From amidst the swirling chaos of Cyberspace came the One known as Kilt, He who is both one and three: Kiltanon, Kiltannen, and Kilt, complimentary of mind yet separate of body. And He looked into the anarchic extents of that realm known as Internet, and He became greatly distraught, for no order did He see. He saw worlds floating adrift, lonely and disjointed from their fellows; however, not all Worlds held Kilt’s attention. Nay! His omnipresence focused upon those realities named Fiction; and he felt compelled to draw them together; to organize and catalogue them into a concrete whole.
Thus, the dream became an idea and the idea became an obsession. Long did the Webmaster struggle, sifting through codes and software; for a seeming eternity did he seek out the proper combination of elements. Mightily, did He work, his attention focused as he labored night and day. And eventually, His quest bore fruit in the form of that ever-evolving reality known as Ibdof: the nexus of those multiple realms collectively known as Fiction…
…and when Kilt completed his labors, He felt great joy, for He knew that it was good...
Meanwhile...
"A writer's chosen task is to write well and professionally. If you can't keep doing it, then you're no longer a professional, but a gifted amateur." L. E. Modessit, jr.
......on a bone-chilling early January day in Albany, New York, an historic event is taking place:
"I, Laurie H*****, do solemnly swear that I will support the Constitution of the United States, and the Constitution of the State of New York, and that I will faithfully discharge the duties of the office of Governor, according to the best of my ability."
Genre: Inaugural Address
It is with gratitude and humility that I stand before the people of New York today and take the oath of office as your Governor. You have given me the opportunity - and the responsibility - to represent you, not only in this great state, but throughout our country and around the world. Your trust and support have brought me to this high office, and will strengthen me as I endeavor to bring about the changes necessary to make New York, once again, the leader in the United States, and in the world.
For too many years, our state government has been mired in a political quagmire, with representatives of both parties adamantly refusing to make even the smallest of compromises in the interest of common sense and good governance. Your overwhelming vote in November, both for me and for the other candidates of my party, was a clarion call for fundamental change in the way Albany does business. The days of back-room deals and political one-upmanship are over. My administration will do its job in the light of day, not in the dark corners of the Capitol Building, and the people of New York, the people who elected us, will have a true voice in the governing of their state.
Our first order of change will be in how our State Senators and Assemblymen are appointed to the Legislative Committees that draw up our state laws. No longer will seniority of service be the only criterion for membership on a given committee. A Legislator must also have real-life experience in the area he or she is overseeing. Proposition 43, approved in November with an 82% majority of the vote, mandates this change. Committee appointments will follow that mandate.
Secondly, and as a former teacher, most important to me, we will enact measures to improve the education of our children. Public school education in New York has deteriorated so badly in the past 12 years that almost half our children leave school without the basic reading, math and science skills necessary to function in our highly technological society. We will introduce legislation within 60 days to redesign the curriculum at all levels of our public schools so that it encompasses the future needs of our children and our society.
The main goal of my campaign was to listen to the voices of the people of New York, to hear their concerns and to hear their ideas of how this state should be governed. My administration will continue to listen to those voices. Beginning on February 2nd, I will hold an open meeting in a different county every Monday. Residents of each county will have the chance to speak directly to me and to their State Senators and Assemblymen at these meetings, and to express their opinions on the changes we are making and the changes needed for the future. This will ensure two things: that we have first-hand knowledge at all times of what most concerns the people of New York, and that, unlike my predecessor in this office, I spend more of my time within New York State than outside the state. No more finance meetings aboard cruise ships in the Caribbean - that's a promise!
In conclusion, I want to express my gratitude to you again for allowing me to represent you and our great state. Together we will lead New York into a brighter future. Thank you.
.................................................................................................
[TV ANCHORMAN] Ladies and gentlemen, you have been watching the inauguration ceremony of New York's first woman Governor, Laurie Honors. And now..........
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"It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife." -- Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice
....far removed from the scene in a place set slightly outside of time, the Gods watched the various happenings of humanity through the fathomless depths of a silver mirror lying flat side down upon a large oval table. Eerie quiet pervaded the chamber in which they had all gathered: a chamber high in an impossibly tall tower of golden stone upon a misty peak of even greater immensity. A sense of worry and dread foreboding eked forth, causing all to shift in their places—whether they appeared as columns of brilliant light, fabulous beasts, or heroic versions of humankind. Yet despite this unfortunate discomfort, not a one of them said aught, as if doing so would tear the very fabric of reality asunder…
Far below the worries of Gods, verdant beauty stretched forth to the seeming edge of reality. Like a great garden it was, possessed of all forms of plant and animal life, as well as creatures unfathomable to the minds of men, though wrought by those same such minds. Amidst this rustic scene walked beings of great wisdom, power, and beauty: angels and demigods—living figments of the imagination, though no less real. And if they knew of what went on above, they gave no outward sign. However, if one looked closely, stretching forth their every sense, they would have noted a slight trembling upon the air…
Farther away still, at the very edge of the heavens, which hovered like a great floating island above the near fathomless extents of the firmament, a dragon took flight, its whitish scales shimmering multihued in the all-permeating light of the Gods. Down and down it went, sliding effortlessly into the darkness of the firmament like a blazing comet. For a seeming eternity did the beast plummet, its great pinions tucked close so as to aid the speed of its descent into the realms of mortal kind. And as it plunged ever deeper, the voice of mighty Zeus whispered in its mind, bidding it to seek out and destroy the one responsible for the nightmare images that haunted the Heavens, the one responsible for the illegal distrubution of nojshe upon the Earth, the one known as Suin Olef.
And as the great dragon plummeted ever closer to the Earth, it smiled wickedly, an eager glint to its obsidian eyes. Long years had passed since it had last walked the world of men and it was eager for the taste of fear. Yet little did the mighty wyrm know of the great and lasting changes that had occurred upon the Earth since its last appearance millennia agon, nor could it conceive of such, for dragons were notoriously lacking in certain mental faculties, though they made fine weapons of terror when the need arose. However, none of these thoughts were upon the dragon's mind as it plummeted ever downward, its icy-black gaze fixed upon the Earth: a sapphirrine orb hanging as if motionless in the abyssal distance. But one concept filled its consciousness: find Suin Olef and destroy him.
And the Earth drew ever nigh, looming larger and larger. Anticipation flooded the dragon's being, driving it ever faster in its flight. An inferno of smoke and gas shimmered about its glittering scales, trailing off into the distance as the dragon took its final plunge towards the blue depths of the Earth's atmosphere...and into mortal reality.
Down and down the dragon went, falling through the air like some great asteroid come to destroy humanity, its massive form shifting and changing as it went...becoming something other than a dragon: a creature clothed in human flesh. And thoughts that were not its own flooded its mind, altering the beast further until it was no longer a dragon but an Avatar of the Gods instead: an agent of immortal vengeance come to rid the world of evil.
Abruptly, the Avatar's descent ended in an explosive concussion that rocked the land for miles around, hurling various bits of debris across the desolate 'scape of the Mojave Desert. Long moments of eerie quiet then passed, the stench of sulphur hanging upon the desert air, before a naked, man-like figure emerged from the smoldering depths of the newly-formed crater, steam trailing off his unmarred body.
The Avatar's obsidian eyes glinted as he surveyed the land...searching. After a few minutes, a smile crossed his too-perfect face and darkness surrounded him, his form shifting once more to that of a large black raven. And with but barely a sound, the raven took flight, heading off towards the east....
"A writer's chosen task is to write well and professionally. If you can't keep doing it, then you're no longer a professional, but a gifted amateur." L. E. Modessit, jr.
Meanwhile, way-out in the surreptitious space of the spherical, sweeping spidery-web; there subsist the land of lost letters, superfluous symbols, vanished vowels, confused constants, and perplexed punctuation marks. Upon entering this dominion, you are greeted by Brian Frat, Expedition Escort Extraordinaire.
“Step forward, please, don’t be shy. Welcome, welcome to the World of Written-off Symbols; AKA … the Empire of Emoti-buns/boobies. No, no sir, I did not call you a booby.â€
If ye love wealth better than liberty, the tranquility of servitude than the animating contest of freedom, go from us in peace. We ask not your counsels or arms. Crouch down and lick the hands which feed you. May your chains sit lightly upon you,
S Adams
… the Palmer Institute for the Illegitimately Insane. In his cream colored overcoat, Dr. Aunflin, is making his first rounds of the morning, his mind reflecting his sleep-time souvenirs. His thoughts on poetry and prose, and off his authoritarian stepmother; he enters the brilliant greenish yellow padded cell, whose walls enhance the long shimmering scarlet strands of the youthful heroine. She is trying, miserably so, to remove an orange stain from her navel. Looking up into the doctor’s blood-shot sleepy eyes; she recites her recently revamp nursery rhyme.
Me Must Not Tease The Doctor
Me must not tease the doctor,
For he is very blind;
And nothing he says to me
Helps me mess up mind;
For when me was crazy,
And would speak in tongues.
He brought me dolorous medicine,
That stopped me singing songs.
Me must not tease the doctor,
And when he has a need,
Or speaks to me, he will
Most surely make me bleed.
Me will not backtalk or say,
Can’t cure me – you fail,
But sit down softly by his side,
And try not to make him wail.
Me must not tease the doctor,
I've heard the fat nurse shout;
When me was writing me poems,
That he would cursed me all about.
He gives me crayons for the wall,
Corrects me grammar and spelling,
And though me can not thank him
But by me silence smiling.
Me must not tease the doctor,
Even if ‘they’ say he's gay;
And he talks nineteen to the dozen,
And wants me to watch him play.
How much me attempts to annoy,
He always appears in a jiffy;
For should he run and hide,
What would become of ME?
Clapping gently, the doctor approaches his patient, “Very good Cinders, you seem to be feeling joyful this morning.â€
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If ye love wealth better than liberty, the tranquility of servitude than the animating contest of freedom, go from us in peace. We ask not your counsels or arms. Crouch down and lick the hands which feed you. May your chains sit lightly upon you,
S Adams
...an ear-shattering bellow was heard, followed shortly thereafter by a metallic THUMP and another, and another. Doctors in lab coats and nurses carrying trays of meds turned to gaze upon the thick metal doors to the psych ward. The doors which were vibrating and beginning to bow in towards them.
"What the bloody hell..." warbled Nurse Sinistra, known (without affection) as "the stabber" by the patients in the ward for the sadistic glee she took in jamming her drug filled hypodermic into the muscle layers of their bodies.
An armed security person looked up from his monitor. "Doctor," he said anxiously, "you better have a look at this."
Adjusting his safety spectacles (one does not want spittle of the insane to permeate one's oculi), Dr. Aunflin approached the monitor. "Sweet mother of God!" he squealed. "It can't be!"
Unnoticed, Cinders had followed the good doctor and peered over his shoulder at the grainy image on the screen.
"Carlotta!" she exclaimed, breaking into an impromptu chant
"It's Carlotta,
A whole lottah
Carlotta.
Carlotta,
She's whattah
You gottah!
Oh, whattah
Poor sottah,
You pissed off Carlotta!"
"Someone sedate her," the doctor barked.
"Uh...Carlotta?" the security guard gasped, a large bead of sweat rolling from his forehead.
"No, imbecile!" the doctor roared. "You know we don't have any elephant or rhino tranquilizer darts left! Sedate this doggerel spewing debutante."
"My pleasure," smirked the stabber , pulling the large, dull hypodermic from her fanny pack. Always be prepared, for you never know when the opportunity will present itself was her motto.
"Noooooo!" screeched Cinders, "I'll be good! I'll be good!"
As the orderlies dragged her off and the stabber grimly uncapped the syringe, her final pleas echoed down the sterile hallway, "....gooooooooood."
With a horrific, wrenching squeal of metal being ripped assunder, the thick doors flew apart, and a striking woman appeared in the doorway, clad in a bit of black leather, but mostly tattoos. She was striking. Striking. Striking anyone within reach of her massive fists.
Wham! An orderly flew fifteen feet down the hall. His teeth flew twenty feet. Pow! A nurse shaped indentation appeared in the wall to her left. The original nurse, a bit moister and squishier than she had originally been, lay on the floor at Carlotta's feet, crumpled like an old Weekly Reader.
The security person backed slowly away from her, fumbling at the weapon attached to his belt, as the doctor pressed himself against the wall, trying to remain calm. Don't ever let an animal see fear in your eyes , he thought, swallowing hard.
Carlotta was massive. Her thick black hair hung in greasy ringlets around her cheeks, which were covered with a rather significant five o'clock shadow. The FTW tattoo in four inch letters across her forehead in lurid red ink seemed to pulse as she rotated her head on her short, thick neck to pin the security person with her heavy-lidded black eyes. "You gonna shoot me, Pendejo?" she snarled. "Go 'head." She smiled at him, the gold front teeth glittered savagely. "I will pull the bullet out and make you eat it as an appetizer, before I feed you the gun."
The security person, whimpering like a little girl in a room filled with salamanders and river rats, soiled himself and ran screaming down the hall. Her mocking laughter followed him. She shook back her hair, rolled her shoulders, and flexed her enormous arms, each as big around as a telephone pole.
"I come to see you, Doc," she hissed, the smell of prison pasta thick on her breath.
"Uh...uh..." the doctor stammered, trying to regain his composure. "Me?" he squeaked, then cleared his throat and repeated in a deeper voice, "You came to see me, Carlotta?"
Carlotta snorted, her magnificient bosom, like a pair of hormone enhanced jumbo watermelons, strained against the black leather brassiere. "I said that, didn't I?" she snarled.
"I, uh, thought you were--" the doctor began.
"Still in the prison for the criminally insane, you nasty little quack?" She flexed her bicepts smugly. "Ain't no cage strong enough to hold Carlotta."
"You're not still angry about my...uh...diagnosis, are you?" he asked, eyeing the nurse on the floor, who had shown no signs of life since landing there.
"I don't got time to be pissed about every little thing, Doc," Carlotta sniffed, somewhat magnanimously. She ignored his guarded sigh of relief. "I wanna talk about my boys. My Frankie. My Joey." She produced a black linen hanky from her cavernous clevage and dabbed at the tears that appeared suddenly in the corners of her eyes. The hanky was embroidered with the Harley Davidson insignia. "Your brother, the coroner at the Kevorkian Medical Center, his office called the warden. Said my boys were both dead. DEAD! My babies!"
Confused, the doctor asked, "You mean Frank and Joe Hardy? But, their mother is Laura...Laura Hardy."
Fury glittered in Carlotta's crazed eyes. "Bah!" she spat. "That pale, bloodless gringa? You think that she-dog ever gave ol' Fentonito anything but a 'hunny-do' list?" She put a hand on her massive hip, gyrated expressively, and smirked, "Me and Fentonito had us some good times. He was a skinny little nerdito, but I trained him well." Her wicked smile told the doctor far more than he wanted to know. "Me, I'm like the wind. I can't stay in one place long. I let Fentonito and his lisping esposa raise the boys. But they are my boys. Mine. And some sumbitch drilled a hole in their little cabezas and sucked the juice outta their brains!"
Carlotta's huge fists punched a hole the size of a basketball through the wall on either side of the doctor's head. "That sumbitch is gonna pay," she promised, her nose a quarter inch from the doctor's. Her prison pasta breath assaulted his nostrils. He could see a small green sliver of oregano wedged between her two gold front teeth. "And you," she said, allowing her bosom to pin him against the wall, squashing his lungs, making him labor for a breath, "You owe me, brain shrinker. You gonna help me find the hijo del diablo who fubared my ninos."
"Carlotta," the doctor gasped, "My dear, I...."
I am a poor, wayfaring stranger
Wandering through this world of woe
But there's no sickness, no fear or danger
In that bright land
To which I go
"Carlotta," the doctor gasped, "My dear, I'll do everything I can to help you."
[GENRE: (SciFi) 'Monster Week' Tribute]
Meanwhile, in Japan, master brewer Kenshiro Watanabe, of the Wakatake kura, was tasting his latest production run of Onigoroshi daiginjo sake. The slight changes he’d made to the temperature of the koji culture, and to the polishing percentage of their rice, had accomplished the desired result ... the intensification of that sublimely delicate honeydew melon note that was the trademark of their label.
A slight rumble caused the sample beaker on his desk to skitter sideways a few inches. Kenshiro ignored it. Minor earthquake tremors were commonplace in Japan. The rumble repeated several more times over the next few minutes, growing louder with each repetition. Kenshiro idly turned on the radio, and proceeded with his paperwork while waiting for a news report on the latest series of earthquakes.
It was at that moment, as he was savoring yet another glass of his beloved daiginjo, that a 31 foot long claw crashed through the roof, and deep-hammered him 9 feet through the reinforced concrete floor. The foot lifted, leaving behind an avalanche of debris and a large crater, and then crashed down yet again ... this time 180 feet further west, deep-hammering a 5-ton rice truck right through the pavement, and crushing it to a mere 6 inches high. The foot lifted again ... and descended again, still further away.
Godzilla was on the move.
Elsewhere, on Skull Island, King Kong lay sprawled on the jungle floor with a massive hangover, and a nasty case of the DTs. Forty two years of non-stop binge drinking had taken it's toll. It was that dreadful (and highly narcotic) jungle juice that his human worshippers brewed for him that had slowly destroyed both his liver and his sense of direction in life. His once mighty muscles had long since run to fat, and his once dark fur was now shot with silver and large patches of mange. He felt very old, very ill, and very depressed.
In a brief moment of lucidity, Kong rummaged back through his increasingly dim memories, trying to figure out where it had all gone wrong.
It wasn’t that nasty spill he’d taken off the Empire state building back in 1933 - they’d eventually shipped his body back home to Skull island, and the natives had nursed him out of his 3 month coma. His cracked pelvis and 4 busted ribs had healed up fine (he was a God, after all). They still ached whenever a typhoon rolled over his island, but he’d gotten used to that.
It wasn’t that titanic battle he’d had with Godzilla back in 1962 either. Despite having given up almost 100 feet in height, and several hundred tons in weight, he’d more than held his own. Although it technically ended in a draw, most critics agreed he’d given better than he’d gotten, and his Hollywood Q-rating had soared afterwards ... especially in Japan. The cracked left orbital socket, the 3rd degree radiation burns on his chest and back, and some permanent hearing loss had all been worth it. It had been the greatest heavyweight bout in all of recorded history - nothing could top it. The native were still buzzing about it, 40+ years later, and their prayer dances were more wild and frenzied than ever. Nope, that wasn’t it.
It had to be that hollywood trollop, Jessica Lange, he concluded at last, while shaking his head in eternal disbelief. After she’d spurned him in order to shack up with that tiny human male, he’d resumed his drinking in earnest. Yeah, that was it.
Wimmen ... he just couldn’t understand them. I mean come on ... what did that pathetic human male have that he didn’t ? Kong was infinitely taller and infinitely more beautiful than he was. Kong was a God ! He had no wants or needs that couldn’t be fulfilled instantly by his human worshippers. He owned his own tropical island ... even the most disgustingly rich Wall Street executives could only dream of such wealth. He also had a 37 foot long schwantz - an endowment FAR beyond the wildest carnal dreams of even the most crazed sex-addict. She wasn’t impressed. He’d even stared into her eyes, and she’d SEEN the look of total love he’d given her ... she’d looked directly into his soul. How could she fail to have been moved by such divine grandeur ? How could she have left him, for a mere human no less ?!
“Typical flightly mortal biatchâ€
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Genre: Deus ex Machina (and a bit of Morality Play)
Meanwhile, high, high above the mortal plain, a pair of naked adolescents perched on the edge of a shimmering nimbus, their bare feet dangling into the ether, eddies of scud swirling around and between their toes. Each of the boys wore a dreamy, vacuous expression. Occasionally, one of them would giggle inanely as a feathery cirrus brushed against a "tickle spot" on his sole.
A sudden gust stirred their hair, bringing with it a very faint sound. The taller boy cocked his head. "Do you hear that?" he asked.
"Hear what?" the other replied, turning vacant eyes upon his companion.
"Listen." Again, the breeze brought a barely discernable bit of babble.
"I hear it. It sounds like....like...swear words. In Spanish."
"Yeah." The older boy allowed himself to fall backward and sink into the cushy comfort of the cloud. "Where are we?"
The younger boy sank down beside him. "I dunno," he said. He looked quizzically at his companion. "Who are you, anyway?"
The older one thought this over. "Hmmm....I'm not sure. Who are you?"
"Dunno." The younger boy scratched his head, then yelped. "Hey! There's a big hole in the back of my head!"
"No way! Lemme see!"
Obligingly, the younger turned his head.
"Holy crap! I can stick three fingers in there!"
"Don't, you nimrod! That feels weird."
The older one removed his digits and began caressing the back of his own skull. "Sh*t! I got one too!"
The younger investigated. "Whoa, I can see your brain. Yuck."
The older one sat up. "This is a mystery. Somehow, I feel compelled to solve it." He pawed at his hip then said, "Hey! My notebook is gone--and so are my pants!"
The younger's face turned red. "I didn't realize it before. We're--*gulp* --naked! That's really perverse, Frank."
Turning a stricken face to the boy he suddenly realized was his younger brother, Frank said, "Joe, I think we're dead."
Joe swallowed hard. "Dead? Like in corpse-on-a-slab dead?"
His face going a little green, Frank nodded. "Think so." His brows furrowed as he saw his brother's lip quiver. "Don't you dare start to snivel. I'll smack you one."
Joe's lip quivered more pronouncedly. "I AM NOT SNIVELING."
Innumerable tiny silver bells sounded in the air above them. A gentle voice wafted down. "Now, now boys. We mustn't squabble."
A dainty male figure dressed in a gauzy white robe drifted down to perch beside them on the cloud. "I am Brotherly Love," the being said.
"Are you an angel?" Joe asked hopefully.
The being smiled beneficently. "I am a Virtue," it replied. "I have come to smooth your path."
Another figure, a buxom female being in voluminous white garb resembling a nightgown drifted down to the left of Brotherly Love. "And I am Motherly Love," she said. "Sit up straight, Joe. Don't hunch your shoulders like that, Frank."
Soon a host of "Virtues" were falling like snowflakes from the upper atmosphere, introducing themselves as "Kindness," "Compassion," "Hope," "Veracity," "Tenacity," and "Cleanliness." There were many more, but the boys were too overwhelmed to keep track. All of the Virtues spoke at once, their gentle voices like bells chiming.
It was impossible to understand any of them, since all of them were yapping. Joe and Frank looked confused and miserable.
"What the hell is that?" Frank yelled, pointing upwards. Something large and dark was plummeting toward them with the velocity of an incoming missile. It trailed a stream of black smoke like the tail of a comet. With the noise of a sonic boom, it hit the cloud, pierced it, and shot back up through the hole it had made. The impact bounced all the other Virtues into the ether where they swirled and eddied like twigs in a maelstrom.
The new being, a dumpy looking male dressed in a rumpled plaid sports jacket and striped trousers (with red--yes, red--suspenders), puffed on an enormous cigar. It belched loudly and scratched itself in places not usually considered acceptable in polite society.
Joe and Frank stared, open mouthed, at this person. "Who or what are you?" Frank asked.
"I," the guy said, picking strands of cirrus cloud from his lapel, "am Dumb Luck." He belched again, pulled a flask from his pocket, and took a swig of something that smelled vile. He offered the flask to Joe, who accepted it, sniffed at the opening, gagged, and handed it back.
"No, thanks," he said. "I'm not legal."
"Piffle," said Dumb Luck. "Suck it up. It'll put hair on your chest. Or maybe on your earlobes. You never can tell with this stuff."
"No, thanks," Joe repeated, backing away, sidling behind his brother and peering at Dumb Luck over his shoulder.
"Uh," Frank said, "what do you..."
"Jus' a sec," Dumb Luck interrupted, pulling an aerosol can from another pocket. The label, red on black, read "Virtue B-Gone." He aimed the can at the Virtues who were attempting to swarm back around the cloud upon which Joe and Frank rested. He doused them liberally with the unguent. "Damn interfering ninnies," Dumb Luck grunted, hosing Motherly Love with an extra dose. "She'd be feeding you a quart of Castor Oil in a minute."
"Mr. Luck," Frank began, watching the other virtues dissipate in the sudden blast of vapor.
"Shuddup and listen, Pup," Dumb Luck said. "I got a lot to tell you, and not much time to tell it in." Dumb Luck took another swig from his flask, offering it again to the boys, who again declined.
"Your ol' lady is a pistol," he said. "They jus' don't make women like that any more."
"Our mom?" Joe asked incredulously. "She spends all her time at the PTA and Bible study."
"Carlotta?" Dumb Luck hooted. "No way."
"Our mom's name is Laura," Frank said.
"Horse crap," Dumb Luck snorted. "Your mom is Carlotta. Whadda woman. I can't wait until she finally has one too many shots of Mother's Rootbeer Flavored Rum with a Tequila chaser." He winked lasciviously. "I gotta lotta plans for that hot mama when she gets to the great Beyond."
"But," began Frank.
"Shuddup," Dumb Luck said. "Just listen. The fact is, your ol' lady--CARLOTTA--is tearin' up the planet to find the guy who did you boyos in. She won't quit until she's busted him up so bad that his own Mama (or whatever they have on his planet) won't recognize him. There won't even be enough DNA left unsquashed for them to identify him with."
Dumb Luck paused for another swig and a couple of puffs on the stogie. "So, the boss and I had a little chat. We're sending you two back downstairs. Too many innocent by-standers are likely to get smeared in the melee. Can't have that!"
A strange noise, like squeaky pulleys, sounded above them. A rusty metal platform lowered slowly from the sky, held on each end by thick chains. Standing on the platform was an odd creature no more than two feet high. It was fuzzy, like a rabbit, with huge orange eyes and small cat-like ears.
"What the heck is that thing?" Joe asked.
"That, my lad, is Deus X. Machina," Dumb Luck replied. "He's our go-to guy in times of desperate need."
"Jist shut up and git on the friggin' machine," the critter squalled. "My mate and cubs are waitin' supper fer me."
"This doesn't exactly make me feel confident about the Divine Plotting skills of the Creator," Frank complained, looking nervously at the platform.
"Jes git yer arse on the plank," the critter grumbled. "Quit cher bichin'."
Hesitantly the boys stepped onto the plank. As soon as both were aboard, it plummeted downward at an incredible, stomach flipping speed. The boys clung to each other, screaming all the way to the ground, which they hit hard enough to make a sizeable crater in the pavement of the street.
Sprawled like roadkill, the boys saw only a flash as the plank rose into the sky again.
"Where are we?" Joe asked.
"Dunno," Frank replied. "That looks like Mount Fuji, though."
"Bloody hell!" Joe yelled, "We're still NAKED!"
Frank pointed toward the horizon, where a giant reptilian creature appeared to be tearing up trees and buildings and flinging them into the air like beads at the Mardis Gras. "That's the least of our worries, bro."
Just at that moment....
I am a poor, wayfaring stranger
Wandering through this world of woe
But there's no sickness, no fear or danger
In that bright land
To which I go
. . . an off-white cable news van, topped with satellite antennas and with a bright red number three painted on the side, pulls up next to the boys and out jumps a Japanese TV reporterette wearing a white jumper, also with a red number three stitched on the chest.
[Genre: Tabloid News Magazine]
Couple of days later, Suin Olef is moving through the crowed streets of Metropolis. He knows he is being followed by professionals, he can feel them watching him; he just can’t pick them out of the early morning going-to-work crowd. Pushing his way through the mob to a sidewalk news stand for another opportunity to scan some of the faces, Suin grabs up a daily tabloid magazine at random.
During his latest tour of destruction, Godzilla stopped and watch an inning and a half of the game between Yokohama Bay Stars and the Yakult Swallows at the Gingu Stadium. Continue on Page 2.
Godzilla had no comment about the proposed merging of the Pacific and Central leagues. Continued on Page 9.
Two American youths were found south of Mt. Fuji, naked and claiming to have died, recently resurrected and return to the land of the living via a window-washer platform. The older youth stated that “he wasn’t sure if it is one of the primary modes of transportation used in heaven these days.â€
Last edited by Ghost on Tue Oct 12, 2004 4:16 pm, edited 1 time in total.
If ye love wealth better than liberty, the tranquility of servitude than the animating contest of freedom, go from us in peace. We ask not your counsels or arms. Crouch down and lick the hands which feed you. May your chains sit lightly upon you,
S Adams
...spews forth a massive gout of fire which completely envelopes the picture frame - there are muted screams, the sound of crashing machinery, and then a noise which bears chilling resemblance to sizzling strips of bacon. A moment later Matt’s TV screen goes to snow. After a few seconds the dead image is replaced with a cartoon drawing of a slightly overweight but cheerful repairman leaning over a control console with an assortment of tools, accompanied by bubbly elevator music. Sorry! the caption reads, We’re having a few problems!
... that the bigger scheme of things didn’t care in the slighest. That’s the inherent problem with existentialism - the quasi-disinterested disdain was mutual. Hey, write that one down too.
Elsewhere, before a fireplace almost identical to the one near Matt’s desk, an old man sat in his rocker, telling tall tales from his adventurous youth. The weight of his old age, which he viewed with the same disdainful contempt the universe seemed to reserve for all mortals, had momentarily lifted from his shoulders, as his muse embraced him.
[genre: seance/communication with the spirit world/true confessions]
...he had, in fact, died in 1963, in an unfortunate chipper shredder accident on Maple Street while taking down that giant elm that had collapsed after the horrific rains had fallen for three weeks straight.
Yes. That was the very same year that his beloved Mabel had run off with the postman, that cackling git with his ribald off color jokes.
GEE-PA cleared his spectral larynx and moaned, low and throaty. The dumpy medium, whose flabby clevage showed way more than anyone at the table wanted to see, spoke in her phony gypsy accent.
"Your gran'papa, he iz commune wiz me now. I zenze ze prezenze of great zadness."
"Twit," GEE-PA grumbled.
The medium's eyes widened and she said, "Ze gran'papa, he haz ze mezzage for you."
"Gotta message for you, chunky," GEE-PA grunted. "Drop the phony accent or I'll show you some real poltergeist action." He punctuated his comment with a sharp pinch to her ample derriere. "Get it, Tootsie?"
The medium's eyes grew wide. "Eep!" she squeaked.
"Now listen, and listen good," GEE-PA said. "Tell these so-called grandchildren of mine to stop bothering me in the afterlife. They want Ralph Lumbrock, postal clerk. You know, the guy that went psycho in '79 and gave his supervisor the postal meter proctological exam? Yeah. He died in 93 when he grabbed the arse of a Puerto Rican chick named Carlotta down in Florida. The meat wagon had to scoop him up with a sponge and a credit card."
The old specter cackled appreciatively.
"That Carlotta. She's a pistol."
The psychic rubbed her bruised rump as she listened.
"Yeah. Tell 'em to check with Granny if they doubt me. Let her tell 'em all about her little escapade in the Pocanoes with Ralphie. Tell her not to leave out the part about the tattooes. That oughta spice their boring lives up a bit. Heh heh." GEE-PA delivered another sharp pinch. "Nod if you understand me, Toots."
“Y-yes, sir," the medium said, subdued. "Your grandfather says you are a bunch of annoying bastards, and no blood relation to him at all. He says you need to look up a fellow named Ralphie Lumbrock." The medium rose carefully, rubbing her multi-colored rump and continued, "Now if you'll all excuse me, I need to find some advil and an icepack."
The shocked offspring stared at one another, aghast.
Finally, Bubba Ray Joe said, "Who the HELL is Ralphie Lumbrock?"
Billie Jo SueAnne burst into tears. "I knew it! I knew it!" she wept bitterly. "I knew I didn't look a thing like Gee-pa."
Bubba Ray Joe smacked Billie Jo SueAnne across the forehead with his bottle of Fitgers, cheapest beer made, and bellowed, "Shush up, BIllie Jo Sueanne. I'm a-tryin' to think here."
If ye love wealth better than liberty, the tranquility of servitude than the animating contest of freedom, go from us in peace. We ask not your counsels or arms. Crouch down and lick the hands which feed you. May your chains sit lightly upon you,
S Adams
