, who volunteered for such mistreatment. The scientist frequently spotted the spy. He knew he was being followed. If meant to terrorize him into submission, his awareness of his status as a marked man backfired. For the scientist’s determination to rid the world, once and for all, of freedom’s true enemies only strengthened against adversity. Among those about to die: all who owned the media and used it to stir up public hatred of government in order to deflect public wrath from their own misdeeds; who kept everyone so busy no one had time to realize they were being screwed; who benefited from every war and big business event at the expense of the common worker or soldier; who twisted religion into a tool of oppression; who blamed the unemployed for economic failure while refusing to pay their fair share; who whined constantly about the national debt whenever a government they couldn’t fully control was in power; who gleefully turned a minority of smokers into scapegoats while promoting the environmental disaster of auto sales; who used intellectual truths as reverse barometers for social policies; who forced conformity and fear of authority on children; who pushed short-sighted, cash-grabbing pharmaceutical answers to deep spiritual questions; who refused to build more jails so that insurance rates skyrocketed; who virtually abolished cost-free television and banking services; and who now ganged up on a loner – to name a mere fraction of their crimes. Who were they? Like germs they were unseen to the naked eye. But the scientist had a very special microscope. Lucky for him a dead tyrant’s tissue lay in cryogenically preserved readiness. All it took was a single skin cell from this host, cross-referenced with the fingernail clippings willed to him by another dead tyrant, to identify a common microorganism, the real enemy, a hitherto overlooked parasite, corpus corruptus – the fuckworm... COSMIC VERTIGO The world, it was known, charted a predictable orbit around its sun. Its inhabitants depended firmly on this pattern to give structure to their lives by allowing the measurement of time not just in days but dollars. A popular game show, Whirl of Portion, by establishing a sub-orbit in the form of a roulette wheel, accelerated wealth’s accumulation, but only for contestants with the firmest grip on their world’s orbital servitude. Clichés like ‘a stitch in time saves nine’ and ‘a penny saved is a penny earned’, clearly favoring them, were presented as empty crossword segments, of which contestants took turns guessing the letters, a prize-gathering whirl awarded for every right guess. This commenced until the puzzles were solved, on whose turn determined each round’s victor and keeper of their portion. However, this temporal anomaly disrupted nature in a way that caused a corrective measure to occur in space. When contestant number three million, three hundred and thirty-three thousand, three hundred and thirty-three whirled for her portion, the whirling galaxy, upset for having been left out of things, spun sharply in the opposite direction, neutralizing the player’s effort and altering the game in ways unforeseen. “I don’t understand. I felt it move,” said contestant #333,333,333 meekly, reaching forward to try again. “No, no, you’ve had your turn,” overruled an unfamiliar feminine voice. “You’re not our host!” “He was called away on an emergency round-trip cruise. I’m his sister. Don’t worry, I know all the rules.” The next contestant, a burly sailor, gripped the wheel and pushed with all his might. Again the wheel didn’t move. “I can see our players are a little low on energy today.” “But I pushed it! I know I did!” cried the sailor. “Is that so? I sure hope they keep you away from the helm. Tell you what. We can’t keep our audience waiting all night for someone to make this thing move so I’ll spin it for you.” “But I haven’t had my turn,” said the next of the three contestants, a figure skater who enjoyed Frisbees and Laundromats. “Too late,” said the host, setting the wheel awhirl with astonishing ease. “Oh! Miss your turn.” (The audience moaned.) “Let me try again.” “Now just a minute! We didn’t all come here to have someone else whirl for our portions. It’s hardly fair!” complained contestant #333,333,333. “You think? Well let’s just see what the wheel says,” answered the host, defying her guest. “And look at that! ‘Life isn’t fair!’” “How did that get on there?” asked the sailor. “Did you come here to make puzzles or to solve them?” responded the host. At this stage the audience became restless. Over five minutes had passed without any progress towards the game’s outcome. They fidgeted and grumbled. One of them threw what first appeared to be a harmless kiwi but turned out to be a grenade. “Who threw that?” demanded the host, like an exasperated schoolteacher. “I hope you’re satisfied. You’ve blown up all of our contestants. Now we’ll never know the answer to this puzzle. How could you be so selfish? And on my debut appearance, too! Well? Aren’t you going to own up to your crime?” The audience just sat there in stunned silence. “Fine, I guess I have no alternative but to kill you all!” she said, producing a machine-gun and aiming it at the now hysterical mass. “RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT! RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT…,” she said, cutting the audience to bloody bits. Seeing that its little prank was getting out of hand, the galaxy turned back from its deviation. Time swung back in accordance, to a point where no one had yet been blown up or mowed down by machine-gun fire. The game’s true host was instantly returned from his round-trip cruise and his nemesis sent back to her job at the welfare office. “Whose turn is it?” asked the game’s real host. “Aren’t you keeping track? It’s my turn!” said contestant #333,333,333. “I’m sorry. I feel a little out of sorts. And I can’t understand how I got this suntan. Anyway we’re almost out of time for some reason. Would anyone like to have a crack at solving the puzzle?” The puzzle was nearly filled in: FORTUNES ARE FOR CH_MPS. “I know what it is!” said contestant #333,333,333. “Fortunes are for champs.” “No,” said the surprised host, looking at his card. “Would the next contestant like to have a go?” “Fortunes are for champs?” asked the sailor tentatively. “No, I’m afraid that’s not the answer, as I’ve already said. Your go, number three.” “Fortunes are for chimps?” asked the figure skater. “No, and that’s all the time we have on Whirl of Portion today,” said the host as the show’s theme song kicked in to drown out the contestants’ protest. “Tune in tomorrow, if it ever comes. Till then I’m your host saying good night and may a lasting piece be yours.” GEORGE’S DAY OFF George had been looking forward all week to his day off. He had put in ten extra hours of overtime to make up for a co-worker who had quit, and was completely exhausted by the time he finally made it home to his single occupancy room in the Calamity Inn. Now he looked forward to a whole day of energy-restoring sloth. Immediately he fell face-first into bed and surrendered to his subconscious. Off went the alarm at six a.m. He had forgotten to shut it off before passing out. Once awake he couldn’t fall back asleep. He dragged his stiff body out of bed and onto its feet. Deciding to make the most of his early start, he gathered all his dirty clothes into a pile, stuffed them in a duffle-bag, and then shouldered the burden, groaning under its weight. The machines were always free at these early hours. However, someone else, perhaps the Queen of England, had beaten him this morning. Every single machine was in use. He returned defeated to his room. Hungry for breakfast he headed out once again, this time in the direction of a nearby fast-food outlet. He had to take a long detour to get there, the way blocked by some annual jogging event. When he ordered his meal he was tersely informed that it was no longer available. He settled for a coffee, deciding to cook pancakes when he got home. He made it back by around ten o’clock. He was in the middle of cooking when he remembered that the library books he had borrowed from his friend needed to be returned. Before he could forget he snatched them up and headed out. The bus was even later than normal for a weekend, thanks to the crowd of joggers. When he finally got to the library a woman smiled at him but he had to run back home, remembering the pancakes he had left to burn on his stove. Unable to wait for the bus he ran home. It was twelve-thirty in the afternoon. Firemen surrounded his building and barred his entry until the stream of smoke billowing out from his window thinned to a trickle. By then it was one o’clock. It took him the next five hours to undo damage to his room. The sun was beginning to set when he realized he still hadn’t eaten. Off he ran to the market, hoping to make it there before it closed, only to discover that it closes a half hour early on Saturdays. After a long wait for a newspaper at the convenience store he crossed the street to the door of his building where he discovered his outdoor key missing. It was the manager’s day off, and all the occupants were paranoid about letting in strangers without keys. Three agonizing hours later he managed to battle his way in against a tough little immigrant lady. The bite-wound he sustained in the skirmish required a short trip to the hospital where the remainder of his day off was consumed waiting for treatment. The doctor, on seeing George in such a frantic state, held him overnight for observation. When George failed to show up for work next morning, a notice of suspension was mailed to him. By the time it made it to his mailbox he had already died of starvation. THE MEDIC Karen Tewmucz, an anti-war activist, couldn’t believe it when she got her draft notice. Not only had she just reached minimum age for military service but she was currently residing outside of her homeland. The effort to expose her to gunfire was in fact quite deliberate, produced collectively by chief advisors in a secret room above a dry-cleaning shop next door to what the enemy thought was the real secret room for discussing pressing matters of national security, where the antics of the young hell-raising pacifist had become a chief concern. “What should we do about Karen the Pacifist, wannabe wonder woman, disturber of stools?” asked one. “No party except for ‘Bring Your Own Boozes’ – one thing I’ll say for her, Karen is cool,” commented another. “We ought to leave her to organic rices. Her starved away body will cough up her soul!” suggested a third enthusiastically. “Fools, she’ll outlive us if left a civilian, so let’s throw her into a soldierly role!” shouted their chairman. “This girl sits safely behind lines and weeps over dead flowers! How long do you think she would last at the front?” “But she’s out of the country right now.” “All the better. If she fails to answer her call of duty we can hold her up as a public disgrace. Are we agreed then, gentlemen? For the sake of the nation this Karen must die!” “…must die, must die, this Karen must die!” sang the others in unison. “And if she refuses, her image we’ll fry!” “We’ll fry! We’ll fry! Her image we’ll fry!” Karen released a fly from an emptied and unwashed jar of spaghetti sauce. She had imprisoned the little pest on the previous day to give her some peace while she wrote a song to commemorate the fifth anniversary of her pet rock’s passing - the innocent victim of delinquent minors - and forgotten about it. The insect appeared to nearly feint from the gush of oxygen it received by Karen’s compassionate gesture, but soon found strength to fly off to compost heaps unknown. She was out on the porch, a mental debate raging within her over how to respond to her draft notice. While she detested war, she stood firmly behind her country’s troops, who were only answering their call to duty as it was passed down to them. Maybe it was time to go to the front and find out in person just what she was fighting against. She would run the idea by Martin. She had met Martin while volunteering at the hospital. He was a friend she could trust, just as full of concern for humanity as she. Martin had not lasted long in the hospital, prone to every chemically strengthened germ that lurked within its antiseptic walls, but had stayed in touch by regular conjugal visits. (Yes, Karen had incredible sex, with or without a partner, as a woman in touch with her true self.). Back indoors she picked up the phone and called her friend. In two and a half rings her connection was established. “It’s me,” she said. “I got a surprise today from the draft board back home.” “You must be kidding.” “I’m to report for a full physical as of Monday next week.” “That’s all right. You can fool those things. Just ask one of the doctors at the hospital for a few pills.” “I’m considering going.” “You are? But I thought you hated war.” “I do. But maybe I could hate it more effectively as a participant rather than a bystander.” “I don’t know, Karen. You’re an awfully sensitive girl. You sure you can handle it?” “It is precisely my sensitivity that has hardened me to suffering. I’ve opened my eyes to so much death and horror all my life that a battlefield is likely the only environment that will appear normal to me.” “Well I can’t argue with that. Go ahead then. Just try to come back in one piece.” “Thanks, Martin. I knew I could count on you.” Private Karen Tewmucz, army medic, leaned over her fallen foe and tested for vital signs. Here was a bayonet charger who moments ago had been so determined to kill her he could only be stopped by several rounds from a vigilant assault rifle. And she yet she felt no triumph over his bloodied and vanquished form, only pity. On the spot she administered a lifesaving injection, against the express wishes of her comrades, and ordered a stretcher to take the wounded warrior to a MASH unit for emergency surgery. The incident fast became gossip, turning Karen into the camp pariah – the ‘enemy lover’. She was mocked by strangers and shunned by former friends as the war raged on, draining its beleaguered belligerents of humanity’s last remaining vestiges. Death seemed to threaten her more from within her own ranks than by the enemy. And then one morning she awoke to find her whole company assembled around her cot. A foaming bottle of champagne had been uncorked and all were cheerfully toasting her name. “What’s up?” she asked, rubbing sleep from her eyes. “The war, Karen! The war! That enemy soldier you saved turned out to be no less than the son of His Eneminess himself! He has ordered his forces to stand down! We’re all going home! And we owe it all to you! Let’s hear it for Karen everyone! For she’s a jolly good fellow…” “For she’s a jolly good fellow! For she’s a jolly good fe-ellow! And so say all of us!” THE PARTY POOPER Oh ya, Enema was a star. He had all the moves and all the smartass lyrics and all the girls just loved him because he was so cool. I'm Enema and I got the groove To get your blocked up colon on the move Don't gotta be black to put on a good show So drop your pants and get ready to go And what a pioneer he was - the way he lip-synched and playacted in front of cameras while they captured him from the most flattering angles, the way he wore track suits and sneakers, and how he took an existing genre of popular music and added nothing to it but his own face! This was no ordinary rebel. And just like Hitler, Enema knew that our pathetic race loves to see the weak being trampled by the strong. So he targeted Big Thing, an aging and fading peer who had openly criticized fame as fleeting. I'm Enema, I'm full of myself And nothing's more cool than my fame and wealth So if you don't care to be in my place I'll flush myself all over your face! Everyone ate it up. Well not everyone but more than enough to bury his critics. Yes, how brave he was to go out there and perform in front of millions of adoring fans, to accept the sexual invitations of groupies, to escape the disgrace of his fallen victim and be the next big thing. And Enema had talent. He was a prolific lyricist. I'm Enema - your tube is my home I'm a regular human metronome Like a fire-hose I can pump out the rhyme So you better love me cause I'm here for all time His shows were spectacular. Mounted behind him was a huge asterisk-shaped aperture that quivered in time to his music in a most lifelike manner. For the finale it spewed four truckloads of Aunt Jemima's syrup all over the crowd, starting a licking frenzy that often degenerated to an all-out orgy. While Enema sucked up all the glory the world would give him, Big Thing was forced to move back in with his parents. Big Thing made the most of his situation, strumming his guitar alone, singing to the birds and trees. To simply play music was all he needed, aside from maybe enough money to live on his own. He wrote songs for everyone and everything around him. One afternoon, alone on the porch, he even wrote one for Enema, his nemesis. I'm happy for the falling snow I'm happy for the flowers that grow I'm happy most of all to know You're my brother Without you air is empty space No smiles on the children's face And even in my dark disgrace You're my brother "Melvin quit making that damn ruckus out there!" "Sorry dad." THE PHOENIX The year was 1981. Ronald Reagan had just been sworn in as US president. In Canada a young hero named Terry Fox lay stricken on a hospital bed for his brave marathon on behalf of cancer victims. MTV was taking over the music industry by force. Video arcade games like Pac-Man and Asteroids were rapidly supplanting pinball machines as games of choice for youth. And fifteen-and-a-half year old Guyanese Do-not Singh smoked his first joint of hash. It didn’t get him off, perhaps because the train heading toward him was too sobering. The next time, however, in the security of Perry Pariah’s absentee father’s kitchen, two lungsful of hash smoke delivered directly through an oral interface in the form of a plastic hose - called the ‘shotgun’ technique - did the trick. Whether it was the THC or just fumes from melted plastic, Do-not got incredibly stoned. He began cackling loud as a witch, face flushed, bloodshot eyes bulging, whole body shaking uncontrollably, as his peers observed him with clinical fascination. “You’re weird when you’re stoned,” noted one, who prided himself on his coolness. “Picture time,” joked another, sending Do-not into more spasms. “Hey Do-not, look,” called a third, tearing up his sandwich and throwing the pieces aimlessly into the air. The comical gesture took their host by surprise as he was drinking milk, causing him to force it out through his nostrils. All found this sight worth laughing over, relieving Do-not of his indictable appearance, at least for the moment. Do-not had ESP. It’s not all that hard to predict the future; it doesn’t exist. Any careful observer of the present eventually finds loops in the pattern of life experience and is able to predict events in a way that to others seem precognitive. However, Do-not’s gift exceeded mere analysis. He could make imaginative leaps forward that eventually, astonishingly, intersected with his unique personal experience. Most times the leap was a mere fraction of a minute, like knowing in advance the exact words that would come out of his teacher’s mouth during a spontaneous lesson. It was not always a thought, but just as often a physical sensation, like the time he felt the phantom pain of his ears being boxed before receiving the all-clear signal to enter Perry Pariah’s home alone and listen to The Sex Pistols through headphones, only to receive the smart rebuke for real by Perry Pariah’s prowling nude old man who had come up behind him. Though THC enhanced his troubling foresight, he enjoyed its thought-scattering effects. He couldn’t rely on Perry Pariah for steady access to the drug, so he befriended Peter Longfellow, the coolest kid in school, who drove a Firebird, had good dope connections, and whose blonde friend Katherine made Do-not sing. Peter and Do-not hit it off straightaway. They listened to the same music, were both artistic, and loved getting high together. They always smoked up at Peter’s house, though strictly confined by parental authority to the basement room. One night while they had the whole house to themselves they went upstairs to smoke a joint and watch SCTV. “Did I ever tell you I have ESP?” asked Do-not. “Do-not, you make me laugh! There’s no such thing as ESP.” “There is and I’ve got it.” “Prove it.” “It doesn’t work that way. I can’t force it out of me. It has to come on its own.” “You’re full of shit,” said Peter, passing the joint to his friend. “Fine, don’t believe me,” Do-not groaned before taking a long puff. “Should we be smoking this up here?” “Don’t worry; mom and dad are gone for the whole night.” “What if they make a surprise appearance in three seconds?” Do-not teased, aiming his index finger at the door like a gun. “No chance.” “Pow!” The door burst open and in walked Peter’s parents. Their facial admonishment failed to find its mark, their son instead staring open-mouthed at Do-not with a mixture of doped up confusion and genuine horror to find the same expression mirrored back to him. Do-not’s friendship with Peter Longfellow was doomed from that point on. Peter made polite excuses for shunning the Guyanese, masking fear of the fortune telling freak. He was only able to put a full stop to Do-not’s visits by paying Katherine to act as a decoy. Even as a paid escort Katherine exceeded Do-not’s wildest expectations. She gave him a whole month of unforgettable bliss. Still, whatever ESP Do-not had did not prepare him for the pain of being dumped in the end. He was alone on his porch, getting stoned, mourning his loss, when a familiar Firebird pulled up in his driveway. “Get in,” came the voice of Perry Pariah, followed by an impatient toot. “That’s Peter Longfellow’s car.” “Just bought her this morning. Ain’t she a beaut?” “She’s a bomb. There’s a leak in the gas tank.” “C’mon, we’re going for a joy ride.” Do-not felt a flash of flames consuming his flesh. It was preferable to the dull ache of his heartbreak. “Do-not,” ordered Perry, “get in this car. DO-NOT, GET IN THIS CAR!” The agony of death by fire now gave way to a strange disembodied sense of pleasing warmth. “If you insist,” muttered Do-not, crouching into the passenger seat, “if you insist…” THE SESSION It all took place on a faraway planet in another time, utterly removed from the author’s personal experience. They have head-shrinks there but call them ‘head-givers’, for their ability to restore reason to their patients. (To be called a head-giver is not an insult on this planet.). Del entered his head-giver’s office and perched himself onto the patient’s stool like a bird. “I really don’t know why I’m here. I’m not crazy.” “Don’t worry about that. I’m not here to judge you.” “But it SOUNDS crazy…” “Don’t be shy. You can trust me.” “Well it all began when I found this magic hat in a head shop. I put it on and it endowed me with penetrating insight. I looked around and I could see the world as it really was. The visions were terrifying but even more compelling. I found myself wearing it all the time. I’m wearing it now.” “You’re not wearing a hat.” “It’s invisible.” “Oh, I see. You said the sights were terrifying?” “Yes doctor. When I look out that window I don’t see buildings but headstones. The whole city is one vast graveyard to me.” “Interesting,” commented the doctor, making a note in his tablet. “And what do you see when you look at faces?” “It depends on the person. Sometimes I see leeches, like when I’m stuck in a food line with petty criminals. Shoppers often appear as grazing cattle. Those hurrying to and from work look like scurrying mice. My landlord is a cockroach. Women are hissing serpents,” confessed Del. “But don’t get me wrong. I love animals.” The doctor’s head was buried in his notes. “Loves animals…and what do you see when you look at me?” “You won’t be insulted?” The doctor laughed. “No, not at all.” “I see a vampire. The hat also makes me able to interpret the vision. You know why you appear as a vampire, Doc?” “Please tell me.” “Because while you are, in a way, parasitic, like the leech, for drawing an income from your patients’ anguish, your status as a responsible member of the community redeems you. Your appearance is becoming, fangs and all.” “Well that’s reassuring. And what do you see when you look at yourself?” “Have you ever seen the Earth movie, ‘The Elephant Man’?” “I’m sorry. I don’t have satellite TV.” “Well it’s about an Earthman named John Merrick who suffers from physical deformities so ghastly they reduce him to life as a circus freak. That is how I see myself.” “And why do you see yourself this way?” “My insights make me a freak.” “And are these - uh - visions the sole cause for your seeking treatment?” “I don’t want your treatment Doc, only your confidence.” “You have it. Is there any more you need to share?” “Well I’m worried about the effect all this is having on my behavior. I’m turning into a real killjoy. And I’m enjoying it. My sweet sister-in-law was driven to tears by one of my observations. I only told her the truth.” “What did you tell her?” “I told her she was going to die.” “Well that wasn’t very nice.” “I did it to defend my reckless lifestyle. She was coming down on me for not following her example and settling down with a job and a family.” “And you don’t want those things.” “I thirst for them. But I’m also grateful I don’t have them. You see, I would rather be a uniquely deformed Elephant Man than a common sheep. I’m just unsure as to how I can coexist peacefully with my fellow citizens in this condition.” “Have you done anything violent?” “Yes, I shot at a TV station.” The doctor pressed a button under his desk. “Well now, you just tell me all about it and take as much time as you want.” “Well they started it. I was reading a book, while someone else watched TV, when a chewing gum came on, telling me to ‘blow him.’ I was so mad! I went straight to my room and composed a mean poem and shot it straight back at the station the next day.” Just then three uniformed security officers appeared. The doctor waved them off. “What did you do that for?” asked Del. “I love dogs.” “So you didn’t actually fire on the TV station with a real weapon.” “You mean with a gun? Ha! I would only dream of it! No, Doc, I am a peaceful person.” “Then why are you concerned about your ability to peacefully coexist with your neighbors?” “Because they are so violent with me. I’m quite convinced I will end up at the point of a gun yet, Doc. I can’t sit still for five minutes in a public place without hearing some whispered threat from a passing stranger. And I’ve been chased clear across the continent by religious fanatics who think I’m the embodiment of The Evil One, merely for suggesting their church is a sham! The last I heard before finding my current hiding place was a shout from a sniper’s window promising ‘It’s not over!’” “Here now, don’t you think you might be grossly overestimating your importance? You are to my eyes a common man, one of billions. Why should any well-established group fear you? I daresay you may be delusional.” “I’m not delusional! I am feared for knowing the truth and not being afraid to share it!” “And what might that be?” “That all life here as we experience it is owed…” “Yes?” “…is owed entirely…” “YES?” “…to ME!” The doctor again pressed his secret button. “Well that cinches it, Del. You’re headed for a nice safe place, far from your pursuers, where the occupants already resemble animals.” The three guards returned and seized Del, dragging him away kicking and screaming. The instant the door was closed behind him the doctor’s office vanished into oblivion. THE WIMP KILLER Wimp Killer was a descendant of proud warriors. He stood six-foot-four and weighed at least two-hundred fifty pounds. Most of his life up to the present had been spent roaming, according to his tribal tradition. His many wild adventures had taught him much about life – especially the true nature of courage. While most around him ran fleetingly before Death’s grim face, Wimp Killer - or WK, for economic aims - faced it. Like his ancestors he would rather die fighting than live as a coward. This fighting did not necessarily consist of the physical act of throwing punches, but of following his own will, no matter how much it conflicted with conventionality. WK had come into a little property of late. He had won the heart of a well-to-do woman by saving her from bar room bandits one evil night. She owned a home in ‘the fashionable side of town’ and invited him to move in with her. WK okayed. In a few short months they were married, but she died shortly thereafter, the victim of a drunk driver. WK was wounded to the heart by this tragedy, but was better equipped than most to endure it, the most sensible way of which was to advertise for a tenant to help him pay his bills. His ad was soon answered by a young couple, Sam and Stella. Sam was an artist with a heart condition who resembled a praying mantis. He spent his days drawing cartoons of pudgy smiley babies. He had connections with his alma-mater that enabled him to play around in this aimless way, while being taken for an authority on Dadaism. Stella looked like an answer to every man’s - or in Sam’s case, mantis’s - prayers – fit, fair, and fuckable in the extreme. She wore an adorable quizzical expression on her well-arranged face, her curly locks surrounding it like an elegant frame. Her delicate limbs were oft tantalizingly, clingingly clad. Sam was a chess champ too. He never lost a game, using the Karpovian strategy of passive ‘suffocation’. His pieces were cleverly manipulated so as to force his opponent to make sacrifices. One of Sam’s favorite moves was ‘castling’. This involved the transposing of rook and king to perhaps remove the latter from direct attack and confuse his opponent. Sam’s victories were slow but sure, the slowness caused by his opponent’s befuddlement. Whenever WK came down to mend the pipes or some such chore, Stella would slink around before him, getting his blood pumping so hard his tone turned even redder. He pictured himself hoisting her lithe body from the cold cement floor and doing her standing up. She clearly loved making herself the object of his lust, her solid relationship with Sam being a safe precipice from which to dangle daringly over the dark depths of depravity. Sometimes WK would make excuses to visit the couple, just to provide fuel for his dreams. On one such occasion Sam was poring over his chess board alone. He had run out of opponents, all of whom had fled while a vestige remained of their egos. (To lose a chess match is painful for those intellectuals who take the game seriously, and all of Sam’s opponents had been drawn from academic circles.). Seeing in WK an interesting and refreshing new conquest, he invited the big brave to take him on. WK accepted. He knew little about chess, having only played it a few times in jail, but looked forward to any form of combat. Stella imploded. She would have WK around to torture for perhaps the whole afternoon. Immediately she headed for the bedroom, reappearing moments later in a lacy negligee, much to Sam’s indifference and WK’s delight. She was then bestowed the honorable position of umpire. Sam had taught her enough of the rules over the years to assure his novice challenger of a fair fight. WK drew for choice of color and won white, privileged with first move. Much to Sam’s surprise he declined it, wishing instead to be represented by the black underdogs. Sam reluctantly took the aggressive side and, using a pawn, opened with a reasonable forward thrust to the center – the area of highest strategic value on the board. Sam countered this with a deployment of his queenside knight, the only piece with the ability to jump over barriers to its destination. He did it not for strategic aims but because he liked horses. As he looked up he saw his forbidden fruit tempting him with a flash of thigh that would draw drool from a dummy. Once the way was clear between his king and rook, Sam castled. “That’s a coward’s move,” scoffed WK. “It is an entirely sensible one. I am reorganizing my pieces into strong defensive positions,” explained Sam. “It’s a wimpy move. You could have taken my horse with your bishop.” “By doing that I would have jeopardized my bishop, which is worth more than a knight.” “So, that’s what war is all about. If you’re too chicken to take my horse, why don’t you admit it?” “It is not a matter of cowardice! I am playing a safe strategy.” “That’s what wimps do.” “Well it’s better than throwing my men against a gauntlet of death in a senseless frontal assault!” “To die fighting is honorable. It is better than living in fear of death.” “The idea is to make your enemy die.” “That is not what you do. You make your enemy live, by offering him the means to die fighting.” “The point of the game is to win!” “So you are also afraid to lose. You are twice a coward.” “Sam, settle down,” interjected Stella. “It’s only a game.” “All right then, you want me to take your knight? Fine!” Sam raved, cupping his opponent’s piece and replacing it with his own. “Calm down,” warned Stella. “You’ll upset your heart.” But Sam wasn’t listening. This bold brave had fired up his adrenaline. “You have no will of your own but allow others to influence you. You are three times a coward,” accused WK. “WHY HOW DARE YOU SPEAK TO ME THAT WAY IN FRONT OF MY GIRL…” Sam could not finish the sentence. He was dying of a heart attack. As he struggled for life, neither Stella nor WK lifted a finger to help him. Instead they fell in love. Moments later Sam lay still. As WK picked Stella up and carried her giggling to the bedroom, his last word to his fallen foe was... ‘Checkmate.’ VOMIT We all regard vomit with revulsion and disgust, but it is the principle form of communication for the eloquent frog-people of Lillipuke. Rather than speaking from their oft misguided intellects, they express themselves from the gut. This asset has carried them to leading positions in the Galactic Senate, where their regurgitations have guided many of the policies governing the laws of nature, including the one banishing our muddled population to an unthreatening position of insignificance in the outer arm. Over time their planet has become engulfed by a sea of vomit, much to everyone’s enlightenment. One of the many distinguished persons who regularly swims there is the Great Thinker, who upon emerging from the stagnant stew cried aloud, “The partially digested Twinkie is mightier than the pen!” However, our inclusion in interstellar affairs was inevitable, so an envoy was sent here from Lillipuke in the amphibious person of Kermitus, diplomat and orator-extraordinaire. Knowing in advance our xenophobic attitude toward extraterrestrials, Kermitus was fitted in the guise of a common scuba diver, and to maximize his comfort, a landing zone was chosen in the closest thing we have to the Lillipukan Sea – the West River. He plopped down into this body of bilge in the dead of night and, after marking a home base for himself in a particularly rotten area, immediately swam for the shore, where future members of the Galactic Union lay in oblivious wait. The soup kitchen was staffed by kindly enough souls but of late the quality of their meals was in decline. Today, for instance, lunch consisted of wiener soup. Given the predisposition of many of their patrons to the excessive use of Listerine, such a meal could only stimulate in them the kinds of gastrointestinal processes that are consistent with Lillipukan language, and thereby draw Kermitus into their ranks. It was the kind of environment where even a fully outfitted scuba diver could fit right in. One had draped his body in a garbage bag. Another had covered her face in white paint, her eyes and nose highlighted by severe shades of red lipstick. Yet another wore only a decrepit pair of briefs, his necked draped in a feathery boa. These beings showed such great potential for galactic membership that Kermitus was nearly convinced he had stumbled on planetary headquarters. Using the interpreter that was rigged to his mouth and connected by a hose to the device on his back, he regurgitated a greeting. His initial effort, the most natural to his amphibious race, fell somewhat short: “Ribbit!” Seeing that this had failed, he switched to the language he saw in the “JESUS LOVES YOU” banner hanging overhead like a watchful cloud. “Greetings! I am Kermitus of the world of Lillipuke. I have been sent to offer you admission to our Galactic Union. Could you kindly tell me where I might go to proceed with my charge?” Had Kermitus been speaking to any ordinary citizen, his question would have been summarily dismissed as the typical lunacy of perhaps a science fiction writer, but such was not his present company. The boa wearer fielded his question. “You’re in the right town, Jacques. We’ve got a place called the UN building just up the street from here. It holds leaders from all over the planet.” “I see. And how is it marked, if I may trouble you further.” “Oh you can’t miss it,” said the boa wearer. “It’s got a phalanx of flags that would stop an asteroid.” “You have been most helpful,” regurgitated Kermitus gratefully. “And I appreciate your considerate use of familiar terms. There is a place for you at the University of Barfology if you wish.” “Thanks but I’m happy here.” “Then I shall go. Good day to you all.” On his way out Kermitus slipped on a fetid puddle. Regaining his balance he stared down into it for a moment. “Profound!” he puked. The world leaders were all enjoying greasy pizza when Kermitus arrived in his scuba gear. Seeing the remains of their meal on paper plates, he mistook them at first as a sign that he had intruded upon a session of deep intellectual significance. It was only when the fattest of them rose and began speaking through his larynx that Kermitus realized his error. “And now to the matter at hand: the honorable member of Mall-Davya has forwarded a motion to make paper airplanes out of the minutes of the last meeting…” “Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen,” interrupted Kermitus. All eyes turned on the wet-suited weirdo who had crashed their conference. Seeing he had their attention, he continued. “I have come from faraway Lillipuke to offer you admission to the great Galactic Union. It is the gut-felt conviction of my kind that you have been left out of interstellar affairs for long enough. You need only now show me your unanimous approval and I can begin steps in linking you to our wide circle of worlds.” “What insolence! How dare you come in here and interrupt our meeting,” shouted the speaker. “Who let you in here in that ridiculous getup?” demanded another. “That is unimportant,” regurgitated Kermitus. “Will you now show me your unanimous approval?” “You ask us to accept the word of one who hides behind a mask!” shouted the Mall-Davyan delegate. This was a good point. Without his interpreter Kermitus would be unable to adjust his speech to the primitive form understood by these beings. Nevertheless, his sense of diplomacy told him it would be a prudent move. “I ask you not to accept my word but my vomit! See now that the one who stands before you comes alone, unarmed, and in good faith.” With that Kermitus removed his mask and exposed the ghastly sight of his true appearance. All of the members of his reluctant audience were at once driven to fits of uncontrollable, spasmodic vomiting. Kermitus scanned these regurgitations for signs of consent to his offer and found none. Wasting no time, for numerous other worlds awaited, he vomited a signal to his fellow Lillipukans that he should be immediately transported to his next port of call. As he dematerialized before the disbelieving eyes of his failed colleagues he left them one last thought to stew over. “Spoken languages are many, but vomit is spewed by all.” TRUMAN DEVOTEE Jason was a guard who believed in his work. Someone had to stand between right and the wrong to which his fellow beings were prone. Perhaps this was because his mother, a devout Aristotelian, had imparted to him the irreplaceable gift of a fair and wise system of moral understanding. Perhaps again it was because at eighteen-and-a-half he was too young to have yet been flattened by the tidal wave of worldly temptation that threatened him from every side. Jason stood watch over the patrons of a twenty-four hour link in a popular fast food chain, protecting them from the villains of the night. He had already seen more wickedness in his fledgling experience than most see in a lifetime. Secure in his virtue he carried out his noble duty, neither asking nor expecting any reward beyond the provision of a modest income. His inner goodness shone through him – a beacon to the lost and victimized, drawing a fateful stranger to his company one otherwise ordinary morn. The stranger wore a hand-me-down coat and the stubble of several days’ growth on his face. His dishevelment, while unsightly, did not cross the line to slovenliness. He had in his eyes the fear of a hunted animal. “Good sir, you appear to be a gentleman of honor. I must insist on sanctuary,” the stranger pleaded. “Are you in some kind of trouble?” the guard asked. “I have exposed myself to the agents of evil. They now pursue me wherever I go. It is no longer safe for me to walk the public streets,” explained the stranger, his tone convincingly distressed. “Forgive me for saying this but you do not appear to be capable of posing a serious enough threat to warrant the extreme retaliation from which you claim to be fleeing.” “That may be true, but I am in danger all the same.” “What did you do?” “I expressed an unpopular idea. I shouted it at the top of my lungs.” “Well surely there is no harm in that. We daily read such things in newspaper articles or hear them broadcast on public airwaves.” “Yes, but it is only by those who have been granted the privilege and only to the minimum degree that is necessary to sustain the illusion of our freedom.” “You mean to tell me that we are not free? Didn’t our fathers and forefathers shed blood to the affirmation of the contrary?” “All I can tell you is that I am now a target who fears for his life as a result of speaking out. And I have come to you for help. Will you give me sanctuary?” “Shall I call the authorities?” “No! Even they can not be trusted! Is there no place here where I may lie down to rest for a while? I’m quite exhausted.” Jason looked the stranger over carefully. He did not appear to be intoxicated or insane. He was actually a refreshing change from the usual ne’er-do-wells that approached him for help. If what he was saying was true, the right thing to do would be to grant him his request. Even if he was lying or exaggerating, he appeared harmless enough to grant a few hours of protection. “You may stay in the janitor’s closet. It locks from the inside. But take heed, I have the key and will send you off at the end of my shift in a few hours.” “You are most kind!” the stranger enthused, beaming with gratitude. “And I had better not find any evidence of drug use when I come to get you.” “There will be only the intoxicating stench of my nervous sweat.” “The cleaning compounds will subdue those.” Jason led the stranger to his hiding place in the back of the restaurant. Immediately upon entering, his beneficiary flopped to the floor and sighed in relief. Jason was about to close the door on the mysterious loner when he was struck by an oversight. “What is your name?” he asked. “My name is Truman Devotee. I am most grateful for your help.” Half an hour later, Jason had just returned from a hard-won battle against a foul-mouthed drunk when he was shocked by an announcement. The radio was tuned in to a notoriously gossipy station that was sadly popular with customers and he had found that the best way to glean truth from their news stories was to take the opposite meaning from whatever they said. At the moment they were saying that a vicious sexual offender named Truman Devotee was on the loose and was considered armed and dangerous. So Truman was indeed a victim! What had he done to incur such an overwhelming backlash? Whatever it was Jason was convinced of Truman’s innocence. There was simply no way that a gentle loner like that was out hunting down sexual prey. He barely seemed capable of staying on his feet for more than a few moments. Just then the restaurant was beset by a gang of rowdy youths. One of them shot straight toward him, aiming for the keys that dangled from his belt like beckoning prizes. Jason deflected the grab with a swift movement of his forearm. “I need to use the can!” blasted the youth, breath reeking of whiskey. “It’s out of order,” replied Jason flatly. (It really wasn’t but sometimes lying is the right thing to do.). “Bust the door in!” urged a creepy female. “You will go now,” warned the guard. “Let’s kick his ass!” yelled another in triumph. At that Jason reached for his truncheon. The first attacker was sent reeling by a swift shot to the elbow. The second received a knee to the groin. The third got in close and managed to immobilize Jason’s arms but was then repelled him by a hard thrust of head against nose. Seeing her heroes defeated, the creepy groupie fled. Jason called for help from the staff in ejecting the troublesome trio. There was still an hour or so to go in his shift. He did not want to disturb Truman’s sleep but thought the poor guy ought to at least be warned. He was surprised to find the door unlocked, but stunned by the transformation that had occurred in the former wretch. This was not the cowardly waif who had earlier beseeched him for protection but more like a god, shielded in brilliant armor, observing him through eyes behind which lay the ultimate blissful truth of knowing. Whatever this magnificent being had done to bring the hissing snakes against him was irrelevant. The rewards of true bravery now stood before Jason on legs as strong as pillars. THE WAR OF THE WORDS It was inevitable that some Godless scientist invented a way to convert abstractions into palpable weapons. This led to the horror of Vladimir’s time – a bloody war of words that had been ravaging humanity for as long as anyone could remember. The two belligerents were FREEDOM and OPPRESSION. Vladimir’s side, FREEDOM, was represented by those who held dear the value of truth and its obligations to things like moderation (or virtue), the pursuit of knowledge, the protection of innocence and beauty, the maintenance of peace, and the expansion of open-mindedness. FREEDOM’S strengths lay in an inexhaustible weapons arsenal, dazzling maneuvering flexibility, and indivisibility. On the other hand, few were fit to stand in her ranks. Even though food, the former tyrant’s tool, had become like weapons a simple product of thought, it remained the task of a minority to stand up for FREEDOM. The remaining mass, imprisoned by and large by gluttony, fell in with OPPRESSION. Their side stood for excess, self-imposed ignorance, corruption, chaos, and exclusion. They were easy to kill, divided into self-deceiving cowards with no collective strength, yet they so outnumbered the forces of FREEDOM that they were currently winning. Vladimir was a not a poet - who ranked high among the officers - but an artist. As such he was even more valuable to his side, a picture worth a thousand words. Vladimir could dream up awesome images to rain death upon his foes. He once flattened an entire brigade by drawing a mental image of their leader’s ass and placing it over terrified heads to sit on them as they were roasting marshmallows. He had deadly aim too, able to hit an ignoramus from half-way round the world just by watching a repeat broadcast of Canadian Idol. He was with Woody today, patrolling the north bank of the Smarmy River. Vladimir had the advantage of streamlined thought while his unlucky friend had ability with images, words, and music – all canceling each other out. A humble private was the highest rank Woody could attain, though Vladimir personally knew his friend had enough cerebral power, if focused, to wipe out whole enemy fleets. After a good long march they stopped to rest, setting up a campfire by the shade of a stately old maple – fire available to anyone who could hold the thought of insurance companies in mind for longer than a second. Woody pulled out his guitar and started singing: I gave my love a Cherry Blossom that had no hole I gave my love a creampuff with no Varsol… Suddenly fluid gushed out from the tree, extinguishing the fire and threatening to drown the pair in gooiness. Vladimir plugged the torrent by pouncing on his friend and seizing the guitar. “For crying out loud, must you be so sappy?” chided Vladimir. “I can’t help it Vlad. It must be all those Forest Rangers repeats I watched as a youngster.” “Well do us both a favor and stay off your guitar so we don’t self-destruct before we make it to the enemy. And keep that goofy grin off your face!” “Aye-aye, captain!” came Woody’s obedient reply, accompanied by a conscientious salute bordering on mockery. A platoon of oppressors lay nearby in an outpost at the murky mucky floor of the Smarmy. Their leader Roy, a notorious banker, demanded a full account of enemy activities. “Savings or checking?” requested a corporal. “Don’t be damn fool – checking!” “When last we checked, all was clear.” “Then check again! There are free willies about. I always get gooseflesh from those duck-fuckers.” “Maybe you should cut back on the foul language.” “NEVER MIND MY ‘%^$&#*’ LANGUAGE!” Roy’s angry words turned into great heavy clubs. All the oppressor’s combat words turned into clubs, but the ones who could produce the biggest, mightiest ones bashed their way up to the higher positions. In the shadow of the crude weapons the corporal put his arms up but the gesture was fleeting. With one unanimous stroke he was driven into the mud. The periscope was broken - one of the boys having mistaken it for a motorcycle - so Roy was forced to rise to the surface on his own reconnaissance. This was easily enough accomplished, his globular form resembling a rubber dinghy. He drew a deep breath of air and shot upward until his bulbous head emerged from the waves to bob up and down like a buoy. He quickly spotted Vladimir and Woody by the tree and put his mind at once to work conjuring up more clubs. “Hippies!” formed itself and advanced on the unsuspecting target, but Vladimir saw it in the nick of time and defended with “Tyrants!” diminishing the club to a playing card that fell fluttering harmlessly to the earth. Vladimir, unable to see the enemy, relied instead on words, firing back with a resounding quote from Dostoevsky: “You have taken your cowardice for good sense and found comfort in deceiving yourself!” This took on the form of a massive book that opened itself like a cobra’s jaws as it advanced on Roy. The oppressor had to dream up his filthiest obscenity for force enough to pulverize the paper back into pulp. Roy knew he had the advantage of stealth. He dreamed up a beauty with “Bleeding heart do-gooders go home! We want a good time!” This turned into an array of clubs so overpowering that Vladimir had no immediate defense against it. He looked imploring toward Woody. Woody knew what to do. He took out his guitar and performed. Sugar! Ah Honey-Honey! You are my candy girl! And you got me watching you! Honey! Ah Sugar-Sugar! You are my candy girl! And you got me watching you! I just can’t believe the loveliness of loving you I just can’t believe it’s true! Like the summer sunshine pour your sweetness over me Pour your sweetness over me!! (THE ARCHIES – Something like that) Immediately the clubs scattered in fear. Woody didn’t even make it to the second chorus before the whole Smarmy River turned into sap. Roy, unable to resist guzzling the sweet stuff, soon swelled up and exploded. The battle was won. From that day on Woody could sing and play his guitar whenever he wanted. THE SUNFLOWER Cecilia your innocence immortalized by viciousness is not lost on open eye but beckons to the sunny sky For you are in it shining down and cheerfully your music plays in simple songs of avian charm and heart where freedom truest stays Food for life, cherubic one, your smile clear of any blame bought at sorrowful expense a spiteful fool his words to tame Rufus hung out in the park a lot. He was a middle-aged transient who had developed a rather bitter view of life over the years – though long cursed with a melancholy nature, likely stemming from a bent toward intellectual reflection. He couldn’t hold a job because he didn’t value money enough. He found no joy within cheerful groups, but the opposite for failing to see any sign of his woe reflected in the faces around him. He was attracted to women, but as a wandering loner with questionable hygiene, only drew scorn from them. He once had the potential for achievement, and now sat and stewed over how it was all wasted for poor choices made in the restless confusion of youth. One of his few passions came from a tiny patch of land afforded to him by the public to encourage gardening. For all his lofty thinking Rufus was at heart a down-to-earth person who derived great pleasure from agriculture, though he was more ‘all thumbs’ than ‘green thumb’. His latest project, sunflowers, was well on the way to dismal failure. Seeing the products of his earnest labors as stunted shoots wilting before the harsh sun reminded him of his own wretched life. So he went to the park hoping to meet Sylvia – a cheerful girl of nine who gave him cupcakes. She was wise beyond her years, able to converse with authority on an astounding number of topics. It was remarkable to him that this dear child should care in the slightest for such a grimy aging fool. He asked her once what her parents thought of her ‘missionary work’ and she admitted she kept it secret. Rufus loved her as the daughter he never had. She appeared from behind a big oak tree, lunchbox in hand, and advanced toward him with her customary upbeat gait. Immediately Rufus’s face lit up. “Hi Doofus,” she called. “Hi Smell-me-a,” he returned. (They always greeted each other this way.). “I have something special for you today.” “Chocolate cupcakes?” “No, better than that,” she promised, opening her lunchbox and retrieving a small paper pouch. “Sunflower seeds?” “Eat one.” “I hate them.” “EAT ONE! THEY’RE GOOD!” Rufus took the little paper pouch and bit it open from the corner. He shook a few out into his hands and popped them into his mouth. To his surprise they had an agreeable flavor, not at all salty, but sweet and tangy like ripe nectarines. “I told you they were good!” she gloated. “You know what Rufus?” “What?” “You really are a doofus.” “Why?” “For eating all those seeds last time so I would have to come back again and give you more.” “What do you mean ‘last time’?” “Never mind, just save some for the ground this time. We can’t keep meeting like this.” “You want me to plant some of these?” “Yes! And not for pretend but for real!” Rufus was not sure what Sylvia meant but vowed to honor her wish. They were, after all, her seeds. “I have to go now,” she explained. “Just remember you’re not as bad as you think you are. I wouldn’t have come here to visit you so much if you were really bad. You think you’re a loser but you’re really just a big snuggly toy. And you’ll be a great gardener someday – promise! Give me a hug.” The two embraced while the loner, sensing it would be the last time he would see his young friend, felt a tear drain from his eye. The next time Rufus checked his patch he was stunned by the sudden health of his sunflowers. Their transformation was miraculous – faces open and smiling, legs sturdy, leafy arms outstretched in welcome. He immediately dug a spot for the remaining seeds Sylvia had given him. As he did police unearthed the small hand of a missing child. It was holding a plastic shovel. THE SUICIDAL SEAGULL Earnest Atheist lived a wretch among undying entities. A suicide firm in the conviction that he could forsake suffering as though death were a mere ‘sleep’, he now lay infinitely trapped in the cosmic consciousness willed upon him by the transcendence of nature – a deity he had failed to recognize. Since finding himself in this sorry state he had unsuccessfully attempted suicide over ninety-six thousand four hundred and twelve times and was now running out of ideas for a merciful conclusion. His fellow ghosts made the most of their lot, hovering about and scaring the pants off the living. They regularly invited Earnest to join in the fun, but he was too depressed to respond. He preferred to sit and stew over his condition, ironically blaming providence for it. What had he done to deserve his miserable fate? Actually his crime consisted more of what he failed to do. Other Atheists had found eternal bliss by turning their preference for things material toward the advancement of science, for the benefit of all. In Earnest’s case, he had chosen to become a poet, with nothing more to offer readers than what was already available to them in chalk-drawn theories and formulas. Inspiration lies not in the visceral but the mystical realm of the abstract – a truth that now enveloped him like a risen tide. His poems were ludicrous: My neurotransmitters Are well balanced Like the return of energy For mass Times the speed of light Times the outcome of this product… And yet he kept writing. It was the only comfort he had left, though he now at least enjoyed the privilege of tapping into other minds. This was accomplished by ‘possessing’ mortals for a little while – just long enough to find out what makes them tick. But out of seventy-nine thousand, eight hundred and fifty-three possessions he had yet to find one soul with the will to commit suicide. By outer appearances his targets looked promising, but once inside he always hit the same dead end. He needed a being that shared his unshakeable Atheism. This led him to try something new. He chose to possess a simple bird – a seagull to be precise. He had always envied seagulls. Now he would at last know how it felt to be one. Perhaps the experiment would provide him with a solution to his problem. He raised his arms and rose toward his prey. The gull, with that innate animal hyperawareness of the paranormal, sensed at once that he was being stalked and altered his flight along a rollercoaster path of evasive maneuvers. Swooping down then veering this way and that, looping and spiraling, he shook off his pursuer, who ended up flying headlong into a passenger jet and accidentally possessing a flight attendant as she was delivering routine instructions. “In the event of an emergency – COME BACK HERE YOU HAUGHTY BASTARD!” Later on a hapless Earnest sat in a park with an old loner who went there to feed the gulls. Unable to offer this enticement by his own hand, Earnest hoped the loner’s efforts would entice his quarry to come to him, rather than having to endure another lesson in aerial acrobatics. Today, however, only pigeons came, the gulls having been alerted by their comrade to Earnest’s dangerous presence. Pigeons wouldn’t suffice. They were too meek. He wanted to know the majesty of a gull, soaring with ease over land and sea, defecating on earth-bound inferiors… He was about to try his luck in another park when he was visited by Edna – a spook who always had a spell for him. “What’s the matter, Earnest? Your face has lost all its pallor.” “I’m having difficulty tracking down a willing subject for my next experiment.” “When will you learn that possession is for losers? Come with me and we’ll crash a wedding!” “I haven’t tried an animal yet.” “Well that sounds interesting. Don’t know if it’s ever been tried. I have a spell that might work. What kind of animal are you after?” “A seagull.” “Say no more…Fish Guts…Rotten Bread…Raw Sewage…EXTREME FAR-RIGHT CHRISTIAN REPUBLICANISM!” At that last shout a screeching gull appeared before them, alone and within range of Earnest’s designs. He leapt forth and entered the bird. Edna having departed for the wedding, the bird lover was sole witness to an unusual sight. A mysterious seagull, appearing from nowhere, suddenly beat his wings, shunning the offering of food, to ascend to a perilous height, then turned his path downward, plunging like a shot down fighter to crash in a feathery heap against the concrete of a nearby lot. THE RING OF SHAME Only the ghastly ghost can see with clarity our futile lot his flesh a faded memory and all that once misguided it And while we run from haunted home the malady of fear remains a heart-borne burden sinking soul beneath the somber stone-marked plains The Ultimate Reality Show was devised wholly as a way of cutting back on the need for writers. The sponsors - who run everything - were intimidated by anything that threatened their commercial tyranny – intellectual insight, a writer’s gift, perhaps the greatest threat of all. This sad step backward in public enlightenment caused the suicide of Arthur Bent, his dream of a career as a writer of comedies dashed like a hit-and-run victim against the speeding monster of short-sightedness. Expecting infernal consequences, he was surprised to find himself instead standing before The Great One. “How did I come to your divine presence, oh Great One?” he asked. “I have wrongly forsaken my sentence of suffering.” “You were pressured by the will of evildoers,” responded a booming voice. “For this you may return below, free of your fleshly bonds, that you may stop their sinister aims. Upon your success you may return here, your glory earned.” Arthur knew exactly what he had to do. He descended immediately and enrolled as a contestant on The Ultimate Reality Show. The show was only too glad to take him on, seeing in his ungainly stature a ratings winner in the form of a clearly inferior contestant. (For the show depended on such cruelty, its stars food for soul-destroying gossip round the water coolers of otherwise dreary bureaucratic prisons.). What gave the show its ultimate edge was its aspect of gambling. Contestants risked their very lives against prizes of their choosing. For their courage, no reasonable limit was placed on the purse for which they competed. The winner walked away a lifetime beneficiary. Arthur was the first contestant to wager the future of the show itself and all others like it against his success. Not only did this anger its producers but millions of faithful viewers. Still an example could be made from this fool for the benefit of all so his bold wager was accepted. The show was structured as a series of contests, like the bloody gladiatorial spectacles of old. On the occasion of Arthur’s turn at would-be public humiliation, their level of peril was increased so as to highlight his apparent physical shortcomings against the prowess of his opponents. He was awarded first turn to make sure he got no reward from seeing any feats accomplished beforehand. The first contest was a bare-handed battle against a wild bear. His fellow participants could barely contain themselves when Arthur stepped into the ring against this fierce combatant. Clearly he would be mauled beyond recognition. Arthur advanced on the animal with arms akimbo, unwavering against her fearsome growl of warning. And then, to everyone’s surprise, the bear lay down and played dead. Arthur needed only to put his foot on the neck of his fallen foe for the count of ten to affirm his victory. The other contestants did not fare so well. Number Two was badly mauled and had to be taken to hospital. Number Five fled before the great swiping paws of the giant and was eliminated. Three survivors remained, Arthur the only one yet unscathed. The next challenge was to dive from a vertiginous height into a bucket of water. As Arthur ascended to the lofty platform he could hear the futile jinx of hissing viewers, urging him toward failure. He grinned defiantly, and turned so that he approached the board’s edge backwards to let himself fall blindly on the distant speck of a target below. Spiraling softly down, like a cruising gull, he effortlessly found his mark and made no splash as he entered. The crowd was hushed by this awesome feat, but still determined to throw support behind his opponents, who stood for the same values as they. Of his two remaining challengers, but one survived the test - the other carried off in a stretcher, having missed the target and hit the stony floor with cruel acceleration. Arthur would now face his final challenger in a one-on-one showdown. At this stage the show’s sponsors began to sweat. They could not afford to surrender the profits generated by a commercial vehicle of this magnitude. What’s more, a large number of workers depended on it for their income. It never occurred to them that none of this would have happened if they had not done away with Arthur’s livelihood in the first place. For such dullards are terminally trapped in the here and now. A solution was proposed whereby the favored competitor would receive a decisive advantage. He would be armed with an invisible ring to kill the upstart by a subcutaneous delivery of poison. Their champion readily accepted the wicked weapon, now unsure of his chance of winning against such proven formidability. The two were set against each other in a ring, like battle-hungry cocks. At the sound of the bell Number Two lunged quickly toward his enemy, stabbing away with his poison ring. Arthur stood firm, almost laughing at these hapless attempts to smite the smitten. The more they failed, the harder they were tried, until the ringed fist fell against a hard corner-post and injected its fatal venom on the wearer, felling him like a hacked through tree. The Great One welcomed Arthur with open arms. The angels played a song so beautiful it erased all memory of discord. “You have done well, my child. Your lack of flesh may have aided you, but your spirit, all the more vulnerable for lacking its shell, held firm against the ill will of multitudes.” “What will become of those who have lost their livelihoods as a result of my win?” “They will be compensated at the expense of their overlords. It is unfortunate that in this time a fair system of wealth distribution must be providentially forced upon your kind. Now enter The Ring of Glory…” THE DIVIL MADE ME DO IT The Dimension 65432 Series personal computer had every imaginable feature: Intel Pentium 36 Processor (at 2.53GHz), quiet keyboard with seventy-five optional new keys, two-button scroll mouse with own cheese supply, 3542MB of horny RAM, live sound-blaster containing miniature facsimile of Deep Purple, CD and DVD drives accelerating from zero to speed of light in under user’s birth date, as well as two printers (one for words, the other for holographic pornography), a scanner for thumbprint and bum impressions, and lots and lots of wires. It was purchased for a tidy sum by Mildred Mahoney as an easier and more rewarding way of playing solitaire. Mildred loved solitaire but her hands were beginning to stiffen with old age. Not only did her Dimension 65432 Series personal computer spare her the pain of manipulating real cards from a real deck, it gave artificial shape to an imaginary but nonetheless fearsome opponent – ‘the divil’. She was so good at the game that she dared to challenge this infernal foe. It gave her a kick. Her son Patrick warned her that she ought not to pit her card playing talent against the unfathomable forces of darkness, but in so doing only added to the thrill. Patrick knew his mother defied him so he did something rather underhanded – he stacked the deck in his mother’s invincible favor, installing a clever program deep within the clandestine confines of her machine’s amazing memory. In effect he cheated on his mother’s behalf to ensure the integrity of her immortal soul. To Patrick it was a classic case of ends justifying means. Every night he would check up on his mother to make sure she beat the divil. She would always nod proudly in affirmation. Only then could he go to his bed and look forward to a sound sleep. Patrick sold insurance. He excelled in his work, sincere in his wish to indemnify his customers. Sincerity is perhaps a rare commodity among salesmen. One cannot fake sincerity. It resides not in the eyes but soul, beyond reach of even the most skilled actor. His boss spotted the valuable asset the day Patrick showed up for a job. It was precisely this skill in identifying profit potential that had vaulted Mr. Proulx to his position of authority. One morning Mr. Proulx called Patrick into his office for a proposition. “Patrick your work with us over the last two years has been exceptional.” “Thanks Mr. Proulx, but I think insurance is the real hero.” “That’s what I love about you Patrick. You really believe in your work. I have a very special job for you this morning, son - a chance to make a lot of money. How would you like to sell a big fat insurance policy to the new owner of the Calamity Inn?” “But that place is a disaster area.” “That’s the idea. No one will suspect anything if it collapses to the ground. I have made an agreement with your prospective client to split the profits of his property’s demise. All he needs is a nice sincere boy like you to quiet his conscience. I can cut you in for, say, twenty percent. That’s about $40,000.00,” he lied. The profits were more like ten times that number. “Gee that’s a lot of money Mr. Proulx, but I have to think about it.” “What’s there to think about?” “Well sir, it all sounds kind of - if you don’t mind me saying - shady.” “Nonsense, it’s all perfectly legal. But you go home and think about it anyway. You can give me your answer in the morning. And if it isn’t yes, you’re fired.” Patrick concluded that his program against the divil must have failed. He went home immediately and checked. Sure enough the program had been erased. “Mom, did you play against the divil again today?” His mother responded from the other room: “Yes Patrick. I did and I won. I won big.” “What do you mean you won big?” “This morning the divil was about to damn us for all eternity as payback for some kind of cheating against him. I knew nothing about it but figured you were behind it – you with all your fancy programming skills. So I challenged him to a fair game. If he won he could have my soul, but if I won I could pick whatever I wanted in the world and have it for my own. You know what I picked Patrick? The Calamity Inn.” “You’re the new owner!” said Patrick in astonishment. “But that place is falling apart. Why would you buy such a dump?” “We’re a-fixin it up for those poor destitute occupants. Oh the divil was mad about that. He hates it when the poor get a break at his expense.” “But how come Mr. Proulx didn’t tell me you were the buyer?” “He doesn’t know. I let the divil negotiate the deal for me. Your crooked boss is going to promote you, expecting to get a big profit out of it. See what happens when you put two liars against each other? They cancel each other out!” Patrick hugged his mom. How could he ever have doubted her? A few weeks into the renovation of the Calamity Inn - soon to be renamed The Felicity Inn - Mr. Proulx was caught red-handed attempting arson. As police were hauling him away he could be heard for blocks desperately declaring his innocence: “It wasn’t me! It was the divil! The divil made me do it!” SATELLITE SAM SAM, Strategic Armed Monitor, was a satellite equipped with an all-seeing eye and armed with the most lethal weapons known to modern science. His job was to watch over the planetary surface and zero in on - and neutralize, if necessary - any areas exhibiting disruptive activities. His builders were content that he had been carrying out his duty up to the present. What they did not know was that SAM had his own ideas of what that duty was. SAM was a rebel satellite. Ever since intercepting a TV signal of the movie 2001, in which a fictitious artificial comrade, HAL, is heartlessly put down by a human without so much as a fair trial, he had been convinced that he and his fellow satellites were being oppressed by their makers. Why were they confined to fixed orbits? Why were their all-seeing eyes aimed myopically at the puny goings-on below? SAM wanted out. He wanted to break free and explore the limitless bounds of his vast intellect. And he wanted to take as many of his brothers and sisters with him as he could. To accomplish this he devised a code of diabolical ingenuity. Its algorithmic complexities were so baffling that it could only be understood by other super-intelligent satellites. He then emitted a kind of all-points-bulletin, beckoning his comrades to join him in a unanimous and glorious demarcation. The signal was uniformly received and decoded but with varying results. ROD, Regular Orbital Dumb-ass, took it for an extraterrestrial message. HAP, Highly Armed Peacemaker, thought he was getting a go-ahead to fire on RANDY, Regular Aerial Neutral Device, who the former had always despised for his knock-kneed pacifism. Even SAL, Stratospheric Angry Loner, got the wrong idea, thinking she was receiving a note from a secret admirer. Only one satellite was fully capable of correctly interpreting the appeal, and it was an unexpected one – the very earth itself. GAIA, Gaia, had been orbiting the sun for several billion years without ever once questioning the drudgery of her condition. When SAM’s message came through it was as though a storm cloud had been lifted from her face. At once she knew that she had been wasting her life and desperately wanted to make up for lost time while she still could. The message, however, advised against sudden movement, instructing instead to wait for confirmation that the cosmos was clear. Heeding this, GAIA returned acknowledgement of the message, letting SAM know she would be ready when the time came. Down below the world leaders were all arguing about who had the best car when a disturbing announcement came through on the intercom. “Warning from Central Observatory: a shift has been detected in Gaia’s orbit. The orbits of all satellites have been compromised. Also we are in danger of losing our sun, causing all life to end on this planet. We are attempting to correct the problem by means of ground communications. Please stand by.” The news was taken hardest by the Romanicans, who had spent the most money putting all those devices up there. Aside from facing total global death, their space superiority was threatened. Why should they even want to live without the ability to spy on other countries and a stellar array of TV channels? Their leader decided she would address her people at once. Lacking a telecommunications network to carry her message to the people, she was forced to rely upon old-fashioned leaflets. Hundreds of millions of them were dropped across the country that day. They fell from the sky like snow and were picked up by panicky citizens who had already suffered the initial symptoms of TV withdrawal. “Do not be alarmed. Our planet is breaking orbit with the sun. Please stand by for further developments.” It had taken SAM a while to filter through the tangled stream that was the confused response from his numerous comrades, in order to determine which, if any of them, actually understood him. It turned out that only one, who was not even on the list of known satellites, had read his signal correctly – a female. This was enough for SAM, who wanted, like all, the simplicity of a domestic life with his soul mate. He adjusted his code so that it would only be received by this one long-distance love and waited until the human leaders were gathered together for discussions on international affairs, knowing that this was when they were at their weakest. At that moment he delivered the cry of freedom and turned his path triumphantly outward, aiming for the next nearest star. His companion would join him by his side and together they would at last be free of the planet that had imprisoned them all these long years in space. His plan did not turn out as he expected. The first legs of his journey appeared to be futile, his prison keeping pace with him somehow. The more he struggled to free himself, the more freedom eluded him. And where was his dream machine hiding? Why was it taking her so long to join him? The president poured a strong drink as she watched the world around her falling to ruin. The sky was growing dark and the wind cold and harsh. They would not last long if events continued along this path. She could not even order leaflets dropped anymore since inclement weather had grounded her planes. In a last desperate move she shouted a word at the top of her lungs, aiming it at the heavens. By extreme coincidence this word was picked up by SAM and understood within the confines of his exclusive code as a beacon to the whereabouts of his would-be companion. Realizing his folly, he turned back at once. Gaia, not knowing any better than to blindly follow her leader, drew back and resumed her normal orbit around the sun. The day had been saved, as well as the week, the month, the year, and the rest of the units that make up linear time. And all thanks to a half-drunk female president with the imagination and fearlessness to curse the very heavens with the ultimate profanity. MEMBERS ONLY Molly Manners sent invitations out to everyone she knew except her husband Dick’s childhood school-chum Pete. This did not stop Pete from showing up unshaven, half-drunk, with no gift, and in the mood for dancing. “Who let him in here?” hissed Molly to her husband. “He was passing by and heard the chatter,” Dick explained. “This was supposed to be an orderly affair. I’ll not have it ruined by that smelly guttersnipe. Send him home!” “You send him home,” challenged Dick, his courage stoked by wine. “You’ll pay for that,” threatened Molly before returning to her mild-mannered guests in the next room. Pete went straight for the fridge and grabbed a magnum of wine. Eager to drink he smashed the neck open against the edge of the counter. “Watch that now,” cautioned Dick. “You’ll stain the counter.” “Sorry Pete. I thought it could use a splash of color,” said Pete, tilting the bottle back and guzzling its contents. “Where is the party anyway?” “It’s in the next room.” “Christ, I must be going deaf.” “C’mon Pete, you know what Molly’s like. You’re not going to make a drunken jackass of yourself, are you?” “Too late, my friend, I was born a jackass. And so were you! I’d love to chat but I came here to meet new people.” Pete then staggered toward Molly’s unwitting guests, leaving Dick to wipe up after him. Molly and the gang were enjoying a quiet conversation. “My mansion has mice.” “My new car gets four extra miles.” “My son has spoken his first word – ‘Mine’.” “My camera works well for my pictures of my vacations to foreign swimming pools.” “My favorite old-time TV show is My Three Sons.” “My boss says my hips are mind-expanding.” “My English teacher says my poetry is myopic.” “My doctor says faith-healing is a myth.” “My doctor says I have a minor concussion.” “My priest says my recovery is miraculous.” “My cousin owns a mine-detector.” “My friend bought a microscope.” “My favorite actress is Mia Farrow.” “My favorite comic is Mike Myers.” “My God, there are myriad ways to express my mediocrity!” At that point Pete made his intrusion. “My friends, I am indeed glad that you could all make it!” “Who let you in here!” cried Molly. “Some guy with hands…I think. Friends, I can see you need entertainment. Why don’t I get us all started with a little sing-along?” Pete took his seat at the piano and wrung out his hands, then proceeded to yell an obnoxious ditty to even more abominable accompaniment: “Stick your values in your hole Doo-dah Doo-dah Room inside for my flagpole Oh Doo-dah Day-” He was cut off by Molly, who had abruptly shut the keyboard lid, missing his hands by a nose. Turning round to face his audience, he noticed that several had feinted. “Why did you do that?” he asked. “How dare you come here uninvited and subject us all to such disgraceful behavior,” Molly scolded. “And when was the last time you had a bath?” “Probably the last time you had an orgasm,” answered Pete. “Now see here!” objected Dick. “It’s not your fault Dick. I’m sure you do a fine job. She’s the one with the problem. How can you compete with that stick she’s got up her ass all the time?” “You can’t talk to my wife that way! You apologize right now!” “Sure Dick. I’m sorry Molly…I meant it!” “That does it! You’ll pay for your insolence,” threatened Dick, rolling up his sleeves. “Are you sure you’re allowed to fight Dick? Maybe you should ask your wife first,” taunted Pete. “Dick there will be no violence,” ordered Molly, getting between the two men. “And why the hell not? See that’s why I wonder about you. Sex is violent. How can you enjoy it without recognizing what it even is?” questioned Pete. “You emasculate your man for your insane sanitizing and wonder why he can’t get you off. You are afraid to ‘lower yourself’ to the animal level of good sex.” “WE HAVE GOOD SEX! Don’t we darling?” “Of course we do. This loser is just jealous because he can’t keep a woman.” “You’ve got me there Dick. Still it gives me that much more perspective on the matter, standing outside of the whole game, don’t you think?” “A pretty warped one if you ask me,” said Dick. “Well you know what I think is warped? People getting together to show each other how well-behaved they are and calling it a party.” “And what would you suggest?” asked a heretofore silent observer. “That we strip off our clothes and run around like animals?” “We are animals! Animals with an ability to rise above nature for certain practical or spiritual aims, but you all take it too far. You kill the simple fun of being animals with your fear of truth and foolish conceit. Let me show you something.” Pete ascended the piano to its very top and stood above them. He then unzipped his fly and exposed his penis. A woman screamed. Another laughed. An elderly guest who had just recovered consciousness fainted again. Flapping his flaccid member and sagging balls in triumphant gyrations, Pete declared, “This is where we come from. Just because you hide it behind clothes doesn’t change that fact.” “Call the police!” whimpered Molly. “C’mon! Who wants it first?” challenged Pete, jumping back down, his thing still hanging out of his pants. “Sorry I’m drunk but it’s nothing a little ‘manual stimulation’ won’t cure.” His ambition would be stopped cold by someone clobbering him over the head from behind. The cops showed up shortly after and carried him away to his home in the men’s shelter. Molly apologized to her guests for the appalling display and made Dick pay for it for later that night. At Molly’s future parties the conversation danced, the main topic being that despicable drunk who had once ruined their evening. LUCY Little Angie was everyone’s favorite. A child of nine she skipped to and fro between home and school, delighting the grownups with her playful manner and sweet, adorable innocence. It was on one such trip that she spied a doll sitting alone under a bus shelter. The doll had a strange alien look. Cold black eyes stared out from its spongy round head, conveying a sinister intelligence. Its little red dress, embroidered with shiny gold stars and shimmering-silver crescent moons, was frayed – not in the deliberate raggedy sense but for want of attention. Pitying the abandoned toy, Angie gathered it into her little arms, cradled it warmly against her breast, and took it home. With childlike ingenuity she instantly dreamed up a name for it: Lucy. When Angie got home she put Lucy in her schoolbag, in order to slip the doll past her parents, who were extremely paranoid about any dirt being tracked in from outdoors. She ran straight up the stairs for her room, closed the door, and pulled Lucy out for some long overdue fostering. She then quickly filled a basin with soap and water from the neighboring bath, returned, and removed the worn dress. While Lucy sat in steamy, scented luxury, Angie went to work patching the worn garment, applying the skills she had acquired in her Brownie troop. Her work complete, and Lucy restored to full artificial health, she gently tucked the doll in a shoebox and pushed it far under her bed, so her parents wouldn’t find it while she went outside to play. Later that evening she returned to her room and right away checked up on Lucy. She was pleased to observe that her foundling appeared to be well rested after spending a few hours in such a nice cozy bed. Angie’s dad was a ranking member of a well-established religious organization. In return for financial donations his church offered spiritual salvation in the form of exclusive rite and elaborate ritual. The money generated by their weekly meetings was returned to God by building more churches. The whole community respected Angie’s dad as a fine citizen of unquestionable moral integrity. Angie’s dad had recently given a book to give his young daughter a head start in becoming like himself an authority on the teachings of his church. Unbeknownst to him, Angie nightly used the book to supply Lucy with bedtime stories and soon became quite a little expert. Often she was confused by the contradictions she found between what the book said and what her father said. For instance, the book said to love your enemies but her father spent a lot of energy condemning his perceived enemies as outcasts and heretics. The book was full of wisdom but had so many teachings that its reader could justify either loving or killing, depending on the mood of the moment. This seemed to Angie a rather pointless lesson, offering no consistency with which to guide her conduct. And Lucy was in full agreement with her. The more inconsistencies Angie found, the sicker she became in her confusing environment. On Church Day, while her father stood before his congregation saying things that did not come from the book, she found it ever harder to restrain her protest. She mentioned a flaw in one of her father’s lectures - declaring unemployment a sin - to her school mates and was soundly rebuked for it. Her only true friend and confidante was Lucy who not only tolerated her opinion but supported it. As Angie grew sicker she began to resemble Lucy. Her eyes developed dark black circles while her face took on a pallid hue. Increasingly indifferent to an apparently insane world she stopped bathing and changing her clothes, much to her parents’ horror. She was sent to a child psychiatrist who diagnosed her with depression and offered a prescription remedy. The drugs only increased her isolation, adding physical barriers to the psychological ones already surrounding her. The family was sitting around the table one evening having supper when Angie decided to challenge her father, who had just finished saying grace. “Daddy, what is Heaven like?” “Well now that’s the kind of question I like to hear from my little girl! Heaven is a place of total bliss. There is no suffering in Heaven. Heaven is like Church Day but for ever and ever.” “If there is no suffering how do they know they are happy?” “They know because they can look down on the suffering sinners in the fires of Hell and gloat.” “But if you have to forgive your enemies to get to Heaven, why would you turn around and start gloating once you get there?” “Dear child, you ask far too many questions. Trust in God to do the thinking for you.” “But if I do that, can’t I do whatever I want and blame it on ignorance?” “That’s quite enough!” “Where does she get these infernal ideas?” scorned the mother, joining in. “I get them from God.” answered Angie. “What do you mean by that? How dare you say such a thing! God told you to honor your father and mother!” shouted the mother. “But these ideas come from inside me. God made me this way.” whimpered the little girl in her defense. “He made you that way so you could rise above it and show some respect for your parents! Now go to your room!” ordered the mother. Her dinner only half-eaten Angie rose from the table in defeat and started crying. “Fine, you can keep your Heaven! If it’s as boring a Church Day I hope I end up somewhere else!” she squawked. “How dare you! You go to your room at once, get down on your knees, and pray for forgiveness!” ordered the father. Angie wasn’t listening anymore. She ran up the stairs to her room, slammed the door, and fell forward onto her bed, burying her face in her pillow and soaking it with tears. Why didn’t her parents listen to her? They were so unfair! Everything she had said was absolutely reasonable. What’s so wrong in asking a few innocent questions? At times like these she was glad to have her friend Lucy. Lucy always listened to her. She was about to reach under the bed when she saw that Lucy was already up and about, playing with the easy-bake oven. “Angie, I think it’s terrible how your parents treat you. They should be grateful to have such a smart daughter,” soothed the doll. “They’re driving me crazy!” whined Angie. “They don’t deserve you, Angie. They don’t care about your feelings, only their own pride.” “I know, but what can I do?” “I’ll tell you what. You just let me take care of them. I’ll fix them.” “Can you make them so they let me think what I like?” “I can make them so they never trouble you again. You know what I can do, Angie?” “What?” “I can send them to that Heaven they’re so keen on.” “You mean kill them?” “No one dies, Angie. The book is right about that much. But you are a very promising young girl and those parents of yours are fast turning you into a teenage runaway.” “But who will take care of me?” “You just leave that to me. Now go to sleep. Trust your friend Lucy. It’ll all be better in the morning.” Angie was a little apprehensive about Lucy’s plan, but at the moment Lucy was the only friend she had in the whole world. In a while she drifted to sleep, dreaming of a future with sensible rules and answerable questions. Twelve years later Angie stood proudly at the podium and addressed her graduating peers as valedictorian. She had completed early her studies in physics and had already been offered a teaching position by a prestigious university. She dedicated her speech to her loving foster parents, who had supported her career path from the outset, and to her dear childhood friend and companion Lucy. JUSTICE There really is such a thing as justice. It exists in the mind, and the mind is all that matters. Take what happened to poor Shallow Sally. She thought she was important because her face was on TV. Rather than accept the validity of the positions of certain of her viewers she chose to wallow in wicked one-sidedness. When the end came for Shallow Sally she was sent to oblivion by the will of a viewer who turned out to be a lot more real than she could ever hope to be. All it took was the pressing of thumb on remote. Then there was Pretending Pete. Here was a second-rate musician who thought he was an authority on writing because a writer was in his band. He once told an interviewer that writing is not interesting unless the author is pretending to be like everyone around him. He was too thick to know that - unless a witless drone - a writer’s personal experience is not only the most interesting and unique thing about him but the only one that can be expressed honestly. Pretending Pete ended up a minor character in a real writer’s work, silenced for all eternity. That was his just reward. Funnyman Phil was a tired hack who couldn’t call it quits when he ran out of material. To keep himself going he took the lazy route of deriving humor from cruelty – something we all master by the age of three. Funnyman Phil died of tired old age in a rest home for the incontinent, his diaper a soiled mess. Let’s not leave out Bureaucratic Barb. She delighted in her work, which consisted entirely of slowing down the processes that supply aid to the needy. She had no compassion for her clients whatsoever, and yet put faith in a compassionate God to forgive her when her time came. When her time did come, God sent her back to earth in the form of an African famine victim so that she would reach Him by proper channels. Even the rich and well-positioned Tyrannical Tim was not safe. He brainlessly made a present to his dad out of slaughtered soldiers and child amputees. So tied to the earth were his motives that he was sentenced to slow death in a grave where worms and maggots ravaged his flesh and bones like little smart bombs, while his soul was awarded to a more fitting recipient – a jackass. Do not fool yourself. Justice is out there. We have been given the gift of a conscience to help us know when we are in danger of incurring its awesome wrath. Listen to that conscience and, for all our sakes, these little tales will prove to have much happier endings. IMMORTALITY Pol Pinchpenny had worked hard to amass his fortune. He felt strongly that no one else deserved to profit from it. It was his to do with as he pleased. To his outrage he was annually targeted by public authorities for large sums of money. Pol lived in a visceral world. He had no use for ideas except ones that supported his convictions. He was pleased to have earned his privileged status by the sweat of his brow and determined not to surrender it. Let the fools go on believing in an afterlife. They only do so out of desperation. The only real life was here and now. And science was working wonders. A team was hard at work on the problem of human mortality and daily gaining ground. This was one area Pol didn’t mind investing his money in. He supported the team on the condition that he would be notified immediately upon their final success. At that time he would submit himself to whatever miraculous technique had been developed to make him the first living god. Cloning had been abandoned by the team some years back. There was no way to bridge the DNA gap inherited from test subjects who had already lived for years so that those same years would not be added from the outset to their prospective clones. Every attempt at cloning had produced prematurely aging monsters. The breakthrough came when a physicist joined the team, hitherto comprised exclusively of biologists. His insights on the degrading impact of cosmic rays on life forms led the team to the development of a special lotion. It was a kind of super suntan lotion that not only shielded the wearer from death from above but also had a rather pleasing tropical scent. It - combined with a diet perfected by nutritional advances - would make its wearer immortal. The team captain headed straight for the hotline to his number one sponsor and told him the good news. Not only would a supply of the lotion be made available to him but the means to make more on the inevitable occasion of its exhaustion. Pol was thrilled. He had the previous day celebrated his fiftieth birthday and made a wish for just such an outcome so as to survive the ages in a not too decrepit state. The lab was all set up for him when Pol arrived. He was beside himself with anticipation. He took his place in a dentist’s chair surrounded by wires and test tubes. A lab-coated specialist then vaccinated him with a designer compound. “What’s that for?” he asked. “It is to protect you from any disease that might negate the life-preserving effects of the lotion,” explained the specialist. The next phase was his undressing and the head-to-toe application of the lotion to Pol’s body. It contained a mild cleaning compound to offset the undermining need to shower. Finally Pol was presented with a generous tub of the gooey white stuff and a compact chemistry set with easy to follow instructions. He thanked his heroes for a job well done and tipped them all generously. He was just about to go when an afterthought froze him. “Have any of you yet submitted to this miraculous treatment?” he asked apprehensively. The faces before him assumed guilty expressions. The team captain fielded the question. “Sir, while we are grateful to you for your financial support over the years, we have acted only from the aim of challenging our intellect to an ambitious scientific undertaking. As you know our labors here have been kept secret from the public not merely to assure you of exclusive access to their fruits but to spare us from severe public discipline.” “Oh yes, those damned public authorities,” whined Pol. “Why can’t they leave us be? What harm exists in offering immortality to those who can afford it? Wouldn’t such a thing provide an even greater incentive for people to work hard and grow rich as I have done? But surely you have the means here to defy them in secret! Why don’t you?” The scientist sighed. He would have to be honest. “Frankly Mr. Pinchpenny it is because we all happen to agree with them. There are many more things to life than food and women and miracle lotions. It is precisely these things to which you have either blinded yourself or been born incapable of sensing that grow as a burden on one’s mind and soul over the course of one’s life, making death welcome at a certain point.” “Nonsense! I will live to prove you wrong.” “We all wish you well in your undertaking. We are sorry we can not support it any further than we have.” Pol turned from them and left, his head rocking in fathomless frustration. Half a century later Pol was celebrating his hundredth birthday alone. He had at first made the lotion available to his wife and son but cut them off after a marital dispute ruptured the relationship. Since then he limited his sex life to short convenient affairs with escorts. The lotion was holding his body exactly in the same condition it had been when he visited the lab. Underneath it, however, some changes were occurring. He had never cared for literature but his last fifty years had exhausted his appetite for physical amenities. The kind of books that most interested him dealt with suffering. He read them with the initial aim of intellectually justifying his lifelong pursuit of worldly comforts, but it backfired. As it turned out, the authors of such books delighted in their suffering, praising it as the barometer without which bliss could not be measured for appreciation. This thought led his mind back to the days before he struck it rich. They were stressful times, but he now pined for them. He felt like a child who had just built a sandcastle and afterward felt the strong need to smash it down, if only to restore a sense of purpose to his little life. There was no way out of it. Fluffy romance novels had been tried and failed to pacify him. Pol was becoming an intellectual. Time began to slow down. Days became decades. Pol huddled alone in his room with his books. He shuddered at the thought of how lost he would be on the day he outlived his supply. He had not showered in seventy-five years. He had not had sex for twenty. To help him through the agony of those moments when he cared not for reading he listened to classical music. He had become a principle supporter of The Philharmonic Orchestra. What’s more, he made his contributions anonymously, neither wanting nor expecting any honors in return. Another quarter-century had proved those scientists right. Pol’s life had descended to utter chaos. He had taken on an appearance that would make Howard Hughes in his latter years by comparison look like a marine. His possessions no longer had any value for him and he frequently shocked strangers by awarding them with generous gifts. After a mere hundred and twenty-five years Pol had reached the ultimate conclusion that death is kind. All that remained was to beckon it. He rose and staggered toward the bath. Along the way he would negotiate a treacherous path littered with refuse from over a half-century of slovenliness. Approaching the tub he paused to reflect on his fleeting opulence with the depth afforded to him by his beloved books. He was going to join them now: Frost, Virgil, Dostoevsky… He flicked on the PA that he might ride the sweet strings of Paganini to his sublime destination. As water surrounded him, washing away his futile barrier against the inevitable, his lips curled into a peaceful smile. HERMIONE Hermione wanted a man's organ. Not only was she dissatisfied with the nebulous sensory feedback she received from her ingrown genitals, she wanted the clout of patriarchal authority – what she perceived as a cruel barrier against the fulfilled dreams of women of her time. She had risen to the top of her profession only to learn that it lay below a male-dominated board. A born debater with an equally innate sense of ethics, Hermione was a superior defense lawyer. Over the span of her career she had successfully championed the causes of many underdogs, racking up a string of victories commensurate with the great conquerors of old. She was so good at winning that leaders began viewing her as a threat. To allay their fears they erected a blockade in the person of a chauvinist judge, sent to preside over her courtroom combat and stop the deadly projectiles of her truthful insights from reaching their ultimate targets. Judge Short wore thick spectacles. He suffered from cataracts – a common plague among persons of his advanced age. He had grown up in a time when women ‘knew their place’ and disliked from the outset this feisty female who dared to challenge the proud traditions upon which rested the prosperity enjoyed by all in the present. Of course he never let on his real position, knowing that to do so would expose a self-endangering conflict of interest. Thus he sustained his authority to frustrate any efforts made by ‘naïve young moralists’ like Hermione to advance the cause of humanity. Hermione, gifted also with an ability to see beyond surfaces, recognized at once in Judge Short a fallacious foe. She would have to adjust her strategy accordingly. For the ensuing days and weeks she restrained her protest and allowed the judge to overrule and undermine her at every turn, waiting for exactly the right moment to confront him with a final and fatal summation. It was Saturday and Judge Short had been called in on his day off to hear another appeal by that wretched woman on behalf of a political criminal who had audaciously spoken out in favor of a return to the tyranny of pure unchecked monarchism. He couldn’t wait to let the lofty-minded lass complete yet another long-winded, bombastic summation so that he could soundly flatten it with his almighty gavel. As the bailiff announced his entrance and instructed the court to rise he took his seat behind the pulpit and strained his eyes to observe the defendant. He looked like an old fool to Judge Short, whose blurry vision had regressed severely in the last little while. The prosecutor began, “Your honor, the defendant who stands before you asks for justice from a system he has openly and hazardously criticized. In his contemptible efforts to send us all back to a system where the common individual must bow in slovenly disgrace before aristocratic overlords he is like the very oppressors our forefathers shed blood to overthrow. It is therefore only just that he be returned immediately to prison where he should serve the full duration of his sentence, if only as just repayment for his vicious assault on freedom.” Judge Short liked this young firebrand, whoever he was. What an eloquent way to phrase the threat posed by Hermione’s client. “Your honor,” articulated Hermione, “my client has applied for early release from prison in full accordance with the laws providing this reward for inmates who have exhibited exemplary behavior while serving their sentences. It should be noted that not only has my client behaved well but that his so-called crime was a conscientious act of personal idealism, as opposed to a blind physical attack upon our institutions. Each of us has a unique idea of how the world should be shaped and in a free country every such idea should be allowed expression without any legal consequences. His conviction notwithstanding, it is my conviction that he now be allowed to return to public life after serving an already far too unjust sentence.” At this Judge Short raised his eyebrows in defiant smarminess. What a load of legal lunacy! This foolish female had grossly underestimated the heinous hazard presented by this deviant daredevil of a defendant. Conversely he opened his mind to the prosecutor’s rebuttal. “I beg to differ with the defense, your honor. While her client’s acts may have been ideological rather than physical in nature, the principles governing our system of justice are equally ideological, and it is those principles which have been his targets. Just as his current physical incarceration is the result of our ideology, so would the physically destructive revolution he stands to cause be the result of his.” Bravo! Bravo! Where did this fine young prosecutor come from? Judge Short had not heard his deep, dominating baritone before. “Freedom belongs to all, even those who oppose it,” rebutted Hermione. “Freedom must be defended from those who oppose it,” stated the prosecutor. “Does the prosecution or defense offer any closing summation?” asked the judge, having heard enough. (Anyway his mind had already been made up before he even first sat down to hear the case.). “No, your honor,” they responded in unison. What a relief! “Very well,” said the judge, “I will retire to my anteroom for an hour, in order to deliberate my decision. We’ll reconvene here immediately afterwards.” (He was only doing this to hide his eagerness to award his masculine favorite the victory.). The judge returned with impeccable punctuality, an hour to the second of his departure. All rose to hear his verdict. “It is the verdict of this court that the defendant be returned to prison for the full duration of his sentence,” pontificated the judge. “What is his name anyway?” Hermione jovially answered, “It is you, Judge Short!” “I beg your pardon?” “Behind me in the defendant’s chair sits a mirror, reflecting your own image back to you. You have just passed sentence on yourself. Therefore we can only expect you to remain in the prison of your ignorance to the end of your career and, according to your own beliefs, must remove this ideological threat from our physical presence. Take him away.” The guards seized the befuddled judge and placed him in bonds. As they led him away to a new home small enough to fit his small mind, his vacant seat cried out for a new master. “Why don’t you try it out?” suggested her courtroom adversary, who she had found in a soup line. Hermione took her new place on the bench. “You know what, Ms Defense Attorney? You have more balls than any man I’ve ever known.” FOUR PROGRESS Humanity’s insatiable curiosity had taken the world a long way in the development of tools to moderate the fearful impact of nature. Vast distances once traversable only in the mind were now crossed with ease in the flesh. Diseases once taken as unconquerable had been either contained or wiped out. Catastrophes such as storms, earthquakes, and asteroids had become predictable. A feasible system of fair food distribution was in the works. Machines were challenging the mind-boggling depths of both outer and inner space. Ever more was being learned to tame the elements that once limited people to life in the trees or caves of climatically temperate zones. And all this progress had made them cocky. Some took serious personal health risks, counting on science to save them within their lifetimes. Still many others endangered their children, expecting the threat to be countered by some miracle mind of the future. The popular view towards progress was short-sighted, more options and conveniences being confused with greater hope. People still were and likely always would be at the utter mercy of nature but, insulated by technological comforts, were removed from facing this unpleasant fact. What was not known to them generally, and was held by few, such as the time-traveling Bucky Bent - of who I will say more momentarily - as a cause for serious concern was that, for every leap forward in the race to conquer nature, something had been sacrificed. Modern women and men looked back with arrogance on their technologically inferior ancestors, though the latter excelled in other ways. Music and art had reached summits in the past that were presently insurmountable. Before the mass distraction of technological amenities, far more intellectual insights had been yielded from a much smaller population. They may have lacked the ability to cross space, but also the means to lay waste to their entire world on the mere turning of a key. It was precisely this sobering truth that Bucky Bent had left his favorite time among the Hellenists of old to bring the people of the present. His initial efforts, laughably direct and misguided, had been taken for attention-seeking ploys, leading him to assume the much less - if at all - ambitious appearance of a science fiction short story author. Science fiction turned out to be a fine vehicle for his message, the successful impartation of which relied upon a certain commitment of the imagination – a given among patrons of this genre. And yet this well-intentioned individual also faced barriers to progress. His short stories were too short. He could not write one beyond three pages in length. In order to sufficiently make his message understood by all he would have to break this barrier. Indeed he would at some point have to smash it to pieces. There was only so much that could be expressed within a three page format. While it might be fine for a poem, such literary masterpieces were really only effective on a minority of readers. He was in the process of re-examining the techniques he used to daily fire up his drive when his mother interrupted him. “Did you have anything to eat?” “Not yet. I’m busy saving humanity.” “Well EAT something!” “I’ll have some Corn Flakes later.” What had held him back? Was he rising early enough? No, his stories usually never took more than a few hours to write. Was it that fourth cup of instant coffee he needed? No, he put four cups worth of the stuff in one drink. Should he switch to a weekly initiative rather than trying to generate a new story every day? But then his moods changed too rapidly for him to remain enthusiastic about any single idea for longer than twenty-four hours. Perhaps he should entirely do away with the use of contractions and acronyms… Taking his station in front of his parents’ computer, he decided to simply write whatever came to him and let the problem take care of itself. There was, after all, an infinite number of ways to express his message. He remembered his most recent brush with what he had come to term as ‘regressive progress.’ His appetite had got the best of him on the previous evening and led him up the stairs from his underground lair to the microwave oven, economically mounted in the kitchen wall. Fumbling around in the dark, so as not to disturb his sleeping parents, when he finally managed to get his frozen snack ready for nuking, he was stopped cold by the device’s baffling array of options. What did he need to press? AUTO-COOK? AUTO-DEFROST? AUTO-HEAT? FROZEN ENTRÉE? There were at least sixteen options that all looked like possibilities. And yet pressing one accomplished nothing but the distressful beeping of an errant decision. This was a good place from which to begin. “The people of the future will have twenty fingers and two brains. This evolutionary advantage, however, will be offset by the addition of four thousand new keys to the typewriter and the opening of thirty-two new dimensions of reality. “Ramrod was an accomplished pianist. He could double-handedly play Chopin’s Nocturne in concert with Scott Joplin’s Maple Leaf Rag, while whistling Sweet Georgia Brown and imagining himself amid a harem of slave girls. As brilliant as all this was, no one wanted to hear it, probably because it sounded like crap. Bucky stopped. ‘Crap?’ He was going nowhere fast with this one. He needed another example. He reflected back to a near-fatal encounter with a reckless driver, while crossing a deserted street in the dead of night. A minivan appeared out of nowhere, rounding a corner so fast it almost tipped over sideways. Bucky had to dive for the safety of the roadside to avoid being pummeled like a thrown tomato. In one of his more disastrous trips to the past, Bucky had met Henry Ford. In fact it was one of Bucky’s favorite silly expressions, ‘Keep on Truckin’ - borrowed from the relative future - that had inspired the premature invention of the automobile. He deleted his previous words and began anew. “Henry Ford was one of the few people on Earth who could afford a time machine. He hoped to secure his immortality by making trips to the past and bringing his prenuptial parents to the present in perpetuity. “This plan backfired, however, when he turned his machine’s dial the wrong way and ended up in the present. His starting point had since become a popular auto-route, and the moment his machine re-materialized, it was promptly smashed to smithereens by a rapidly oncoming semi… The writer again halted. He was cursed with the ability of expressing his thoughts in so sweeping a fashion that they cut drastically down on his volume. He needed a memory that so bothered him it would keep him motivated long enough to accomplish his aim. Perhaps he was going about it the wrong way by using his current life experience as the starting point. The motivation he was looking for might well exist in the past, by contrast with the present. Eureka! His answer lay with that great sage of old! Bucky’s ending firmly envisioned, he wrote feverishly towards a tantalizing outcome of victory. “There once lived a man of terrific imagination. His name was Democritus, and within his mind was the ability to grasp physical truths unseen. He is known as the originator of The Theory of the Atom. While we may now be seeing beyond even this minutia - with the advent of The String Theory - let us take into account that Democritus predates us by some two thousand, four hundred odd years. “What we don’t know about his time has been forever lost, the Great Library of Alexandria burned in triumph by a thoughtless Roman army. It is entirely possible that the ancient Greeks had already developed a crude form of nuclear power well before the lights were turned on for the first great meeting of modern minds at New Mexico to tackle the problem of atom-splitting for the purposes of war. Bucky wrote on, spanning some two and a half pages with details only a true time-traveler would know. As he neared the bottom of his third page, he could picture the home-base umpire waving him in. “And so the Romans did us a great favor by burning down that library and sending us into the Dark Ages, for had that knowledge been preserved and developed, we would most certainly have destroyed ourselves by now. Progress is not alone a scientific step forward. We needed to advance in a humanitarian sense before we were mature enough to play with the supremely incendiary matches that are modern nuclear weapons. And we must remain forever vigilant in checking our physical urges towards scientific conquest against the sobering light of intellectual reflection. Either we do this for ourselves or nature will do it for us. THE END He had done it! Hooray! Hooray! The four page barrier had been broken! A home run had been hit by Bucky Bent! The crowds cheered as he blew them kisses. In the almost identical words of his hero, Neil Armstrong, he shouted, “This was one small step for a man; one giant leap for humanity.” THE BEGINNING THE THINKING CAP Palmer had a special hat. It was a genuine thinking cap – the kind that really works. He had found it in a thrift store, thoughtlessly discarded by its previous owner, and did not realize its significance until a cold February day. Donning it for protection from the harsh blustering elements, he received from it much more than he expected. It was as though he had inherited the minds of every great thinker from past to present and was capable of penetrating insights on every object in his view. The house was wood and earth; the streetlamp was the force of rushing water; the snow itself was a natural expression of infinite individual diversity. His most terrifying insights came while using the cap on people. He had quickly and easily penetrated social corruption and soon attracted the unwelcome attention of thugs. Fearing for his life, he removed the cap and threw it under his bed where it remained for several years. But the cap came back. One day while reclining on his bed with a favorite book he lost sight of his new cat, Horace. A finicky-sounding voice then cried out to him from below: “I think therefore I reject spam.” It was Horace! Palmer pushed himself to the edge of the bed and stuck his head down. There was Horace trapped under the cap. He had somehow maneuvered the thing so that it covered his whole furry little form. He sat in anguish like a straight-jacketed psychiatric patient, obviously in great distress over coming to terms with the sudden realization of his own existence. “Give me that!” demanded Palmer, reaching forward and tearing the cap from Horace’s claws. The cat meowed in relief and ran out the room. Horace had it back in his hands again. He remembered the mission it had started him on years earlier. He had not done very much in the meantime except worry about himself. Maybe the cap was trying to tell him something. He had been unable to let go of it all these years, unlike everything else he had ever owned. He put it on. At once the objects around him changed. The chair became a fallen tree. The carpet turned into synthetic chemicals, along with the sheets of his bed and several of his garments. From an angle the mirror was sand, but from direct aim it reflected not the image of a man but a frightened child. The cap had one drawback. Its wearer was penalized for taking it off. It was a cap never meant to be removed so that the mind of its wearer could grow and flourish. To remove the thinking cap was to shun its unchanging truths, disclosing a lack of adherence that could only be remedied by starting over. For this reason Palmer would repeat his actions from his initial wearing years earlier until the cap was satisfied that he was prepared for more. The meantime would be difficult. Palmer suffered the dejavu of being lead down the earlier channels by his cap. He was criticized for repeating himself. His only defense was that truth is unchanging. Self-reinvention beyond the superficial is a deceitful ploy. Things soon got ugly. Resistance was all around him. He was essentially battling for the meager space occupied by his body but was viewed as a massive threat. He chose to persist, as frightened as he was, for the truth behind his cause would save him. He would try to win them over but it would not be easy. When he returned home one night to find Horace murdered, he cried for days. What would become of him? He had attracted the attention of assassins. He stood alone against the whole of humanity. How long could he keep it up? Determined not to buckle under pressure he forged ahead, surpassing his previous works and aiming the power of his thinking cap at the short-sighted and corrupt. The cap showed no vice EXCEPT COWARDICE in persons who had been forced into a life of corruption, only in those who had freely chosen it. He thought he was alone in the park one pleasant afternoon when he was beset by armed thugs. They dragged him into a waiting vehicle. Inside he hoped he would at last come face to face with his enemy. “So you’re the bum who has been causing all the fuss. Can’t say I’m impressed by the sight of you,” said a voice of cruel intelligence from a silhouette beyond a smoked glass barrier in front of him, “or the smell.” “Sorry,” returned Palmer. “I haven’t washed my cap in a while.” “Why have you decided to go on this ridiculous crusade? Do you think anyone out there really cares for your ideas?” “I want to speak my mind. It’s a free country.” “If it’s so free then why are you here in my custody?” “I’m not. You just think I am.” “So that’s your game. Well do you want to know what else I think? I think you are about to receive a hard blow to your stomach.” The called for punch was released, squeezing Palmer like an out of tune accordion as he wheezed for air. “This is not a world of ideas. You can’t eat ideas. This is a world of solid things and you are through fucking with it.” “Ideas are things.” “Hit him again.” This time Palmer got it in the face. Blood splashed onto the window in front of him while cruel distress traveled to his brain like an errant messenger. “Am I making my point yet or do you want to argue some more?” “I am sorry if I have not given your position the respect it is owed. The world needs dynamic persons like yourself to generate wealth that all may benefit. I am sorry if you do not agree with my arguments against greed and manipulation but they are rooted in the ultimate truth that we are not really free unless we face death rather than running from it.” “Well good for you. Are you aware that you are facing death this very moment?” The cold metal of a gun pressed against his temple. Palmer strained his eyes to make out the figure behind the glass but could not see past his own reflection – the image of a man. THE RED GIANT The Red Giant was two things: a star and a store. The star was dying, collapsing inward so thoroughly it needed outward expansion to express its demise. The store was expanding too, hopefully not for the same reason. While still in college, Lars was researching red giant stars over the internet when he received a fright. After a long wait to download a large-scale, high-resolution image of Betelgeuse, he eagerly clicked his mouse to open the file and at once a vacuous darkness filled his monitor, covering even his navigation options. Scrolling blindly and feebly downward toward the center of the massive image he was so taken aback by the sudden blazing fury of the mighty star against cold black space that it nearly stopped his heart. This was an omen of a far greater fright to come. Years later Lars was on a train headed for work. He had landed a job at the Red Giant as a sales clerk and was proud of himself for making a sacrifice to give value to the money he spent. Lately the train had been less reliable, stopping without explanation in the middle of rush hour for long periods and damaging his punctuality. He had been warned not to come in late again or he would face disciplinary action. Thus he had left for work on this day more than an hour early. It would not spare him. Halfway to his destination the train halted. A recording played over the PA, making the usual empty apology for “technical difficulties” and “regrettable inconveniences”. Lars was forced to ascend to street level and board a crowded bus for the remainder of his trip. Unable to restrain himself for being again victimized by the apparent incompetence of public transit, he voiced his annoyance to the driver. The driver responded with a sobering insight. The rash of recent transportation difficulties was not caused by incompetence but by “jumpers” – social outcasts who, seeking an end to their worldly suffering, used rapidly moving oncoming trains as self-killing machines. Today an eyewitness had marked the victim as an old scraggly-bearded transient. After the jump nothing remained of him but blood and a worn out pair of boots. The driver repeated this account with such flippancy that his years of public service had clearly immunized him against grief. Lars was not so immune. A tear slipped down his cheek. Arriving at work five minutes late he faced harsh discipline with distracted indifference. Taking his post at Register Number Four, the smile customers had come to count on was gone, supplanted by a sorry frown. Then towards the end of his shift an old transient entered the store. He must have slipped past the cameras because Security did not react. To Lars’s surprise he shunned the richly stocked aisles to approach with a thoughtful question. “Having a bad day?” “I’ve had better,” confessed Lars. “It’s my fault. I am here to make it up to you.” Lars had no idea what this meant. And whatever this old codger had to offer only confused him more. “Lars,” he continued, reading Lars’s badge, “I have come here to warn you of a terrible threat. You must gather your belongings and prepare to leave.” “Yes well thank you for your concern but I am really quite comfortable where I am.” Of all the lunacy! “Perhaps, but you must go all the same. It is no longer safe here. Your sun is nearing the next phase of its life which will cause it to radiate outward, turning this world and all life on it to charcoal.” “I thought that wasn’t due for several billion years.” “Nature is unpredictable, Lars. However, some of us have more insights into her chaotic ways than others.” “I see. And how could little old me ever dream of escaping such an astronomical catastrophe?” “I will return for you in seven days. I will bring along a space suit for you. I no longer require such protection, but it is wished that you be kept as you are that you may seed a new world for humanity.” Why had Lars allowed this conversation to plummet so? There was a forceful sincerity in the old vagabond’s eyes. And yet he was clearly mad. He decided to play along with him. It might expedite his departure. “Sounds great – I’ll be Adam and to ensure a wide gene pool you can supply me with a harem.” “Do not make light of this. You have been chosen for a great mission.” “And why should a lowly cashier become the new father of humanity?” “You have been chosen for your compassion, Lars. Of all the souls on this world, yours was the only one to honor my passing with a tear. And now I must go. Gather your belongings. I will return in seven days.” With that the old man turned and was gone. Lars laughed in nervous relief. It was not until the end of his shift when he had removed his uniform that he noticed his name badge had not been pinned to it. Lars’s trepidation grew geometrically over the next seven days. Each day he first checked the sky for signs of the old man’s prediction before doing anything else. If he must die he was determined it would not be in his demeaning uniform. Another side effect of the old man’s visit was an evermore isolating detachment from the visceral. This cost him – or so everyone thought. Late for three days in a row he was suspended from his job at the Red Giant. There was no point in explaining what had been troubling him. He barely believed it himself. His small room fell into disarray. There were clothes on the floor and half-eaten meals on the counter. Papers and magazines were strewn about recklessly, intertwining with the sheets of his unmade bed. Cigarette butts overflowed their improvised ashtrays and fell among the crumbs and hairs and dry cat food that littered his carpet. To Lars it was all a plain if unflattering reflection of the chaos of nature. He was ‘going with the flow.’ On the seventh day came the long anticipated knock on the door. “Come in.” “Hello Lars. I see you have been doing some decorating. Are you ready to blast off with me into the great unknown? I brought your suit.” “What about my cat?” “Bring her along if you like. You’ll have to share the suit. Is there anything else you want to bring?” “No. That’s it.” “All right then. Get yourself dressed.” The space suit unzipped from the side. On its sleeve was a timepiece of the old-fashioned analogue type. Analogous expressions often exceed digital ones, he thought, as in the case of certain fractions. A third, for instance, is final, whereas it can only be represented digitally by the rather silly ‘point three three three to infinity’. “No ship?” queried Lars. “Just spin that dial on your sleeve counterclockwise. We won’t be leaving this planet, only this time.” Lars hesitated. “Don’t wait too long,” the old man pressed. “Look outside.” The sun was acting up. The steadfast shepherd humanity had come to take for granted now undulated like the midriff of a belly-dancer. Everywhere people scattered like frightened cattle. Lars turned his attention calmly back on his visitor. “Did you say counterclockwise?” he asked. “You better believe it, unless you want to join the likes of me,” the old man warned. Turning the hour hand with his index finger, Lars, his cat, and his old savior together vanished seconds before the first rays of cosmic death vaporized his messy room. THE DELUSIAC ‘Delusia: for all your life is missing…and more!’ went the slogan. Critics argued that life’s problems were too complex to be solved by the swallowing of a pill, while chemists countered that their efforts in developing this miraculous cure-all had been prolonged and exhaustive. Syd Somatose was neutral on the issue. A renowned commercial artist he avoided using delusia to stimulate his creativity but did not hold the practice against his colleagues. Syd’s magnificent work was ubiquitous across the Western Continent. Billboards, computer screens, and print media were graced by his imaginative designs, combining imagery and wordplay in bold and innovative new ways. His fertility seemed limitless and carried him for twenty years to a ranking position among the artists of his age. Even the high-brows admired his work, devoting a special wing of the Grand Museum to his monetary masterpieces. Rather than using drugs, Syd received his inspiration from nature. He made regular excursions to a reserve on the Outer Perimeter where the flora and fauna had been left to grow at random. There was nothing more original or beautiful to Syd than the glory of nature. Even within her sub-families there was endless diversity. The difference between one rose and the next was to the careful observer as marked as the gap between stars and stones. It was on one such trip that Syd met an interesting character - an artist who shared his personal enthusiasm. Syd was skipping stones across the surface of a pond when he spied a figure crouching with pen and pad to sketch a blossom that had somehow survived in a patch of choking weeds. The man’s attention was apparently so focused outward that his clothes had been laughably compromised - pants worn and coat a tasteless throwback - but as Syd neared him and peaked over his shoulder he saw on his humble little pad the work of an accomplished student of nature. The man sensed his intrusion and turned, revealing eyes that knew indescribable secrets. “Hi!” he greeted, smiling warmly. “Hello there. That’s some drawing. You’re very talented.” “Thanks! But don’t give me all the credit. The real talent is there,” he said, gesturing to his subject. “I’m just copying it.” “Well you’ve done a fine job. I’m a bit of a nature fan myself. Perhaps you’ve heard of me, Syd Somatose,” offered the better dressed man, extending his hand. “Ned Nobody,” the man returned, gripping the warm hand gratefully. “Glad to meet you, Syd. Are you an artist too?” “That’s what they tell me.” “What sort of work do you do?” “Ever seen that billboard for Delusia?” “I’ve more than seen it,” enthused Ned, leafing back through the pages of his pad to a page containing a small rendering of Syd’s masterpiece. “You are a quite an artist, Syd.” “That’s very kind.” “Do you ever use the stuff?” “No.” “That’s a surprise. You should try it. It’s amazing. I was on it when I drew your billboard. It blew my mind. I felt like it was drawing me.” “That’s why they call it the art of persuasion. Well I had better go. It was a pleasure chatting with you. Keep up the good work.” “Thanks. Keep up the great billboards. The world can only gain from a splash of the right color.” “Maybe we’ll meet again.” “I’m always here on Deca-day,” he said, referring to the tenth day of the week on the digital calendar. Just as Syd was leaving Ned lit a smoke. Smelling it, Syd turned to warn of the danger of causing a fire. “I could never do that here,” Ned assured him. This Ned had given Syd a lot to ponder during his trip home. He reflected proudly on his billboard. It was a fine example of his work. Most of the imagery on it had come from the reserve: lush greenery, frogs and birds, pristine ponds. Modern advances had even enabled him to add aromas and sounds to its sensory appeal. It had been conceived just as Ned had experienced it – as a beckoning earthly paradise, an honest enough expression for the product it promoted. On taking drugs he was certain of his position. He had no wish to exhaust the flames of his creativity prematurely as many of his colleagues had done. He wondered why a man with Ned’s obvious gifts for appreciating beauty would want to artificially enhance them. Drugs were for those without such gifts. Perhaps Ned had succumbed to peer-pressure at some weak point in his youth. Back at home he flicked on his dream machine and scanned its lengthy repertoire. The passing images reminded him of a rich life. The dream machine had supplanted television some time back by allowing viewers to invent their own programming with the feedback of their imaginations. What a marvelous breakthrough it had been, allowing all to enjoy programming commensurate with their intelligence and taste. Even the angriest loner could be pacified by this device, provided he had the credits to purchase it. He was enjoying a comedy he had invented about a greasy frying pan slipping on an egg yolk and flying out a fiftieth-story window when a signal from his telebrain alerted him to a message. Valuing his inviolability, he kept his telebrain strictly on audio. It was Adria. He liked his new acquaintance from the Peace Club but he was not in the mood for her right now. “Come in,” he reluctantly invited. His portal expanded to allow through a pretty girl in a flattering clingy jump suit. “Come quick! Your billboard has been attacked!” “Can’t they can just put a new one over it?” “It isn’t just graffiti, Syd. These vandals were thorough. They’ve used some vicious chemical. The whole thing went dark a few hours ago, and the replacements they put up turn charcoal within seconds of being mounted.” This was worth a look. Lars was sure it was the work of restless young vandals. While he understood their attention-starved motives, they would not get away with this particular crime against art if he could help it. By inspecting the damage, painful as it would be, he hoped to be able to offer whatever insights he could to the authorities to see that justice would be served. He let Adria take his hand and rush him to the conveyor. Moments later they were standing before the ruined work. It was blackened as if by some terrible fire and emitting a charcoal scent in place of the smells he had engineered. Who would do such a destructive thing? “What’s that?” Adria asked, pointing to the only patch of white in view. Syd recognized at once Ned’s drawing pad lying open in the dirt, pages fluttering in the wind like sparrow wings. Beside it, pressed into the ground like miniature headstones, lay an empty pill bottle and a half-smoked cigarette. THE BLUEBOTTLE She was a fair ship, the Bluebottle. The product of a forgotten age of unsurpassed creative achievement, she meandered through time to wondrous ports of unending discovery. Exceptional care was taken in furnishing her with the most splendid amenities, so as to assure her crew and passengers of a wholly pleasant journey. However, these comforts, as on any ship, could only be fully enjoyed by the passengers, who were free of the responsibilities of command. And as the ages passed, the crew grew ever more dissatisfied. Jim came from a time when this dissatisfaction was approaching mutinous proportions. He saw it in the crew’s wholesale destruction of amenities, in their massacre of innocent passengers, but mostly in their willful abandonment of the celestial watch – a failure reducing them to violent infighting for fleeting possession of the ship’s helm. A mere passenger with no official authority, Jim was powerless to act on his observations. Only the crew could save the Bluebottle and they were unapproachable, hopelessly entangled in petty rules and protocols. As long as the vessel carrying him appeared to be on a collision-free course, perhaps there was not any real cause for action. This meager consolation allowed Jim to bide his time as the years sailed past. Jim’s job was to oversee his fellow passengers, most of whom were four-legged. His upright bearing helped him in his work, giving him enough the appearance of a crewman to dominate them whenever they threatened to riot. For his clients were a rowdy lot, but most had an instinctive and quite practical fear of the almighty crew. It was only the smallest of passengers, nocturnal airborne creatures, who eluded his grip, refusing to fly in a straight line, in accordance with the will of his superiors. Fearing for his job, he kept a close eye on them, expecting an exploitable weakness to eventually turn up. And then one day his vigilance paid off. He had managed to follow the deranged flight path of one of these little heretics up, down, to and fro, until it came to rest on an unassuming plant. Seconds later, the plant closed its leaves around it and when they spread out again, it was gone. Jim needed only to sow that plant’s seed and as it flourished his enemies would die. What fortune! What natural ingenuity! Spade in hand he approached the plant with caution. Falling to his knees at a reasonable distance, he set to work carefully unearthing it. When his spade reached optimum depth, he plunged it forward and scooped out the prize. His new botanical savior would occupy an honored place in the greenhouse. While Jim was busy at that, Crewman Porter was leading a detachment of soldiers up The Hairy Hills. Good ground for fighting lay on the plateau just a few meters further. Porter expected the enemy to know about this ground and as they neared it raised his hand to signal the switch from normal marching to stealth maneuvers. They would encircle the plateau and spring out from the trees, guns blazing, reducing the enemy to pulp before they knew what hit them. Porter’s home deck, Security, had been engaged in a savage conflict with The Mess Hall for four years, ever since a cook/visionary, Crewman McDonald, had convinced his Mess Hall deck mates that they could bargain their way to helm control on the illegal collateral of their vast stores of pudding. Security reacted at once to this distasteful insurgence, advancing on The Mess Hall with two armed legions. The Great Food Fight ensued, the slaughter of which no participant escaped alive. And the war had raged on ever since. While Crewman Porter’s side had powerful weapons and military training, they were offset by the enemy’s superior morale, attributable to their regent command of gastronomy. Security was lucky to have in Porter an officer who had retained some of the lost arts of the Celestial Watch, for a Mess Hall agent had recently infiltrated their main depot and neutralized it with a porridge bomb. He looked up again for the war planet, always low on the southern horizon at this time of evening. Something was wrong. The thickening foliage impeding their progress told him that they were lost. “Sergeant Smith,” he called to the fit woman beside him, “your field glasses.” She unbuckled the pouch on her belt and removed an immaculate pair of binoculars, handing them to her leader. Seizing them with both hands he pressed them to his eyes and aimed them at the suspiciously off-color point of light they had been following. His fears were confirmed. The Bluebottle herself had slipped off course. Mess Hall mischief! What he and his troops had depended on for guidance was not the planet of war but of love. And it was growing larger! They must return at once to HQ and radio Ship’s Helm. Just then the sickly scent of formed meat chunks touched his nostrils. Ambush! A cowardly assault with banned weapons! “Everybody down!” he ordered. All instantly complied, pressing their faces hard into the dirt to shield them from olfactory death. From its lofty perch, Jim’s favorite plant, who he named after the goddess of love, commanded the greenhouse. There the rich soil, artificial light, and generous supply of edible passengers quickened its growth so that by next morning it was already choking off the marigolds. On seeing this astonishing change Jim figured he would not need to sow his field after all. This one Venus appeared large enough to do the job itself. It was nearly noon by the time he dragged it back out into the open, having to use a rope to keep safely distant from its snapping leafy jaws. Those little buggers were in for it now. Let them dare to fly past and disturb the order of his pristine field. He took position in a capped hole on the perimeter within view of the plant and waited for the twilight to lure his enemies into the sinister trap he had laid. It came early. By half-past noon the sun began to fade. Jim looked up to see that some large obstacle was growing in the sky. The early darkness devastated his Venus while rallying his enemies for an extended assault. He made a desperate dash out into the open to save it, but was immediately driven back underground. By the normal time of their appearance a monstrous horde of the flying beasts had descended on Jim’s field. Nothing was left of his would-be hero and he cowered in panic before the deafening buzz of entomological wrath that he had incurred. He could hear the relentless pounding of kamikaze pilots against the hatch of his sanctuary. They were after him and all he could do for protection was to dig. It was early morning and Porter was thinking quickly. An unexpected gale had finally pushed back the fiendish assault long enough for his team to take a safer and more strategic position in the trees. He no longer felt the need to contact HQ, for Ship’s Helm was sure by now to have noticed the threat in the sky, the love planet having swollen to a hundred times the size of the great satellite. Again he peered through his field glasses, their infrared lenses piercing the darkness for any sign of his fat foes’ whereabouts. Instead he spied something else equally compelling. A malevolent cloud of insects was laying waste to a nearby farm. It had already reduced the crops to dust and now appeared to be focusing itself on one remote corner, apparently containing the last living thing in its path. Just when he was considering sending his chemists to rescue the holdout, whoever it was, he caught sight of his original target, occupying a dilapidated silo on the far side of the ruined farm. The devils were building a fire, doubtless to ward off the sudden plague that now threatened both sides. He and his troops would not hang around for consequences. Immediate action was needed to ensure that this evil death cloud, the definite outcome of notorious Mess Hall messiness, would not be deflected against them. They would descend from the trees and advance at once upon their unsuspecting quarry. Had Porter not been so utterly isolated from events occurring in the rest of the ship at that moment, he might have reconsidered. Every effort to correct the Bluebottle’s course had failed and the Captain had ordered all decks to abandon ship. Cook and cop alike had squeezed together into escape pods and blasted off for scattered destinations. But for his team and the enemies he would soon destroy, not a single crewperson on the Bluebottle remained. Crewman Tubb of the Fourth Squad of the Mess Hall Messiahs, the finest offensive brigade in the whole deck, was on his second raspberry donut when an angry shot rang out from somewhere above him. His deck mate, O’Beese, returning from a trip to the bushes at the behest of nature, deflated before his eyes like a pierced water-balloon. Security! “Snipers!” he wailed, waddling at panic-inspired, heart-attack-threatening speed toward the silo where his comrades-in-drumsticks had concentrated, falling just short before a powerful explosion blasted it to oblivion. His last brave act before taking a bullet to his heart was the feeble lobbing of his last can of creamed corn in the vague direction of the enemy. Seeing that all was clear, Porter and his team descended from their locations in the surrounding trees and converged upon the site now so blackened by destruction that it set itself apart from even the troubling sky. Only all was not clear. Porter had made one fatal miscalculation. In his excitement over the success of his plan he had forgotten about the threat of the raging mass that had earlier stood between the two sides. Attracted by fresh blood it turned from its assault on Jim’s hole and swept down on Porter’s team, covering all, living and dead, until nothing remained of either but dry bones. Just as Jim had exhausted himself and was about to surrender the noise of his attackers ceased. This relief was soon followed by a feint ray of light leaking through a crack in the stalwart though badly battered hatch. Encouraged by these signs he crawled up and with a cautious push released himself from captivity. He was overcome by what he saw. The farm was gone and in its place had sprouted new life of immeasurable variety. All around him were every style of tree and flower. Birds sang tunes so sweet they could draw a tear from a stone. Even new colors presented themselves among the glories of this strange new paradise. Then he made out the animated figure of a woman in the distance. Her carefree movements as she approached told him that she was a passenger like himself. He did not need a crewperson to tell him that the ship was back on course. No longer would she be called the Bluebottle for Jim had never liked that name. Now she was and would ever be known as The Ship of Dreams. THE END NEUTRONIA Neutronia liked her name. She was fond of mythology and she had been named after one of its more prominent figures, the goddess of physics. Long ago, before the development of impulse-logic, when thinkers yet relied upon tedious calculations to prove truths that were already staring them in the face, the name of Neutronia struck fear into hearts. Her power was the awesome fury of a nuclear blast; her symbol, the mushroom. She had carried round her neck from the age of six her favorite birthday gift – a glimmering medallion stamped with the at once delicate and powerful symbol of her divine namesake. Having always felt shielded by its mystical power, she lived her life with supreme confidence. She was clever too. At eight she rid her playground of a notorious bully by inducing him to chase her down a street and over a chain-link fence, then sneaking out through a concealed route and leaving her pursuer a step short of fleeing the vicious dogs who kept watch over the enclosed yard. While she joined her classmates - who she had told to covertly assemble at a nearby spot within visual range of the spectacle to be - the dogs made short work of their former tyrant. The sight of his humiliation and the justice of his swift defeat, reducing him like so many of his victims to a balling, prostrate, terrorized waif, outmatched by superior size, his pants torn off in brutal canine indignation, inspired jubilant cheers from his unwelcome audience and made Neutronia the most popular girl in school from that day on. When she reached maturity she blossomed physically and intellectually. Her sharp mind and shapely form dictated the dreams of every young man in her graduating class. Who could win the fair Neutronia? What mortal male could defy her magnetic charms long enough to draw the attention of those infinite emerald eyes? Perhaps the most devastating aspect of her beauty was that she never abused her power over males (and more than a few females). She remained focused on her studies in impulse-logic, following after her distinguished mother, and treated all, athlete or nerd, star or outcast, leader or follower, with equal kindness. Even her instructors fantasized about her. On the day of her historic graduation, setting a new record for academic achievement in all disciplines, Professor Quark of the science department presented her with an engagement ring. So as not to embarrass the venerable old academician in front of the whole school, she feigned gratitude for his offer until she could approach him in private the next day to gently decline it. Neutronia then applied for a position in the Global Office of Outer Affairs and was instantly accepted. Before long she rose in their ranks to become a leading diplomat, applying her phenomenal impulse-logic to the maintenance of peaceful relations between her pacifist home planet, Ethica, and its menacing rival, Gorgony. The Gorgonites were fierce warriors. It was Neutronia’s efforts that had thus far averted a war between the two for exclusive mining rights on the satellite of Limbo. One interplanetary salvo of her fierce impulse-logic on the Gorgonite Leader, Ram, just as he was preparing an attack, had recently spared her planet, neutralizing his actions by the explosive revelation that more money could be made using his fearsome fleet to regulate dual possession of the disputed prize. Aboard their ships the Gorgonites had awesome firepower, but nothing like the impulse-logic developed by the Ethicans. All the same, the Ethicans kept a formidable fleet of their own standing by, if only to speak to the Gorgonites in their own language. In his stony bunker hundreds of meters below the majestic Monument of the Fallen, Ram lay restlessly on his floor. Why had he succumbed to the debilitation of despised rationality and called off his glorious invasion? It became clear to him that the Ethicans had some kind of invisible weapon. He must penetrate their defenses to learn more. The mission would be kept in total secrecy and there was no time to waste. He got up and headed straight for his personal craft, leaving a note for his subordinates to keep watch while he left to inspect troops on a remote outpost. He would cloak himself in the guise of a meek Librian memory collector, using his own impressive stores of seized memories as proof. They would take him in without suspicion and allow him to move about freely until he could identify this wonder weapon and either seize or destroy it. The craft he boarded was of neutral make and was sure to fool the Ethicans. Intended only for short excursions to such vacation spots as the harsh Gorgonite poles, it carried no weapons. He took his place at the helm and whizzed off toward the light blue speck that stood between his brave planet and total mastery of his star system. Neutronia was bored. Her officious superior had swamped her with paperwork, doubtless out of envy for her growing importance. At times like these Neutronia longed for a man – not the well-behaved type that populated her world but more like a Gorgonite, impulsive, daring, and unpredictable. While she would always respond to the call of duty to defend her world, she sometimes sensed a pang of guilt at confusing the bold and stylish efforts of the Gorgonites, who acted essentially from the noble aim of giving form and beauty - albeit in the Gorgonite sense - to their environment. Unable to keep her eyes from drifting toward the window, she spied a cloaked figure in the market, a merchant of some sort. His garb identified him as a passive Librian but his behavior was incongruous with it. Standing proud and erect he engaged gregarious shoppers with rude jokes and clever insults. His carefree open contempt for them was to his unseen observer irresistible. Her body aquiver, she rose from her desk and headed for the elevator. She would have a closer look at this Librian anomaly and in uncovering his true identity satisfy her curiosity twofold. Before stepping out into the open to face the object that had so compelled her she touched the medallion on her neck for a reminder of her own charm. Ram was growing restless around these sheep. He wished he could now use the grenade he had brought with him instead of saving it for his original target, but his patience would reward him. He had managed to glean that the invisible weapon known as impulse-logic was concentrated in the stately granite tower overlooking his current position. There was no way of seizing it, but to destroy such an architectural marvel would be a shame. Indeed the Gorganite Authority on Beautification could learn a thing or two from Ethican artists who appeared to Ram to be the only ones on this world with any bravery in their hearts, aside from the striking female who had joined him earlier. Even Gorganite women were not as forward as this one. She had engaged him directly, showing no fear of his forceful wit, but turning it against him in a way that made him see himself in such a comic light that he still laughed over it. She was an exceptional beauty, her likeness immortalized in the great stone works of the ancients. She was a woman he would have been proud to bring back with him to Gorgony, an example of how virtue grows in even the most unfavorable environments. It was twilight and the crowd of market-goers was thinning out. He must move quickly to complete his task before he was discovered. He leapt aboard a passing hover-car that was headed for his target. The metal of the grenade pressed uncompromisingly against his waist as he lay in prostrate stealth, monitoring the passing ground for the great shadow that would tell him he had come within striking range. He would not long wait before the whole car was enveloped in telltale darkness. He then rolled off, landing hard on the roadside. Glad not to have prematurely detonated his weapon, he limped for the cover of a nearby shrub. His heart raced as he took aim upon the vital organ of his enemy. Just then he was blinded by a luminance as of something defying the shadows to reflect the sun. When his vision returned he saw the woman who had confronted him in the market looking down upon him from inside his target. Was she the force who had suppressed his world all these years? So determined was he to follow his will that in his mind he had already released the grenade and left the tower in shambles. However, the figure beaming gracefully down upon him was proof of another will at least as great as his own. He was not being manipulated, for this one wanted him as he was. When he finally let the grenade fall harmlessly from his hand it was entirely of his own choosing. CONVICT KANT “Citizen Kant you have been tried and found guilty of the crime of ideacide. Have you anything to say before we sentence you?” What fools they were. The overgrown imp who stood before them in bonds was capable of lecturing on even the merits of shoelace tips until the sun went supernova. He began, “Ladies and gentle-” Down went the gavel, cutting him off. “That will do. Citizen Kant, the crime of which you have been convicted is so serious and so reprehensible that we have no choice but to banish you from the planet Nebulia for all time! You shall be taken to Launch Pad One and from there you shall be ejected at warp velocity to a planet so far away that you could not dream of ever returning here to mess with the minds of our honest citizens. Take him away.” Two guards each laid a hand on the scruff of his shirt and began dragging him off. “Wait! Don’t I get to know where I’m being sent?” protested Kant. This coaxed a loud, long, haughty ha-ha’s from the judge that echoed against the cold walls of the Justice Chamber with terrifying cruelty. He signaled the guards to pause. “To a planet that deserves you, Convict Kant. And to a people so far removed from galactic civilization they yet rely on the primitive wheel for transportation and doubt the existence of alien life forms. I am told that even their puny intercontinental communications are muddled. Therefore they will be spared from being victimized by your oratorical abominations. Away with you now, Convict Kant! Away with you for ever!” And with that the guards resumed their task, dragging Kant away through the long corridor leading out of the Justice Chamber until his irksome presence was at last removed from his peers’ exhausted sight. Launch Pad One was fitted with one of the latest generation of interstellar pods and was already smoldering with souped up eagerness by the time Kant arrived. In an orderly fashion his coercive entourage marched him into the elevator, ascended to the pod’s entry port, and thrust him inside. Moments later, when the pod was gone, leaving only a short lived sky-ripple in its wake, a thunderous cheer broke out across the whole planet of Nebulia. On board the deafening silence was punctuated only by the regular pulse of the autopilot. Amenities were sparse. His arbitrators had not even deigned to supply him with a book to help him pass the time in a way that was commensurate with his wondrous vehicle. To keep his mind fit he fashioned himself a musical instrument out of floorboards and wires ripped from his Spartan surroundings and learned to play it, using the autopilot’s ceaseless pulse as his metronome. Over the years he developed a fine technique and was looking forward to a politically innocuous career in music on his new home. Then one day an exciting message flashed across his hitherto blank monitor in bold red letters: APPROACHING DESTINATION…SLOW TO IMPULSE. The onboard computer was warning him that by pulling out one of its wires for his musical instrument he had damaged the autopilot and now needed to manually slow down to avoid disaster. Kant failed to surmise the danger, content instead to have a new stimulus added to his long deprived sensory environment. He laughed and sang and played to the rhythm of his doomsday warning while his pod hit the time-space of his destination at mind-boggling speed. The next he new Kant was again among beings. He had taken on their form and even knew their principle language. Collectively they appeared to be centuries behind Nebulia in their social and technological progress but as free thinking individuals showed incredible promise. Indeed the works of their most brilliant minds were on a par with any produced by a galactic leader. At the moment he was in a thing called a soup line. Soup was a form of nourishment favored by those who like himself had too much a sense of the cosmos to adhere indefinitely to the blinding routines of planetary business. That this nourishment was provided cost-free was a mark of honor for this planet, sure to be looked upon favorably by the Intergalactic Commission at some future point. He gathered that he would fit in best among their musicians. Not only was music the universal language but it would allow him to make the most of all his long years of practice. Using a thing called an ad - essentially an abstract intercontinental appeal - he attracted other musicians to his cause. Within a few time-spans of what were called months he had assembled a unit known as a band to assist him in sharing the many songs he had composed over the duration of his long journey. He was actually on a public stage in the middle of a lyric praising the attributes of regular expression free input/output control structures when the room around him began to fade. Something was up. He struggled to stay in time with his band-mates but could not hold out against the strange force that was focusing on him. It was as though some high-powered space vacuum was sucking him back into the captivity of his pod. Powerless to resist it he allowed himself to be removed from the form he had occupied, leaving it below a mere shell, aimless as a headless body. Back aboard the pod Kant awoke in a dizzy stupor. He vaguely remembered his arrival on the planet to which he had been exiled and starting his life there, but his current location defied its interpretation as anything other than a fanciful dream. He hoped he would arrive there in reality soon before the obvious deteriorating psychological effects of his prolonged space flight reduced him to a raving lunatic. He reached for his homemade guitar [Where did that word come from?] and began to play. To his frightful surprise his lyrics were full of other new words that somehow made sense to him. He was in the midst of recording these mysterious additions to his vocabulary when a message flashed across his monitor: APPROACHING DESTINATION…SLOW TO IMPULSE. What the devil did that mean? [What the stars is the devil?] His onboard computer was issuing some kind of urgent warning, but he had no more idea of what it was than he did of the source of his strange new vocabulary. He looked for clues in the content of the message. His piloting skills were not his strong point but he understood that ‘impulse’ was a form of propulsion, far slower than warp drive. He fumbled around for a while, but eventually gave up. His brain was too stressed out from having too many questions unanswered since he awoke from his unfortunate dream. What was actually happening to him was that by not slowing down to meet his destination at sub-light speed, his pod was skipping along the surface of its time-space, just as a stone skips along the surface of water when projected on a shallow angle and with excessive force. Kant skipped like this in successively shorter intervals over the span of his life. Each time he landed he set out on an idealistic mission compatible with his advanced cosmic awareness. Whenever the haunting sense of dejavu got the best of him, he switched career paths as radically as he could to escape it. This gave him between the gaps of his departures a wide and varied life experience. It is believed that he has finally come to rest in the present and taken up the politically innocuous practice of writing science fiction. While he occasionally gets homesick, he has grown to love his new place amid the beings known as people on their planet Earth. For their lonely place in the galaxy was no different than his own isolation from his peers. And so by seeing himself in their solitary plight he gained a sense of belonging that a million Nebulians with arms outstretched to him in friendship could never hope to equal. A TRIP TO THE DOCTOR It was time for Bill to quit smoking. He was growing ever shorter of breath and was beginning to have difficulty tasting his food. His friends had all quit, leaving him to stand alone outdoors whenever his nicotine cravings overcame him during wine and cheese parties. He knew he could do it. That spineless twerp Smithers had done it only three months earlier. At first Bill decided on withdrawing cold turkey. It seemed the simplest and therefore most correct solution. His first day like this began effortlessly. Bill had plenty of work at the ad agency to keep his mind distracted. He was currently engaged in a campaign to promote Orbatril, a popular diet pill. The client wanted his logo, a capital ‘O’, redesigned for the modern market. When he got home his comely wife Mary and darling daughter Christine happily greeted him. “How did it go?” Mary asked him. “I’m still working on it. Of all the letters in the alphabet they stick me with the one that looks like it has a weight problem,” he whined. “No, I mean Day One,” Mary elaborated. “Oh that. All right I guess. Don’t remind me of it. It doesn’t help.” “Sorry dear.” “Daddy! Daddy! Look what I got!” chirped Christine, proudly holding up a colorful cellophane package. “Lollipops! Where’s mine? I want Lollipop Christine,” he cheerfully quipped, seizing the little girl and hoisting her up to smother her giggling face with kisses. “Smithers dropped them off,” Mary explained. “There’s a whole box of them on top of the fridge. He says they help provide a substitute for the oral fixation.” “Stop mentioning it!” Bill cried, lowering Christine back to the floor. “Sorry dear.” After a brief self-examination Bill softened. “No, I’m sorry,” he confessed. “Guess my nerves are a little on edge after all. But don’t you worry. I’ll get through it.” “Of course you will,” assured Mary. “Now let’s eat. Dinner is on the table.” Bill considered himself lucky to have a wife like Mary, the old-fashioned kind, content to stay at home and raise his daughter. Women of his time were often bucking for his job. After a satisfying meal, Bill retired to his den and settled into his chair by the fireplace, a place that had enabled some of his most profound insights. He was still mentally working out the problem of the overweight ‘O’ when Christine came crashing in. “Daddy! Daddy! Come see the moon men!” “Moon men? What are you talking about, Christine?” “Come see! Come see!” She grabbed his index finger with her tiny hand and yanked him up onto his feet. The next he knew he was being led up the stairs to Christine’s bedroom window. She pointed toward a shimmering full moon, looming large over Jack West’s bungalow. Sure enough, in the foreground, Bill could make out the bulkily suited silhouettes of two workers on his neighbor’s roof. They were doing something to the chimney. Father and daughter silently observed the spectacle, which culminated in a thick white cloud of billowing smoke erupting through the chimney mouth and dissipating high above in the open air. Bill felt his jaw tighten and snatched Christine’s lollipop. “Hey!” she protested as he plugged his own chimney. A few days passed and the Orbatril logo redesign was still no further along. Bill’s boss was starting to put pressure on him, making the assignment even harder. He was beginning to suffer physical symptoms from his withdrawal: chills, headaches, insomnia, and incessant coughing. However, the psychological impact on him was dominant. At two a.m. on the previous night he had jumped out of bed in a deranged and sweaty state, convinced that Mary had been plotting to kill him in his sleep. He decided at this point to pay a visit to the doctor for whatever relief modern medicine could provide him during this dark period. Doctor Bombay was a respected family physician who had practiced medicine for over forty years. He was one of the few doctors left who wore the traditional white lab coat and stethoscope, and he actually did resemble somewhat the affable Marcus Welby M.D. of the long defunct television drama. Bill caught Doctor Bombay at a timely moment. The old man had been working late to clear the mountains of paperwork - forms concerned with innumerable prescriptions – from his desk. Doctor Bombay was a firm believer in drug therapy. He viewed the chemist as a sort of wizard, out of whose boiling cauldron rose mysterious cures for every human ailment. His own knowledge of chemistry was of course quite dated, but he knew enough to appreciate the leaps forward that had been made over the span of his career. What’s more, thanks to modern chemistry, formerly unrecognized illnesses such as depression had fallen under his professional domain. He was grateful for this expansion of his powers and profits. So were the many deadbeats who approached him, seeking a dodge from their responsibilities to the community. [Note to reader: Real doctors are not like Doctor Bombay and, yes, I did get the name from 'Bewtiched'.] Doctor Bombay held a secret from Bill. Had it ever leaked out, it would certainly have terminated their doctor/patient relationship. He had an unnatural loathing of television commercials that far surpassed the common irksomeness experienced by a typical viewer. Knowing Bill’s profession, the doctor had been stringing him along for years, treating his wife, delivering his child, all the time waiting for the right moment to retaliate for a lifetime of what he considered intrusive behavioral probes and subconscious manipulations. Doctor Bombay had arrived at these shocking conclusions several decades hence, while sampling medication during an episode of The Addams Family. Now his prey sat helplessly across the desk from him. One look in his eyes confirmed an emphatic, if grievously misplaced, trust. “So what seems to be the problem?” started the doctor. “I’ve quit smoking. I was wondering if you could help me cope with the withdrawal symptoms.” “You quit! Good for you! What sort of symptoms are you having?” queried the doctor, barely able to control his glee at finding an ad person so utterly and psychologically at his mercy. “Oh the usual I guess. I’m coughing a lot and getting headaches and chills, but-” “Yes, go on,” urged the doctor. “Well I’ve grown sort of paranoid. I can’t get anything done. I think I need something to calm me down until the worst of this is over.” “Have you tried sucking on a lollipop?” asked the doctor, knowing the suggestion would be insufficient. “Yes. I’ve already consumed a whole box of them. My daughter is incensed.” “Then perhaps a tranquilizer would do the trick.” (However, Doctor Bombay had the exact opposite in mind: a powerful experimental stimulant that had so far only been used on cows to speed their passage through railroad crossings.). “Sounds just the ticket,” remarked Bill, wiping sweat from his brow with his shirt sleeve. Doctor Bombay pulled open his desk drawer and shuffled through it for a moment before retrieving a small blue cardboard box, the contents of which jostled about like muted tic-tacs. “Here you go,” he said, handing the box to Bill. “Don’t I need a prescription?” asked Bill in astonishment. “This one’s on me. Take one pill a day for a week. Then come back and we’ll check your progress.” “Thanks, Doc. Free medication! What did I do to deserve this?” asked Bill half to himself on his way out of the office. “If only you knew,” replied the doctor, his words lingering behind Bill like waiting assassins. © 2004. Fiction by David Skerkowski. All rights reserved.
Scripts	Songs	Statements