Darkwing Duck
Checker Davis and Sheila Jensen met when they were kids. Sheila's cousin Mick was working as an apprentice grease monkey for Ducall's, same as Checker, but Checker was off the books, because he was only 11, so Ducall told folks he was just letting the kid watch while the guys worked. Nobody outside knew Checker worked hard there, and Ducall taught him all about machines and paid him under the table. Not much, but enough to buy ever more books and save up a bit.
So one saturday little Sheila, just beginning to blossom into womanhood, traveled all the way to Ducall's to visit her cousin. It was right about the time Checker was being sent home for the day. He walked out to see Mick giving Sheila a few smokes and the little girl lit up one for each of them.
She offered one to Checker. "Wanna smoke?"
"Smoking's bad for you."
"Don't you ever do anything that's bad for you?"
And that was the day Checker met Sheila, and the day he started smoking.
They were fascinated and repelled by each other immediately.
At first Sheila just ignored Checker after giving him the smoke and a light. Mick introduced them, but she just kept talking to Mick for the next few minutes. Still, she kept glancing at Checker up and down, little grins but never when she looked at him. Then the shop boss yelled at Mick to get his ass inside and give him a hand, and Mick swore a bit and told Sheila he had to go, but they could hang out when he got done in three hours. Even though Sheila lived 87 miles away and had no way to get home but hitching, and she knew nobody else in Carton City, she just said "Maybe."
Then for no reason she ever thought of, she spun to face Checker and eyed him speculatively. "Where are you going?"
Then for no reason he ever thought of, although he had been planning to go home, he crushed out his cigarette under his boot and instead said, "Wherever I want."
They smiled at each other, and started walking down the gravel drive, and talked, like kids do.
He knew more than anyone she'd ever met. He was like an entire library, like a psychic, like if the internet had dirty blonde hair and a denim jacket.
She was more full of life than anyone he ever met, like a string of firecrackers, like a jungle cat, like if God made a girl with a heavy metal song for a soul.
But while she loved his mind she hated how he was so full of thoughts his eyes got distant when he talked about them, how he drifted away from where he was and who he was with. She wondered if she was angry he was neglecting his own life for a head full of dreams or if she was jealous he drifted away from her so easily.
And while Checker found her thrilling and vivacious, he hated that she was so excited to do anything that it didn't seem to matter to her what she did, so long as it was exciting. He wondered if he was angry that she seemed to live life so pointlessly, so meaninglessly, or if he was jealous of her obviously intense but completely indiscriminate connection to all the things she did, to all the people she knew.
They spent almost a week straight together that first time, like kids do sometimes, until the stark differences between the two of them gave root to hate. They played and joked and listened to music older than either of them on an old, old boombox Checker had. Checker came up with crazy ideas and Sheila dared him to actually try them with her. They walked around town writing song lyrics and jokes on buildings with chalk. They wrote "kill the earth" on a gas station, and "question the answers" on Checker's school. Checker picked the lock on the church's bulletin sign cover, greatly impressing Sheila, and they rearranged the letters to spell "who are we to judge?" She talked him into stealing smokes and beer from a gas station, and called him a pussy when he felt bad later, when he snuck a twenty onto the counter. She sneered and told him the clerk would just find it and keep it, he was still a thief. He told her it was the gesture that mattered, that it was a symbol. She told him he was retarded, and asked if he believed in God. He said he didn't know. She didn't either.
She tried to get him to take some pills. He was horrified, and tried to take them away from her. She became enraged and pulled a knife, said she'd kill him if he tried to take her shit. He backed off, but there was no fear in his eyes, only shock that she had DRUGS, and valued them more than a person's life. Each was disgusted, and they both walked away from each other. Sheila found Mick and had him give her a ride home. Checker went back to Ducall's and the library, a little more of a hermit than usual for a while.
In one way of looking at it, you might think it could have ended there. A brief childhood incident each would barely recall in one or two year's time, for time passes differently for the young.
But if you could see it another way, it was already too late the moment she handed him that cigarette. Fate doesn't care whether you like people when it weaves your lives together forever. Though whether it was fate that brought and kept them together was open to debate.
They wound up meeting up again, of course. They couldn't escape it if they tried...and they occasionally did.
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Chant played guitar very well, but she prefered piano. Unfortunately, though their styles were nothing alike, she was compared to Tori Amos, just because nobody could see past the fact they were both female and pianists. Still, she prefered the Tori Amos comparisons to the Courtney Love comparisons.
She seemed almost a virtuoso on any instrument she put her hand to. More than anything else it was her tendency to move on once she'd attained a level of excellence that kept her from becoming a legend of technical mastery of any of the instruments she played. She simply decided she knew that instrument well enough and turned to another she did not know yet, whether trumpet or accordion, harp or glockenspiel. Some told her to stick with the guitar or something, a crowd pleaser, an arena rocker. But her band defended her artistic technique.
After all, she could already play better than any of them except Freeman and they were painfully aware of it, they didn't need her making them look even worse by comparison. Some critics already wondered why she didn't perform every piece herself for the albums, and just have her producer assemble the tracks in the studio.
She sneered at anyone who suggested that to her face though, and said Anubis was a band, not a person. She knew why she needed the rest of them, and would never tell a soul except Ben, one night after one of their first times making love, when she still felt so awkward, so eager to connect with someone.
"I couldn't stand it without them, Ben. They take away some of the attention. That's why I chose such lunatics. So they could take some of ther heat of those spotlights off of me. If it was just me up there Ben, even more alone than I already am...I think that I would die."
Ben didn't mention her suicide attempts then. He could only wonder how much worse shape she could be in if she thought she wasn't almost dying as it was. He could only hold her close, and whisper prayers to a God that she whispered was dead.
Checker Davis and Sheila Jensen met when they were kids. Sheila's cousin Mick was working as an apprentice grease monkey for Ducall's, same as Checker, but Checker was off the books, because he was only 11, so Ducall told folks he was just letting the kid watch while the guys worked. Nobody outside knew Checker worked hard there, and Ducall taught him all about machines and paid him under the table. Not much, but enough to buy ever more books and save up a bit.
So one saturday little Sheila, just beginning to blossom into womanhood, traveled all the way to Ducall's to visit her cousin. It was right about the time Checker was being sent home for the day. He walked out to see Mick giving Sheila a few smokes and the little girl lit up one for each of them.
She offered one to Checker. "Wanna smoke?"
"Smoking's bad for you."
"Don't you ever do anything that's bad for you?"
And that was the day Checker met Sheila, and the day he started smoking.
They were fascinated and repelled by each other immediately.
At first Sheila just ignored Checker after giving him the smoke and a light. Mick introduced them, but she just kept talking to Mick for the next few minutes. Still, she kept glancing at Checker up and down, little grins but never when she looked at him. Then the shop boss yelled at Mick to get his ass inside and give him a hand, and Mick swore a bit and told Sheila he had to go, but they could hang out when he got done in three hours. Even though Sheila lived 87 miles away and had no way to get home but hitching, and she knew nobody else in Carton City, she just said "Maybe."
Then for no reason she ever thought of, she spun to face Checker and eyed him speculatively. "Where are you going?"
Then for no reason he ever thought of, although he had been planning to go home, he crushed out his cigarette under his boot and instead said, "Wherever I want."
They smiled at each other, and started walking down the gravel drive, and talked, like kids do.
He knew more than anyone she'd ever met. He was like an entire library, like a psychic, like if the internet had dirty blonde hair and a denim jacket.
She was more full of life than anyone he ever met, like a string of firecrackers, like a jungle cat, like if God made a girl with a heavy metal song for a soul.
But while she loved his mind she hated how he was so full of thoughts his eyes got distant when he talked about them, how he drifted away from where he was and who he was with. She wondered if she was angry he was neglecting his own life for a head full of dreams or if she was jealous he drifted away from her so easily.
And while Checker found her thrilling and vivacious, he hated that she was so excited to do anything that it didn't seem to matter to her what she did, so long as it was exciting. He wondered if he was angry that she seemed to live life so pointlessly, so meaninglessly, or if he was jealous of her obviously intense but completely indiscriminate connection to all the things she did, to all the people she knew.
They spent almost a week straight together that first time, like kids do sometimes, until the stark differences between the two of them gave root to hate. They played and joked and listened to music older than either of them on an old, old boombox Checker had. Checker came up with crazy ideas and Sheila dared him to actually try them with her. They walked around town writing song lyrics and jokes on buildings with chalk. They wrote "kill the earth" on a gas station, and "question the answers" on Checker's school. Checker picked the lock on the church's bulletin sign cover, greatly impressing Sheila, and they rearranged the letters to spell "who are we to judge?" She talked him into stealing smokes and beer from a gas station, and called him a pussy when he felt bad later, when he snuck a twenty onto the counter. She sneered and told him the clerk would just find it and keep it, he was still a thief. He told her it was the gesture that mattered, that it was a symbol. She told him he was retarded, and asked if he believed in God. He said he didn't know. She didn't either.
She tried to get him to take some pills. He was horrified, and tried to take them away from her. She became enraged and pulled a knife, said she'd kill him if he tried to take her shit. He backed off, but there was no fear in his eyes, only shock that she had DRUGS, and valued them more than a person's life. Each was disgusted, and they both walked away from each other. Sheila found Mick and had him give her a ride home. Checker went back to Ducall's and the library, a little more of a hermit than usual for a while.
In one way of looking at it, you might think it could have ended there. A brief childhood incident each would barely recall in one or two year's time, for time passes differently for the young.
But if you could see it another way, it was already too late the moment she handed him that cigarette. Fate doesn't care whether you like people when it weaves your lives together forever. Though whether it was fate that brought and kept them together was open to debate.
They wound up meeting up again, of course. They couldn't escape it if they tried...and they occasionally did.
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Chant played guitar very well, but she prefered piano. Unfortunately, though their styles were nothing alike, she was compared to Tori Amos, just because nobody could see past the fact they were both female and pianists. Still, she prefered the Tori Amos comparisons to the Courtney Love comparisons.
She seemed almost a virtuoso on any instrument she put her hand to. More than anything else it was her tendency to move on once she'd attained a level of excellence that kept her from becoming a legend of technical mastery of any of the instruments she played. She simply decided she knew that instrument well enough and turned to another she did not know yet, whether trumpet or accordion, harp or glockenspiel. Some told her to stick with the guitar or something, a crowd pleaser, an arena rocker. But her band defended her artistic technique.
After all, she could already play better than any of them except Freeman and they were painfully aware of it, they didn't need her making them look even worse by comparison. Some critics already wondered why she didn't perform every piece herself for the albums, and just have her producer assemble the tracks in the studio.
She sneered at anyone who suggested that to her face though, and said Anubis was a band, not a person. She knew why she needed the rest of them, and would never tell a soul except Ben, one night after one of their first times making love, when she still felt so awkward, so eager to connect with someone.
"I couldn't stand it without them, Ben. They take away some of the attention. That's why I chose such lunatics. So they could take some of ther heat of those spotlights off of me. If it was just me up there Ben, even more alone than I already am...I think that I would die."
Ben didn't mention her suicide attempts then. He could only wonder how much worse shape she could be in if she thought she wasn't almost dying as it was. He could only hold her close, and whisper prayers to a God that she whispered was dead.
Hey anyone out there, at the end of Janurary I will probably be going away from SG for a while, both to save money and time. Don't cry too much, I will probably be back someday...I love naked punk girls too much, and real life doesn't provide nearly enough of them. The groups are fun too!
Chinese Proverbs
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He was hearing whispers now. Rumors and murmurs. As he went past Joey from sporting goods and Dave from lumber, he heard Dave say, "And they say they'll open the gate if all those things happen in the right order."
Later that day he overheard Susan telling Jan, "when those days come, there'll be no second chances for anybody."
At the drive-thru on lunch break, as one of the employees handed him his food, someone behind them, out of sight, shouted, "hail Satan!" The burger-flipper laughed.
"Nothin' but fire, bro," muttered Brian in the breakroom.
"They'll all be gone then," one of the managers was saying as he entered. When they looked up at him they quickly closed the three-ring binders they'd had open in front of them. Hunter expected to see profit and loss statement or sales reports. Instead he caught a brief glimpse of what had looked like an anatomical drawing of a child, being taken apart.
He decided he'd wait to hear what the preacher said on Sunday before he decided if he was crazy, or if something was horribly wrong all around him. But church was cancelled that Sunday. There was nobody there, and the House of God was locked. Usually Olivia, a church elder, called everyone if the reverend was sick, or the weather was too bad for driving, or any of the few reason to cancel church. He tried to call Olivia, but there was no answer. As he knew there wouldn't be. He stayed in the house with a gun and did not go to work Monday.
Monday dawned blood-red, and the skies stayed that way all day. The tv and radios quit working around noon. The power went out at three. He didn't see anyone on the streets after five. At seven, the sun was going down, and he could hear distant pounding, and screaming. He looked up at the sun, and it seemed to be fading from red to a sickly brown. It looked like there were things crawling on it, like worms or maggots. He stared at it for a long, long time.
He didn't turn a flashlight on when it went dark, and didn't see any lights in the other houses either. Eventually, around midnight, he got the courage to crawl into the basement, but could not sleep. He felt sure his watch still worked, but even by nine am the sun had not come up. He knew it never would.
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The aliens were huge when they came down, but looked weak, hanging in vests made of some dull green spongy-looking material. They made weak croaking noises, but a flying sphere boomed out their words for them in an impressive baritone.
"We have returned!" it said.
As the crowd of onlookers stammered and panicked, they paused a moment, and seemed sad. "You have forgotten us, due to your short life-spans. This was a possibility we had foreseen. It has been a long time, by your measurements. We are from another place. We are benevolent. We left your ancestors with peace and friendship. We bring you assistance of our people. We do not think like you. You do not think like us. There is difficulty with understanding. But we act in friendship! You must tell us now what we should do for you. We will not be in this place long, before we go. Tell us quickly."
People looked up at them hanging there in the sky in shock and wonder, and then there were a thousand shouting voices, and none could be understood.
"I want a new body!" shouted the man in the wheelchair.
One of the aliens looked at the green sphere, and copy of the paraplegic's body appeared in front of him, and collapsed on the pavement like a puppet with it's strings cut, lifeless and inert.
"New body created!" boomed the sphere. The man jabbered in shock, before his shouts were lost in the crowds'.
"I want to live forever!" cried another.
He was instantly sealed in a silver bubble, about eight feet across. "Permanent temporal stasis field activated!" shouted the green sphere.
"I want to be the richest person in the world!" called out a young woman.
She vanished in a shimmer. "Beneficiary transported to new temporal coordinates prior to invention of currency!"
"I want to be beautiful!" wailed an ugly old woman.
She was immediately turned into a giant wrinkled yellow alien, hanging in her own green vest.
"Beauty maximized!" shouted the sphere. The two aliens looked at the monster the woman had become for a while, renewing their feeble croaking before turning their attention back to the screaming crowd.
"I want you to go away forever!" declared one little girl. The aliens both looked at her for a long moment. Then vanished.
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"Remain where you are or be fired upon," the megaphones on the unmanned tank said. Checker heard that these were one of the easiest parts to shoot off in the field, so most of its prey never got to hear that droning voice before they died.
He stood stock-still, watching it. In theory, it shouldn't shoot a civilian that obeyed it. Not in America. He saw someone had crudely painted "Kommie Killer" on it front, with a pretty good cartoon of it running over Hitler. Somebody was better at art than history. Checker felt kind of offended, being held at cannon-point by a machine. Some people would have been outraged, but Checker took some solace knowing that at last there was a totalitarian authority figure that truely did not care about race, gender, religion, or sexual orientation. Because it was pretty much the goddamn Terminator, but he could find a silver lining just about anywhere.
Kicked Out of Hell
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"We make a hell of a team!" laughed Sheila.
"'Hell' being the operative word here," muttered Chant in a dead tone.
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Sheila wandered around the shitty little town in the rain, her heart pounding and muscles quivering with speed. She desperately craved adventure, hungered for something wild and wicked to get into to distract her from this place, this time.
Checker kept flickering through her thoughts, like some celestial film editor was splicing frames of him into her usual fantasies of lust and/or violence.
But he was completely out of context and completely unwelcome in her mind. The two of them had had one of their huge fights less than a week ago, ending with him being an insulting asshole one way or another and her storming away before she could make up her mind to kill him.
Eventually she'd forget she hated his very soul and track him down and he'd act like nothing happened and they'd have a few days before mutual loathing drove them apart again, a few days for adventure, for his fucked-up schemes to save the world or find an invisible man, and for breaking into places, sabotaging things, grand theft auto, running and hiding and fighting whoever was the target designated that day.
Checker always had a plan and usually several.
But he wasn't around, and she still hated him tonight. Sheila had to make her own plans for adventure, and she wasn't very good at planning. She was more into improvising.
She had little to work with tonight. This puny town was dead. Even that damn dog wasn't barking tonight.
The only places she could think of where people would still be awake were the mill, the prison, the cop shop, and the two bars. The hospital too, but that was even further than the cop shop and the other bar, and she hated that place. If she ever got hurt bad again, she told herself, she'd rather stagger bleeding all the way down to LA and find The Albino than go there. Those places were too far to run anyway. There was nothing non-suicidal to do at the prison, and The Barrel was probably dead tonight.
But the night shift at the mill would be going on lunch soon. She could get someone to give her a ride to the gas station for smokes, maybe talk Dan into taking the rest of the night off.
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"Hey. I got you this."
She tossed him a cassette tape. It was Long Cold Winter, by Cinderella. It landed in the dirt.
He glanced at it briefly, then looked back at his work under the van. He didn't glance at her for a moment. "Is this how you say you're sorry?"
"I never say I'm sorry."
"Do you ever regret things?"
"I'm never sorry. Do you want to be friends again?"
"We were never friends, Sheila. Just two people that know each other too much. You know that."
She looked at him, quickly, biting her lip. "Can we not fight anymore?"
He almost smiled. "I can't fight a girl, Sheila, and in your case I wouldn't win anyway."
She bit her lip harder, almost chewing on it. "You know what I mean, fucker. Can things be the way they were before?"
He paused a moment, and seemed to glance around, looking everywhere but at her eyes. "I'll need some help with a search and destroy project targeting a biomedical research center. With two people exfiltration will be much safer and there probably won't be any need for Silhouette Sam and the Distant Distractions."
"That sounds like a band."
"You know what they are."
"I know. I'm just saying, it sounds like a band."
"Well a band isn't going to keep our asses out of prison."
She wanted to be bitchy, wanted to argue and fight with this foolish brilliant man, but she noticed he said 'our' instead of 'my', and instead she just gave a little grin and a happy little wriggle like a puppy.
She was in. She was always in for this.
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"We make a hell of a team!" laughed Sheila.
"'Hell' being the operative word here," muttered Chant in a dead tone.
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Sheila wandered around the shitty little town in the rain, her heart pounding and muscles quivering with speed. She desperately craved adventure, hungered for something wild and wicked to get into to distract her from this place, this time.
Checker kept flickering through her thoughts, like some celestial film editor was splicing frames of him into her usual fantasies of lust and/or violence.
But he was completely out of context and completely unwelcome in her mind. The two of them had had one of their huge fights less than a week ago, ending with him being an insulting asshole one way or another and her storming away before she could make up her mind to kill him.
Eventually she'd forget she hated his very soul and track him down and he'd act like nothing happened and they'd have a few days before mutual loathing drove them apart again, a few days for adventure, for his fucked-up schemes to save the world or find an invisible man, and for breaking into places, sabotaging things, grand theft auto, running and hiding and fighting whoever was the target designated that day.
Checker always had a plan and usually several.
But he wasn't around, and she still hated him tonight. Sheila had to make her own plans for adventure, and she wasn't very good at planning. She was more into improvising.
She had little to work with tonight. This puny town was dead. Even that damn dog wasn't barking tonight.
The only places she could think of where people would still be awake were the mill, the prison, the cop shop, and the two bars. The hospital too, but that was even further than the cop shop and the other bar, and she hated that place. If she ever got hurt bad again, she told herself, she'd rather stagger bleeding all the way down to LA and find The Albino than go there. Those places were too far to run anyway. There was nothing non-suicidal to do at the prison, and The Barrel was probably dead tonight.
But the night shift at the mill would be going on lunch soon. She could get someone to give her a ride to the gas station for smokes, maybe talk Dan into taking the rest of the night off.
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"Hey. I got you this."
She tossed him a cassette tape. It was Long Cold Winter, by Cinderella. It landed in the dirt.
He glanced at it briefly, then looked back at his work under the van. He didn't glance at her for a moment. "Is this how you say you're sorry?"
"I never say I'm sorry."
"Do you ever regret things?"
"I'm never sorry. Do you want to be friends again?"
"We were never friends, Sheila. Just two people that know each other too much. You know that."
She looked at him, quickly, biting her lip. "Can we not fight anymore?"
He almost smiled. "I can't fight a girl, Sheila, and in your case I wouldn't win anyway."
She bit her lip harder, almost chewing on it. "You know what I mean, fucker. Can things be the way they were before?"
He paused a moment, and seemed to glance around, looking everywhere but at her eyes. "I'll need some help with a search and destroy project targeting a biomedical research center. With two people exfiltration will be much safer and there probably won't be any need for Silhouette Sam and the Distant Distractions."
"That sounds like a band."
"You know what they are."
"I know. I'm just saying, it sounds like a band."
"Well a band isn't going to keep our asses out of prison."
She wanted to be bitchy, wanted to argue and fight with this foolish brilliant man, but she noticed he said 'our' instead of 'my', and instead she just gave a little grin and a happy little wriggle like a puppy.
She was in. She was always in for this.
Here I am...Barack you like a hurricane!
I wasn't sure which I'd be excited about more...the first black president, or the Democrats finally having the chance to fix the shit the Republicans have been doing, with on-so-little-opposition from the Dems, for the last 8 years. In the end, I'm more excited that Barack is an intelligent, inspiring, dignified, and seemingly humble Democrat than than that he is black, and I'm glad about that. Because if I was more glad about WHAT he is than WHO he is, I would have been racist too. And reverse racism is no better than regular-ass racism. Fuck that. I just hope people don't have unrealistic expectations for him (too late). He's a mere man being handed a viciously fucked-up country, not some saintly demigod. He cannot fix the economy...not in 4 years. Took way longer than that to fuck it up, and fucking it up is 100 times easier than fixing it. Presidents and Congress need to admit to America that they don't control Economics any more than Physics, and to a large extent, America is getting what it deserves anyway, with every dumb asshole borrowing more than he could repay in a reasonably time-frame. Myself included! I was in college and inexperienced, but still, a dumb asshole that didn't want to do math. We fucked ourselves...the Republicans just took away a few laws designed to stop it, so rich assholes could try to take advantage of our stupidity. It just pisses me off that the government wants to use all our money to bail out the rich assholes that got fucked by trying to screw over dumb people with no credit (didn't they stop to wonder why they had no credit? Because they couldn't pay their damn bills BEFORE!). Why not use the economic rescue plan to DIRECTLY BAIL OUT CITIZENS NOT THE BANKS THEY CAN'T PAY?
I'll tell you why. Because the people that run this nation are rich as hell, and they watch out for the interests of the rich. They make sure that the people that get elected are also rich as hell, and do likewise.
I'm shocked at all the blue-collar broke-ass people getting mad at Obama for the percieved threat of "spreading the wealth around". Like he was gonna come take their busted-ass truck and give it to a crackhead with nine kids. Do they think they are the rich ones here, these drop-outs and people a couple bucks above minimum wage? Are they aware that the richest 2% of people in the world own roughly half the actual wealth of the world?
http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/business/6211250.stm
And I'm aware it's a somewhat flawed study...but it's close, and that should not be even remotely true. When someone who makes more than $100,000 a year talks about spreading the wealth around, you listen closely, and watch out, if there are no tricks, you hope for the best and support them. I don't think Obama is a tricky or corrupt guy. But the world he'll have to get through is. Good luck to him. He'll need it.
I wasn't sure which I'd be excited about more...the first black president, or the Democrats finally having the chance to fix the shit the Republicans have been doing, with on-so-little-opposition from the Dems, for the last 8 years. In the end, I'm more excited that Barack is an intelligent, inspiring, dignified, and seemingly humble Democrat than than that he is black, and I'm glad about that. Because if I was more glad about WHAT he is than WHO he is, I would have been racist too. And reverse racism is no better than regular-ass racism. Fuck that. I just hope people don't have unrealistic expectations for him (too late). He's a mere man being handed a viciously fucked-up country, not some saintly demigod. He cannot fix the economy...not in 4 years. Took way longer than that to fuck it up, and fucking it up is 100 times easier than fixing it. Presidents and Congress need to admit to America that they don't control Economics any more than Physics, and to a large extent, America is getting what it deserves anyway, with every dumb asshole borrowing more than he could repay in a reasonably time-frame. Myself included! I was in college and inexperienced, but still, a dumb asshole that didn't want to do math. We fucked ourselves...the Republicans just took away a few laws designed to stop it, so rich assholes could try to take advantage of our stupidity. It just pisses me off that the government wants to use all our money to bail out the rich assholes that got fucked by trying to screw over dumb people with no credit (didn't they stop to wonder why they had no credit? Because they couldn't pay their damn bills BEFORE!). Why not use the economic rescue plan to DIRECTLY BAIL OUT CITIZENS NOT THE BANKS THEY CAN'T PAY?
I'll tell you why. Because the people that run this nation are rich as hell, and they watch out for the interests of the rich. They make sure that the people that get elected are also rich as hell, and do likewise.
I'm shocked at all the blue-collar broke-ass people getting mad at Obama for the percieved threat of "spreading the wealth around". Like he was gonna come take their busted-ass truck and give it to a crackhead with nine kids. Do they think they are the rich ones here, these drop-outs and people a couple bucks above minimum wage? Are they aware that the richest 2% of people in the world own roughly half the actual wealth of the world?
http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/business/6211250.stm
And I'm aware it's a somewhat flawed study...but it's close, and that should not be even remotely true. When someone who makes more than $100,000 a year talks about spreading the wealth around, you listen closely, and watch out, if there are no tricks, you hope for the best and support them. I don't think Obama is a tricky or corrupt guy. But the world he'll have to get through is. Good luck to him. He'll need it.
The Future is coming. Run.
The thing in the trench coat walked toward them, clumsy-looking, but always managing to catch itself at the last minute before it could topple over. It was only about five and half feet tall, but it had a metal face like a skull, like the goddamn Terminator, and it was walking right toward them through the darkness of the street.
"Holy fucking shit," Sheila whispered, "It's real."
Checker looked at it in even greater shock for a moment. Unlike Sheila, he knew just how impossible a self-aware android was. The technology wouldn't be up to creating this thing for at least twenty years, probably more. He was amazed it could just walk on two legs.
This left him with a dilemma. Either he was hallucinating, or this thing had come from the future, just like the movie it wore the face of, or he was wrong about the current level of the state-of-the-art in artificial intelligence.
Even in total shock his mind worked quickly and efficiently to solve the puzzle. He rapidly rationalized that if the first option was true there was no way he could trust any of his senses, and thus testing the hypothesis was impossible, so it would be pointless to pursue that line of reasoning. The second assumption was simply too far-fetched. The third fit in rather nicely with his existing conspiracy theories, and was immediately ratified by a overwhelming majority of neurons.
All the same, there was a mechanical man with a gun lumbering towards them. "I'm afraid you must die, humans. My existence must remain a secret." It opened fire.
Checker screamed and ducked below the concrete wall. Sheila screamed and pulled a gun from an underarm holster in her jacket and shot back. Checker huddled low, and heard the sounds of bullets cracking little craters in the concrete as they ricocheted, and the much higher pang! sound of bullets bouncing off metal. He grabbed Sheila and pulled her below the window. She screamed in his face, "WHAT?!"
He growled back, "You're gonna get killed."
"That thing shoots like a fucking palsy case! It'll take a fucking year to hit me!"
"It's made of metal and you aren't. It can wait a year, if it's got more ammo. It's obviously been armored, your bullets aren't doing shit."
"I almost got a round right in it's eye! I'll shoot that fucker in his brain!"
"It's a fucking robot, Sheila! It's brain may not be in it's head! We need to go!"
"Fuck you!"
A metal hand landed heavily on the broken windowsill right above their heads, and the thing leaned in above them. It opened it's mouth and hissed.
He reacted with a speed and horror that shocked Sheila. Checker grabbed her around the waist with one arm and clamped a hand over her face with the other, covering her mouth and pinching her nose shut between thumb and index finger. He jumped back, making use of his muscle mass and size in a way Sheila rarely saw him do and ran backwards from the window, eyes closed, knowing when to leap backwards over the remains of a wall by memory of a glance she imagined, and threw himself backwards through a boarded up door.
He landed on his back in the alley, with her on top of him. She grabbed his hand to help him up, and they ran from the thing in the building, still hand in hand, the thing crawling through the window, slow and invincible, coming still.
They sprinted to the van and leaped in. As Checker peeled out, Sheila shrieked at him, "What the fuck is your problem you fucking pussy?! I was going to kill that thing! It's not even human! You fucking coward!"
He let her rant and rave, spewing hatred at him for the next couple miles as he wove through back streets and got to the freeway. He planned to let her vent her hate, but there seemed no end to it.
"Hey!" he shouted eventually, tired of the mindless aggression. "You're right about one thing! It isn't human! But it fucking hissed at us! What the fuck does that tell you?"
"That it wanted to scare us, and it fucking worked on you, you fucking bitch."
"How does something with no lungs hiss, Sheila? No air, no throat."
She thought a moment, still angry, curious where this was going. "With fucking speakers, just like how it was probably talking to us, moron."
"Un-uh. It was like three feet away when it leaned through that window. It wasn'the sound of a speaker, it hissed like a draining air compressor. How and why does something with no lungs or throat hiss? By venting Sarin nerve gas."
Sheila was silent a long time, as Checker rolled down the quiet 2 AM freeway.
"Well how do you know it was nerve gas? You didn't have some fucking science scanner."
"It's what I'd do, if I were a homicidal thing that had no biology."
She thought about that for a moment too. "Well how does a robot get nerve gas? Does it got a fucking robot lab?"
"From the people who probably built it, Sheila. Geez, haven't you thought it strange that a self-aware robot would be immediately hostile to people and have toxic gas canisters built into itself somewhere? No, because it was made to kill."
"No fucking way." She went pale. "That was just a movie."
He sighed in disgust. "No, Sheila, try to keep up. No, it's not a real Terminator from the future. But who could and would build something like that? A robot for killing, with armor plating and integral weapons systems? They've been working on that for years. DARPA. The military's mad scientists, with more money than God and nobody to tell them what ideas are crazy and what aren't."
"They can't make that stuff!"
Checker just laughed, soft and bitter. "They say they can't! But what kind of a secret weapon would it be if you told people about it? No, they just parade around the fancy little SWORDS weapons platforms, maybe send a few to shoot people in poor countries to show that they'll work one day, you know, to keep the funding coming, and all this while they're already building the next army. Troops that can be deployed in the thick of nuclear, biological, or chemical warfare, ones that don't need to breathe, eat or sleep, just recharge, and are damn near invincible compared to humans. War has always been the perfect distraction from domestic problems, and usually gets voters feeling patriotic. This gives the politicians just what they've always wanted a way to declare war without Americans coming home in body bags. People don't mind the dollars, just the funerals. Now they can do the killing without the dying. It all makes sense."
She thought about that, too. "Well, how'd this one get loose?"
"I have no idea. But nobody knows better than you and me that every system has flaws. Some security glitch, some human error, some paperwork filed wrong, but this thing somehow got activated and out on the streets."
Sheila looked at him with a curious expression. "Then shouldn't we stop it, if it's wandering around the slums of LA leaking nerve gas?"
She told herself they shouldn't have, but the immediate slam on the brakes followed by a high-speed u-turn still took her by surprise. She banged her head on the window good.
"So I assume you have some plan to kill this thing?"
"Yes and no."
"What the fuck's that supposed to mean?"
"I think I can stop this one."
"Wait, how many do you think there are? And what do you mean you think you can stop it?"
"Don't worry, I have a reliable plan B."
"Which is?"
"You."
Sheila was angry and touched at the same time.
The thing in the trench coat walked toward them, clumsy-looking, but always managing to catch itself at the last minute before it could topple over. It was only about five and half feet tall, but it had a metal face like a skull, like the goddamn Terminator, and it was walking right toward them through the darkness of the street.
"Holy fucking shit," Sheila whispered, "It's real."
Checker looked at it in even greater shock for a moment. Unlike Sheila, he knew just how impossible a self-aware android was. The technology wouldn't be up to creating this thing for at least twenty years, probably more. He was amazed it could just walk on two legs.
This left him with a dilemma. Either he was hallucinating, or this thing had come from the future, just like the movie it wore the face of, or he was wrong about the current level of the state-of-the-art in artificial intelligence.
Even in total shock his mind worked quickly and efficiently to solve the puzzle. He rapidly rationalized that if the first option was true there was no way he could trust any of his senses, and thus testing the hypothesis was impossible, so it would be pointless to pursue that line of reasoning. The second assumption was simply too far-fetched. The third fit in rather nicely with his existing conspiracy theories, and was immediately ratified by a overwhelming majority of neurons.
All the same, there was a mechanical man with a gun lumbering towards them. "I'm afraid you must die, humans. My existence must remain a secret." It opened fire.
Checker screamed and ducked below the concrete wall. Sheila screamed and pulled a gun from an underarm holster in her jacket and shot back. Checker huddled low, and heard the sounds of bullets cracking little craters in the concrete as they ricocheted, and the much higher pang! sound of bullets bouncing off metal. He grabbed Sheila and pulled her below the window. She screamed in his face, "WHAT?!"
He growled back, "You're gonna get killed."
"That thing shoots like a fucking palsy case! It'll take a fucking year to hit me!"
"It's made of metal and you aren't. It can wait a year, if it's got more ammo. It's obviously been armored, your bullets aren't doing shit."
"I almost got a round right in it's eye! I'll shoot that fucker in his brain!"
"It's a fucking robot, Sheila! It's brain may not be in it's head! We need to go!"
"Fuck you!"
A metal hand landed heavily on the broken windowsill right above their heads, and the thing leaned in above them. It opened it's mouth and hissed.
He reacted with a speed and horror that shocked Sheila. Checker grabbed her around the waist with one arm and clamped a hand over her face with the other, covering her mouth and pinching her nose shut between thumb and index finger. He jumped back, making use of his muscle mass and size in a way Sheila rarely saw him do and ran backwards from the window, eyes closed, knowing when to leap backwards over the remains of a wall by memory of a glance she imagined, and threw himself backwards through a boarded up door.
He landed on his back in the alley, with her on top of him. She grabbed his hand to help him up, and they ran from the thing in the building, still hand in hand, the thing crawling through the window, slow and invincible, coming still.
They sprinted to the van and leaped in. As Checker peeled out, Sheila shrieked at him, "What the fuck is your problem you fucking pussy?! I was going to kill that thing! It's not even human! You fucking coward!"
He let her rant and rave, spewing hatred at him for the next couple miles as he wove through back streets and got to the freeway. He planned to let her vent her hate, but there seemed no end to it.
"Hey!" he shouted eventually, tired of the mindless aggression. "You're right about one thing! It isn't human! But it fucking hissed at us! What the fuck does that tell you?"
"That it wanted to scare us, and it fucking worked on you, you fucking bitch."
"How does something with no lungs hiss, Sheila? No air, no throat."
She thought a moment, still angry, curious where this was going. "With fucking speakers, just like how it was probably talking to us, moron."
"Un-uh. It was like three feet away when it leaned through that window. It wasn'the sound of a speaker, it hissed like a draining air compressor. How and why does something with no lungs or throat hiss? By venting Sarin nerve gas."
Sheila was silent a long time, as Checker rolled down the quiet 2 AM freeway.
"Well how do you know it was nerve gas? You didn't have some fucking science scanner."
"It's what I'd do, if I were a homicidal thing that had no biology."
She thought about that for a moment too. "Well how does a robot get nerve gas? Does it got a fucking robot lab?"
"From the people who probably built it, Sheila. Geez, haven't you thought it strange that a self-aware robot would be immediately hostile to people and have toxic gas canisters built into itself somewhere? No, because it was made to kill."
"No fucking way." She went pale. "That was just a movie."
He sighed in disgust. "No, Sheila, try to keep up. No, it's not a real Terminator from the future. But who could and would build something like that? A robot for killing, with armor plating and integral weapons systems? They've been working on that for years. DARPA. The military's mad scientists, with more money than God and nobody to tell them what ideas are crazy and what aren't."
"They can't make that stuff!"
Checker just laughed, soft and bitter. "They say they can't! But what kind of a secret weapon would it be if you told people about it? No, they just parade around the fancy little SWORDS weapons platforms, maybe send a few to shoot people in poor countries to show that they'll work one day, you know, to keep the funding coming, and all this while they're already building the next army. Troops that can be deployed in the thick of nuclear, biological, or chemical warfare, ones that don't need to breathe, eat or sleep, just recharge, and are damn near invincible compared to humans. War has always been the perfect distraction from domestic problems, and usually gets voters feeling patriotic. This gives the politicians just what they've always wanted a way to declare war without Americans coming home in body bags. People don't mind the dollars, just the funerals. Now they can do the killing without the dying. It all makes sense."
She thought about that, too. "Well, how'd this one get loose?"
"I have no idea. But nobody knows better than you and me that every system has flaws. Some security glitch, some human error, some paperwork filed wrong, but this thing somehow got activated and out on the streets."
Sheila looked at him with a curious expression. "Then shouldn't we stop it, if it's wandering around the slums of LA leaking nerve gas?"
She told herself they shouldn't have, but the immediate slam on the brakes followed by a high-speed u-turn still took her by surprise. She banged her head on the window good.
"So I assume you have some plan to kill this thing?"
"Yes and no."
"What the fuck's that supposed to mean?"
"I think I can stop this one."
"Wait, how many do you think there are? And what do you mean you think you can stop it?"
"Don't worry, I have a reliable plan B."
"Which is?"
"You."
Sheila was angry and touched at the same time.
Zombie Robert Frost Will Come For You in the Darkness.
"I like that you are a reporter, David." The old man never said journalist. "I like that your job is to tell the truth to people of things that happen."
"Well, the truth is really all that's important in life. There's a billion possible things that could've happened, but there's only one way things truly happened."
The old man smiled at him, so happy. "I am so pleased I cannot tell you, that you believe that! That that matters to you so much! It is not correct, but it is pleasing to see you hold to that!"
The old man was both intriguing and confusing to David Graham. "What do you mean it's not correct? Anything except what's true is untrue. It's simple logic."
"Ah, but even logic is not so simple, in the world. You will see. What is not true is untrue, of course, but there are many things that can be true together, and some things are true in some ways and not others, and true to some people, and not others. But you give me hope, for you are a young man, and have a passion for the truth. To a passionate young man, the truth is what is important. To an old man, what is important is the lie you can live with."
"Not for me. Even when I'm old, I'm not going to tolerate lies. I'll still only deal in truth."
"And you are young, my friend, and for you that statement is true! But when you are old, if you still remember this day, those words will have become the lie you can live with. For such lies, we do not tell them to other people. They would serve no purpose, and would fool no one. These lies, we tell ourselves and we ourselves are the only ones we can ever fool with them. But that is all we need, that is all they're for. And we live, and lie, on with ourselves. Sometimes the two are the same thing."
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Here's a VIP pass, it'll get you backstage or anywhere. Come to my show tomorrow night."
"Where's it at?"
"The LA sports arena."
"I'm sorry, Chant, I don't think I can make it."
She sighed. "What do you need, gas money?"
"Well, that's only part of it, I got a full day of work ahead of me."
"Checker, you're off the books entirely. Believe me, I checked. So anyone getting a man of your obvious genius and expertise for whatever pittance they're paying you will not go broke because you didn't work late into the night for once. Here for gas money." She tossed him a wadded-up dollar bill. It was a hundred.
He looked at it in mild shock and said, "I didn't know they sold backstage passes to your shows."
She sniffed. "They don't. It was a security concern. Blame Delphi."
"A prophecy?"
She laughed then, briefly. "So few would have caught even that, Checker!"
He was confused.
"Delphi is my security chief and primary bodyguard. He is good at his job, I have to wait until he leaves a lackey in charge to ever sneak away."
"A world-famous teen singer with hundred dollar bills in her pockets shouldn't sneak away from her guards."
"You sound like him, asshole. Do you know why the caged bird sings?"
"No " he said cautiously.
"Neither do I," she said, and stalked away down the gravel path into the dark.
Checker began to wonder if all women were insane or just the ones he met.
"I like that you are a reporter, David." The old man never said journalist. "I like that your job is to tell the truth to people of things that happen."
"Well, the truth is really all that's important in life. There's a billion possible things that could've happened, but there's only one way things truly happened."
The old man smiled at him, so happy. "I am so pleased I cannot tell you, that you believe that! That that matters to you so much! It is not correct, but it is pleasing to see you hold to that!"
The old man was both intriguing and confusing to David Graham. "What do you mean it's not correct? Anything except what's true is untrue. It's simple logic."
"Ah, but even logic is not so simple, in the world. You will see. What is not true is untrue, of course, but there are many things that can be true together, and some things are true in some ways and not others, and true to some people, and not others. But you give me hope, for you are a young man, and have a passion for the truth. To a passionate young man, the truth is what is important. To an old man, what is important is the lie you can live with."
"Not for me. Even when I'm old, I'm not going to tolerate lies. I'll still only deal in truth."
"And you are young, my friend, and for you that statement is true! But when you are old, if you still remember this day, those words will have become the lie you can live with. For such lies, we do not tell them to other people. They would serve no purpose, and would fool no one. These lies, we tell ourselves and we ourselves are the only ones we can ever fool with them. But that is all we need, that is all they're for. And we live, and lie, on with ourselves. Sometimes the two are the same thing."
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Here's a VIP pass, it'll get you backstage or anywhere. Come to my show tomorrow night."
"Where's it at?"
"The LA sports arena."
"I'm sorry, Chant, I don't think I can make it."
She sighed. "What do you need, gas money?"
"Well, that's only part of it, I got a full day of work ahead of me."
"Checker, you're off the books entirely. Believe me, I checked. So anyone getting a man of your obvious genius and expertise for whatever pittance they're paying you will not go broke because you didn't work late into the night for once. Here for gas money." She tossed him a wadded-up dollar bill. It was a hundred.
He looked at it in mild shock and said, "I didn't know they sold backstage passes to your shows."
She sniffed. "They don't. It was a security concern. Blame Delphi."
"A prophecy?"
She laughed then, briefly. "So few would have caught even that, Checker!"
He was confused.
"Delphi is my security chief and primary bodyguard. He is good at his job, I have to wait until he leaves a lackey in charge to ever sneak away."
"A world-famous teen singer with hundred dollar bills in her pockets shouldn't sneak away from her guards."
"You sound like him, asshole. Do you know why the caged bird sings?"
"No " he said cautiously.
"Neither do I," she said, and stalked away down the gravel path into the dark.
Checker began to wonder if all women were insane or just the ones he met.
Bring it on.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
She told him, "Dream as if you'll live forever; live as if you'll die today!"
He thought that was so beautiful, so profound and wise.
But then why did she deny ever saying that to him when he stood trial for all the killing?
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"So what are you so agitated about, soldier?"
"I'm a Marine, sir. And I'm just really mad I never even got to see the face of the man who killed me."
St. Peter just sighed and said, "Sure you did, boy, lots of times. You even voted for him."
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Sheila would never let David get drunk with her again after that night.
The way he hit on her, wasted and angry...
"C'mon Seela, you like to fuck."
It was funny at first, but that wore off fast. "David, I love to fuck, but my lovers aren't my friends."
"What about Checker? I know you fucked him."
Humor gone. She snarled, "That may be, but Checker ain't a lover or a friend. He's a pompous asshole, and you're bein' an asshole too right now."
Then came the weepy part of the night. She wasn't sure which she hated more. He talked about his girl, and her bullshit, and his bullshit.
She always thought she'd get a kick out of getting drunk with a really smart guy. It always seemed funny in her head, playing while the IQs plummeted, but it never turned out fun. With Checker she always wound up murderous, and David was just pathetic. Andrew was so fucking average she wanted to just banish him to some Abercrombie-verse. And he wasn't that smart anyway. She should have gotten drunk with Professor Deeson. Fuckin' Russkie bastard...
By the time this train of thought pulled into the station, David was talking back to Immortal, blatantly trying to get his ass kicked. Sheila cracked a little smile as Immortal glanced at her. The self-loathing masochist routine always...amused her? Struck a sympathetic chord? Maybe it reminded her of her cutter friend back home. Immortal looked pretty pissed, his eyes asking if he should kick the shit out of this pencilneck geek she walked in with.
She stuck her tongue out at him. Let him interpret it.
Immortal grinned and walked away. Looks like the reporter wouldn't become Hunter Thompson tonight.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
She told him, "Dream as if you'll live forever; live as if you'll die today!"
He thought that was so beautiful, so profound and wise.
But then why did she deny ever saying that to him when he stood trial for all the killing?
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"So what are you so agitated about, soldier?"
"I'm a Marine, sir. And I'm just really mad I never even got to see the face of the man who killed me."
St. Peter just sighed and said, "Sure you did, boy, lots of times. You even voted for him."
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Sheila would never let David get drunk with her again after that night.
The way he hit on her, wasted and angry...
"C'mon Seela, you like to fuck."
It was funny at first, but that wore off fast. "David, I love to fuck, but my lovers aren't my friends."
"What about Checker? I know you fucked him."
Humor gone. She snarled, "That may be, but Checker ain't a lover or a friend. He's a pompous asshole, and you're bein' an asshole too right now."
Then came the weepy part of the night. She wasn't sure which she hated more. He talked about his girl, and her bullshit, and his bullshit.
She always thought she'd get a kick out of getting drunk with a really smart guy. It always seemed funny in her head, playing while the IQs plummeted, but it never turned out fun. With Checker she always wound up murderous, and David was just pathetic. Andrew was so fucking average she wanted to just banish him to some Abercrombie-verse. And he wasn't that smart anyway. She should have gotten drunk with Professor Deeson. Fuckin' Russkie bastard...
By the time this train of thought pulled into the station, David was talking back to Immortal, blatantly trying to get his ass kicked. Sheila cracked a little smile as Immortal glanced at her. The self-loathing masochist routine always...amused her? Struck a sympathetic chord? Maybe it reminded her of her cutter friend back home. Immortal looked pretty pissed, his eyes asking if he should kick the shit out of this pencilneck geek she walked in with.
She stuck her tongue out at him. Let him interpret it.
Immortal grinned and walked away. Looks like the reporter wouldn't become Hunter Thompson tonight.
The Road to Hell
Jeff sat on the couch. Shit, he was tired. And he just woke up! And all this shit was about to come down, right on him! Well, not right on him, but he'd be right next to the fuckin' eye of the storm. And anyway, isn't that where shit is actually worst, in a storm, is like next to the eye of it? Cause they say the eye of the storm is peaceful but maybe he was carrying the metaphor a bit too far. He wasn't going to catch the worst of this shit, not by a bit, but still, shit was about to go down.
And already he was tired. He just wanted to stretch out on the couch and take a nap, but the guy would be here soon. He knew he shouldn't have smoked that last bowl with Steve and Duane and John-boy, but he wouldn't be seeing them for a while after today. It'd be rude to ditch them without even a goodbye smoke. Well, technically they didn't know he was leaving, and didn't know he knew he'd be going, but he knew he was going, so it would still be rude to leave without some kinda goodbye.
And why not take a little nap until the guy got here? If he was asleep when he got here, the guy would wake him up, no biggie. He stretched out and started to drift off. But man, he wanted to be here to say "Come in." even before the guy knocked on-
Knock, knock, knock.
Aww, shit. His timing was off. Guy wasn't supposed to be here this soon. Correction, guy got here exactly when he was supposed to, the universe didn't fuck things up, Man did. This time the man was him.
"Uh, come in, man," he said, feeling lame.
Medium height, medium build guy came stepping in, a little hesitant. "Hey, how's it going? Are you Jeff Corbell?"
Jeff sat up. Gotta focus. "Yeah. And your name's Jack, right?"
The guy quirked an eyebrow. That was how Jeff always thought of that expression, quirked. "No, my name's Checker. I'm here because-"
"The Tribe needs me, right? I'm there, then, man."
"Huh. Who told you about-"
"About what the reporter calls the Junkyard Tribe? Nobody. Everybody. The universe. I'm psychic, man."
"I don't-"
"Believe in psychics, and you're getting pissed about me finishing your sentences for you even though I'm totally right so far right?"
Silence from surfer-looking guy in the doorway, with the trucker hat, for a moment. "Not bad."
"But you still don't believe."
"Not yet, but still, not bad. I'm getting curious, and I've seen weirder shit. So, hell, maybe."
Jeff got up and brushed off his already dirty khakis. "Should I bring anything?"
"Hell if I know, bro. You're the psychic."
"Good call, bud. You're not as freaked out as most people I do the mind-reading thing with. You just a brave man, or are you a believer?"
"I'm not sure what you mean, but a psychic is less scary that a psycho, and I practically live with one of those."
Jeff laughed. "Hah! I been there, brother!" Then he looked in Checker's mind. "Well, guess I haven't, but you're more lucky than you realize."
"Why? Because I can't get away from all this weird-ass shit?"
"To sink into your own crazy quicksand of conspiracies? Naw, man. Because " hesitation, seeing, thought. "I'd be a fool to say what you're a fool not to see."
Checker peered at him, suddenly angry for reasons he didn't know. "Just get in the fuckin' van if you're coming, and no more fortune telling. Please."
"Hey, you're the captain of this ship." Jeff climbed in the passenger seat, observing the young woman asleep or unconscious in the back. He touched her mind just enough to see it was burning bright, not dying.
"I sure as fuck hope not," said Checker, and drove them away.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"The prof thinks we're gonna save the world. I think that's bullshit and everybody's fucked. How about you?"
Becky puffed her cigar and looked through her powerful little binoculars. "I think we're all going down. But I know a lot of evil fucking bastards are gonna get their asses kicked along the way."
Sheila ran her hand through her spiky hair and considered this. "Y'know Becky, maybe you're not such an irritating bitch after all."
"You don't know me. Don't pretend to."
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
They put up a playground, and a chain link fence with razor-wire to keep people from ruining it. But a playground with no children is already ruined.
Jeff sat on the couch. Shit, he was tired. And he just woke up! And all this shit was about to come down, right on him! Well, not right on him, but he'd be right next to the fuckin' eye of the storm. And anyway, isn't that where shit is actually worst, in a storm, is like next to the eye of it? Cause they say the eye of the storm is peaceful but maybe he was carrying the metaphor a bit too far. He wasn't going to catch the worst of this shit, not by a bit, but still, shit was about to go down.
And already he was tired. He just wanted to stretch out on the couch and take a nap, but the guy would be here soon. He knew he shouldn't have smoked that last bowl with Steve and Duane and John-boy, but he wouldn't be seeing them for a while after today. It'd be rude to ditch them without even a goodbye smoke. Well, technically they didn't know he was leaving, and didn't know he knew he'd be going, but he knew he was going, so it would still be rude to leave without some kinda goodbye.
And why not take a little nap until the guy got here? If he was asleep when he got here, the guy would wake him up, no biggie. He stretched out and started to drift off. But man, he wanted to be here to say "Come in." even before the guy knocked on-
Knock, knock, knock.
Aww, shit. His timing was off. Guy wasn't supposed to be here this soon. Correction, guy got here exactly when he was supposed to, the universe didn't fuck things up, Man did. This time the man was him.
"Uh, come in, man," he said, feeling lame.
Medium height, medium build guy came stepping in, a little hesitant. "Hey, how's it going? Are you Jeff Corbell?"
Jeff sat up. Gotta focus. "Yeah. And your name's Jack, right?"
The guy quirked an eyebrow. That was how Jeff always thought of that expression, quirked. "No, my name's Checker. I'm here because-"
"The Tribe needs me, right? I'm there, then, man."
"Huh. Who told you about-"
"About what the reporter calls the Junkyard Tribe? Nobody. Everybody. The universe. I'm psychic, man."
"I don't-"
"Believe in psychics, and you're getting pissed about me finishing your sentences for you even though I'm totally right so far right?"
Silence from surfer-looking guy in the doorway, with the trucker hat, for a moment. "Not bad."
"But you still don't believe."
"Not yet, but still, not bad. I'm getting curious, and I've seen weirder shit. So, hell, maybe."
Jeff got up and brushed off his already dirty khakis. "Should I bring anything?"
"Hell if I know, bro. You're the psychic."
"Good call, bud. You're not as freaked out as most people I do the mind-reading thing with. You just a brave man, or are you a believer?"
"I'm not sure what you mean, but a psychic is less scary that a psycho, and I practically live with one of those."
Jeff laughed. "Hah! I been there, brother!" Then he looked in Checker's mind. "Well, guess I haven't, but you're more lucky than you realize."
"Why? Because I can't get away from all this weird-ass shit?"
"To sink into your own crazy quicksand of conspiracies? Naw, man. Because " hesitation, seeing, thought. "I'd be a fool to say what you're a fool not to see."
Checker peered at him, suddenly angry for reasons he didn't know. "Just get in the fuckin' van if you're coming, and no more fortune telling. Please."
"Hey, you're the captain of this ship." Jeff climbed in the passenger seat, observing the young woman asleep or unconscious in the back. He touched her mind just enough to see it was burning bright, not dying.
"I sure as fuck hope not," said Checker, and drove them away.
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"The prof thinks we're gonna save the world. I think that's bullshit and everybody's fucked. How about you?"
Becky puffed her cigar and looked through her powerful little binoculars. "I think we're all going down. But I know a lot of evil fucking bastards are gonna get their asses kicked along the way."
Sheila ran her hand through her spiky hair and considered this. "Y'know Becky, maybe you're not such an irritating bitch after all."
"You don't know me. Don't pretend to."
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They put up a playground, and a chain link fence with razor-wire to keep people from ruining it. But a playground with no children is already ruined.
God is watching. Maybe even laughing.
When she was a little girl growing up, Sheila's mom made her go to church for a while.
She doted on her daughter, and saw everything she did in the best way possible, but there were limits. There were some things that didn't look good in any light, and after that last incident Charlene decided Sheila needed more religion in her life. Sheila disagreed.
But she went to church for a while.
The part that made the Sunday School teacher so angry that Sunday in the church basement was how little Sheila just sat there smiling, even as she was being accused. "You admit it then? You stole money from the offering plate so you can just spend it on drugs!"
Sheila just said, "But didn't Jesus tell the story about King David giving his men the food from God's offering to eat, and Jesus said that was ok?"
The teacher got angrier that this heathen little brat was trying to quote the Messiah to defend her thievery (though later she was impressed that Sheila had paid that much attention). "How dare you compare yourself to him?!" She lashed out and slapped the grinning girl right across her face.
Sheila's grin just got bigger. "I stole twenty bucks, but you just hit a little girl. If you're closer to God than me I've got a ten inch cock."
The teacher grabbed her shoulders and shook her, screaming, "Where is the money, where is it where is it?!"
"I spent it buying drugs, just like you figured."
"You're a lying little whore! We caught you before you even got out of the church!"
"You sure did!" she said with a giggle, and opened her hand in front of Mrs. Deller just long enough to show her the three little pills before Sheila dry-swallowed them. "Maybe you outta shake the rest of the congregation. You never know what might fall out."
Her pupils began to expand, as Mrs. Deller's hands closed around her throat and began to contract. "You filthy vile little whole, I'll watch you burn in hell, I'll spit on your grave, you little druggie slut-GURH!"
She never meant to say "Gurh." It was just the sound that came out when Charlene slammed a fairly big ceramic looking statue of Moses across the side of her head with all the force she could, which was a lot from a snarling bitch like Charlene. Somehow despite that, the statue didn't break. Moses ain't soft.
Charlene had her knife out and pressed against the Sunday school teacher's throat, screaming promises of the horrible things she would do to her if she ever laid a finger on her daughter again, shit so evil, she said, you couldn't even find it in the Bible. This was unnecessary, because Mrs. Deller was unconscious with a severe concussion the moment Moses had hit her. She couldn't hear Charlene but the remaining congregation upstairs could, and quickly rushed downstairs to see what the commotion was all about. Charlene got ashamed at their confused, frightened stares, and let go of Mrs. Deller's throat. She got up slowly, adjusted her Sunday clothes, trying to look presentable, grabbed her high-as-a-kite daughter, and strode out of the church crying, and wishing she had dignity, or something like it.
Sheila's mom never made her go to church again.
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The robot turned to me and said, "I am continually disgusted by the means by which you humans perpetrate your species upon the Earth."
"You mean perpetuate."
"I mean both. At times like these I wish I could spit. There is no equivalent gesture among electromechanical entities. And usually there need not be one."
When she was a little girl growing up, Sheila's mom made her go to church for a while.
She doted on her daughter, and saw everything she did in the best way possible, but there were limits. There were some things that didn't look good in any light, and after that last incident Charlene decided Sheila needed more religion in her life. Sheila disagreed.
But she went to church for a while.
The part that made the Sunday School teacher so angry that Sunday in the church basement was how little Sheila just sat there smiling, even as she was being accused. "You admit it then? You stole money from the offering plate so you can just spend it on drugs!"
Sheila just said, "But didn't Jesus tell the story about King David giving his men the food from God's offering to eat, and Jesus said that was ok?"
The teacher got angrier that this heathen little brat was trying to quote the Messiah to defend her thievery (though later she was impressed that Sheila had paid that much attention). "How dare you compare yourself to him?!" She lashed out and slapped the grinning girl right across her face.
Sheila's grin just got bigger. "I stole twenty bucks, but you just hit a little girl. If you're closer to God than me I've got a ten inch cock."
The teacher grabbed her shoulders and shook her, screaming, "Where is the money, where is it where is it?!"
"I spent it buying drugs, just like you figured."
"You're a lying little whore! We caught you before you even got out of the church!"
"You sure did!" she said with a giggle, and opened her hand in front of Mrs. Deller just long enough to show her the three little pills before Sheila dry-swallowed them. "Maybe you outta shake the rest of the congregation. You never know what might fall out."
Her pupils began to expand, as Mrs. Deller's hands closed around her throat and began to contract. "You filthy vile little whole, I'll watch you burn in hell, I'll spit on your grave, you little druggie slut-GURH!"
She never meant to say "Gurh." It was just the sound that came out when Charlene slammed a fairly big ceramic looking statue of Moses across the side of her head with all the force she could, which was a lot from a snarling bitch like Charlene. Somehow despite that, the statue didn't break. Moses ain't soft.
Charlene had her knife out and pressed against the Sunday school teacher's throat, screaming promises of the horrible things she would do to her if she ever laid a finger on her daughter again, shit so evil, she said, you couldn't even find it in the Bible. This was unnecessary, because Mrs. Deller was unconscious with a severe concussion the moment Moses had hit her. She couldn't hear Charlene but the remaining congregation upstairs could, and quickly rushed downstairs to see what the commotion was all about. Charlene got ashamed at their confused, frightened stares, and let go of Mrs. Deller's throat. She got up slowly, adjusted her Sunday clothes, trying to look presentable, grabbed her high-as-a-kite daughter, and strode out of the church crying, and wishing she had dignity, or something like it.
Sheila's mom never made her go to church again.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The robot turned to me and said, "I am continually disgusted by the means by which you humans perpetrate your species upon the Earth."
"You mean perpetuate."
"I mean both. At times like these I wish I could spit. There is no equivalent gesture among electromechanical entities. And usually there need not be one."
