I am alive, after all. Surprising, right?
I have to say, though, it's not for lack of Taiwan trying to reverse my continuing run of good luck.
I have eaten, and survived, a dish called, literally, "stinky tofu". My English is deteriorating badly, by the way, so be warned. Anyway, as you might guess, this tofu is stinky. Not just a little inoffensive stink, either. It smells like cow shit. Cow shit left to ferment in the sun. Have you ever passed by a dairy farm, where they'll have a lot of the stuff piled up and, for reasons unclear to me, left under plastic tarps? Stinky tofu smells exactly like that. If you can get over the smell, the taste isn't bad - but it's not something I'd recommend you try, unless it was just to say you'd tried it.
But that's pretty tame. Apparently you're not supposed to drink the water here, because it can kill you. At least that's what people say - not even the Taiwanese drink the tap water.
Well, I drink the water anyway. Not all the time mind you, but when it's convenient. People think I'm crazy for it. It hasn't made me sick yet. I think it's probably one of those urban myths; if not, I'm pretty hardy, so I should be all right.
Food is stored by pretty relaxed standards - it's fairly normal to go to a restaurant and see a bowl of...something...sitting out. And let me tell you, it's hot here. So there'll be food just sitting around outside all day, and somehow, it doesn't quite go bad. I haven't gotten sick from that yet, either.
Buildings are constructed - and torn down - very quickly and seemingly without much regard for planning. The walls are thin, the buildings are tall and skinny, and stairways are very steep, with tiny stairs. If there are any decent earthquakes, I expect to see significant portions of the city collapse.
Most interestingly, the traffic here is regulated by a series of suggestions, not laws. Don't feel like waiting through that red light? Just honk your horn and go on through at 40 mph. Everyone else will be more or less understanding. There's no lane to drive in? That's fine. There's plenty of space on the shoulder, and on the moped lane, and in the turning lanes, and in intersections, and especially on the other side of the street. Plenty of unused space there. Don't signal for it, either, since someone else might decide to take it then.
I've only seen a total of 5 cops in my time here - I would call them relaxed fit cops. Heh. It's a pun. (Fit? As in, in shape? Oh yeah, still got those pun muscles to work out.) I think they're pretty happy so long as no one asks them to do anything. They really seem to be pretty cheerful, overall. Traffic is really not their thing.
And then there's the heat. Air conditioning, standard in most of the USA, is something more like a fancy nicety here. Each room will have a separate AC unit, which is terrifically inefficient; yet, electricity is supposedly very expensive here. The school I taught at last week, for example, did not have air conditioning. I don't know exactly how hot it was, but, according to my dad, it was something like 110, by the heat index. Humidity here is so bad you can not just almost see it - oh no, I'd say you could almost sculpt it. So shade is really no relief at all - it's just as hot, but with less brightness. Now imagine standing around in 110 degrees for 12 hours a day, teaching. Teaching a group of kids who are sitting in 110 weather. Now imagine being told that you have to teach them some American sports - and then being told that the gym doesn't have AC either, so you'll have to do it outside. Being forced to play basketball in that sort of heat is no one's idea of fun. I feel bad for those kids.
But, that's not to say that I'm not enjoying my time here. The kids I was teaching were all very good, and I wish I didn't have to move on. I was just getting used to them, and they were fun to be around.
The food here is also very good, plentiful, and cheap. Getting meals requires no planning, because there is always something to eat within 5 minute's walk. And it is almost all good. Now, there are some quirks - things that look familiar usually are not. Milk, for example. I was looking to get some milk the other day, and, since I don't read Chinese very well, I grabbed the most normal-looking container. It was milk, and it wasn't spoiled. However - I think it should have to carry some text saying, "inspired by milk". Think chocolate milk, but without the chocolate. Bread's the same way - it all has sugar added. Or, it's something slightly bizarre, like bacon bread. Or it has corn in it. Or ham and cheese baked into it.
So food's an adventure - I think the basic food groups here in Taiwan are sugar, grease, and vinegar. But it's all so cheap, and some of it is surprisingly good, so it's more fun than not.
That's all I'll write for now.
Saturday, July 08, 2006
Thursday, April 27, 2006
Result 3
Gene contributed the first sentence. Of course, who else would've said it?
"What a funny looking elephant. Normally the hippies can at least draw, but it's obvious this granola-head can't." He gestured to the distant streaks of pinkish tint staining the pine forest below us.
"Is that what this is all about? You wanted a picture of an elephant?" I watched the plane banking. Looked like it was going to fly off, now that it was out of slurry. I wished it could come pick us off this mountain - it was a long hike up here.
"Well, yeah. It's your birthday! Surprise!" His stupid grin was almost as wide as his helmet. I wanted to smack him, but he was too far away. How would we explain this?
"You know he's not coming back with our plane, don't you?" My companion's brow furled, like a dirty flag sagging its way up at dawn. He looked at me like I was speaking some sort of Moon-language.
"I know. I sold him the plane. How else was I going to pay for that sort of artwork?" He waved his hands dismissively, then gestured at the pink mess. "But have you ever seen a bigger elephant?!"
"You..." I lost my words for a moment, and stared at him. Then I stared at the 'elephant' that was going to cost me my job. Neither made any damn sense at all. We were firefighters! Park Rangers! What business did we have selling a government plane? Or wasting firefighting supplies like that? And funny-looking was a terrible way to describe that post-modern mess of pink streaks. It looked as much like Chinese or Arabic as it did an elephant. At least, I couldn't have told the difference between the three. What the hell did we need an elephant picture for, anyway?
I turned back to my idiot friend. "This is not just the worst elephant I have ever seen. That damn hippy was probably high as a kite, and it's hard to draw with slurry anyway, but this is far worse. Do you know why?" I considered letting him answer, but decided I didn't want to waste my time. "Because this is my birthday, damnit. You can't sell a plane, just like that. And you had me hike all day to get here! Just to see this fricking streak of pepto-bismo diarrhea across our damn forest! The forest we're supposed to keep from burning! How the hell are we going to do our job without a plane?" I noticed my fists were clenched tight. I was shaking, too. And my ears were ringing - I guess I was yelling.
He just looked at me. Then he started laughing.
Next thing I knew, we were on the ground, and I was trying to force my fist through the side of his head. Fortunately for him, his head was winning. He somehow rolled out from under me, stumbled around for a second - and without warning, lunged straight at me. He managed to slam my back into an uncomfortable pile of rocks. While I was dazed, he pinned me down, and then, to my surprise, he resumed smiling.
"Man, that fuckin' hurt! You punch hard! But there ain't nothing to worry about. See, I worked it out." I tried speaking, but all that came out was a wheeze. The side of his face was an angry, swollen red, and I thought I could see it throbbing a little. That had to be painful.
"It's like this: we don't like hippies, right?" My lungs allowed me to mumble something close to a yes. Dumb bastards thought they could commune with nature, and as a result we usually had to rescue them from something or other.
His face lit up...at least, the part that wasn't already red. "Well, that hippy just stole our plane. A slurry bomber could be used for terrorist stuff. You know, spreading chemicals. He's got one. We just saw him flying over the forest, doing a practice run with some slurry. He's not supposed to be in that plane. So we call the police, or someone, and tell them a terrorist hijacked our plane. They'll arrest him, we'll get the plane back, and everything's good." He smiled even wider. I guess he was done.
"That's...the whole plan?" He let go of my arms, and stood up a little shakily.
"Yup."
I brushed myself off, then slowly, painfully rose to my own feet. "Do you really think anyone's going to believe that?"
"Oh, maybe. It helps, too, that I found him some very interesting mushrooms. He ain't gonna remember shit about today, and the cops'll be willing to believe a drugged-up hippy would try something like this." He shrugged and smiled.
"Well...." I had to admit, this might work. I still wanted to re-arrange his teeth. Just not as much. "Alright. I guess I'm sold. Not much choice now, right?"
"Yeah, there you go! Man, let's radio the cops, then head on back. I wanna catch this on the news." He started fiddling with the radio.
"Gonna be a long hike. Can you walk okay?" He still looked a little wobbly.
"Oh, mostly. Gotta say, you really hit hard. You alright?"
"I've had better birthdays."
He chuckled.
"Oh, by the way - why an elephant? Did you think I liked them?" He held the radio, ready to transmit our message.
"Nah." He shook his head, slowly. His smile seemed to stop at the boundary of his welt.
"Well, what the hell kind of birthday present is that?"
"Oh, I was watching Dumbo, and they were talking about pink elephants or some shit, and how they never forget - I don't remember exactly, I guess I was a little drunk - but I decided - this will be a birthday you'll never forget. Why not have a pink elephant?"
"What a funny looking elephant. Normally the hippies can at least draw, but it's obvious this granola-head can't." He gestured to the distant streaks of pinkish tint staining the pine forest below us.
"Is that what this is all about? You wanted a picture of an elephant?" I watched the plane banking. Looked like it was going to fly off, now that it was out of slurry. I wished it could come pick us off this mountain - it was a long hike up here.
"Well, yeah. It's your birthday! Surprise!" His stupid grin was almost as wide as his helmet. I wanted to smack him, but he was too far away. How would we explain this?
"You know he's not coming back with our plane, don't you?" My companion's brow furled, like a dirty flag sagging its way up at dawn. He looked at me like I was speaking some sort of Moon-language.
"I know. I sold him the plane. How else was I going to pay for that sort of artwork?" He waved his hands dismissively, then gestured at the pink mess. "But have you ever seen a bigger elephant?!"
"You..." I lost my words for a moment, and stared at him. Then I stared at the 'elephant' that was going to cost me my job. Neither made any damn sense at all. We were firefighters! Park Rangers! What business did we have selling a government plane? Or wasting firefighting supplies like that? And funny-looking was a terrible way to describe that post-modern mess of pink streaks. It looked as much like Chinese or Arabic as it did an elephant. At least, I couldn't have told the difference between the three. What the hell did we need an elephant picture for, anyway?
I turned back to my idiot friend. "This is not just the worst elephant I have ever seen. That damn hippy was probably high as a kite, and it's hard to draw with slurry anyway, but this is far worse. Do you know why?" I considered letting him answer, but decided I didn't want to waste my time. "Because this is my birthday, damnit. You can't sell a plane, just like that. And you had me hike all day to get here! Just to see this fricking streak of pepto-bismo diarrhea across our damn forest! The forest we're supposed to keep from burning! How the hell are we going to do our job without a plane?" I noticed my fists were clenched tight. I was shaking, too. And my ears were ringing - I guess I was yelling.
He just looked at me. Then he started laughing.
Next thing I knew, we were on the ground, and I was trying to force my fist through the side of his head. Fortunately for him, his head was winning. He somehow rolled out from under me, stumbled around for a second - and without warning, lunged straight at me. He managed to slam my back into an uncomfortable pile of rocks. While I was dazed, he pinned me down, and then, to my surprise, he resumed smiling.
"Man, that fuckin' hurt! You punch hard! But there ain't nothing to worry about. See, I worked it out." I tried speaking, but all that came out was a wheeze. The side of his face was an angry, swollen red, and I thought I could see it throbbing a little. That had to be painful.
"It's like this: we don't like hippies, right?" My lungs allowed me to mumble something close to a yes. Dumb bastards thought they could commune with nature, and as a result we usually had to rescue them from something or other.
His face lit up...at least, the part that wasn't already red. "Well, that hippy just stole our plane. A slurry bomber could be used for terrorist stuff. You know, spreading chemicals. He's got one. We just saw him flying over the forest, doing a practice run with some slurry. He's not supposed to be in that plane. So we call the police, or someone, and tell them a terrorist hijacked our plane. They'll arrest him, we'll get the plane back, and everything's good." He smiled even wider. I guess he was done.
"That's...the whole plan?" He let go of my arms, and stood up a little shakily.
"Yup."
I brushed myself off, then slowly, painfully rose to my own feet. "Do you really think anyone's going to believe that?"
"Oh, maybe. It helps, too, that I found him some very interesting mushrooms. He ain't gonna remember shit about today, and the cops'll be willing to believe a drugged-up hippy would try something like this." He shrugged and smiled.
"Well...." I had to admit, this might work. I still wanted to re-arrange his teeth. Just not as much. "Alright. I guess I'm sold. Not much choice now, right?"
"Yeah, there you go! Man, let's radio the cops, then head on back. I wanna catch this on the news." He started fiddling with the radio.
"Gonna be a long hike. Can you walk okay?" He still looked a little wobbly.
"Oh, mostly. Gotta say, you really hit hard. You alright?"
"I've had better birthdays."
He chuckled.
"Oh, by the way - why an elephant? Did you think I liked them?" He held the radio, ready to transmit our message.
"Nah." He shook his head, slowly. His smile seemed to stop at the boundary of his welt.
"Well, what the hell kind of birthday present is that?"
"Oh, I was watching Dumbo, and they were talking about pink elephants or some shit, and how they never forget - I don't remember exactly, I guess I was a little drunk - but I decided - this will be a birthday you'll never forget. Why not have a pink elephant?"
Result number Two!
This one is thanks to something Kirin wrote - she inexplicably sent me this first paragraph (which I did some minor editing on), so I just as inexplicably wrote a story!
"I like ducks," he said with great earnestness. "But did you know ducks belong to the sub family Anatinae? Not only is this grouping the largest group of waterfowl, it is also the most diverse." His beady eyes shone brightly in the harsh light. "The characteristics generally held in common by ducks when compared to geese and swans are the small body size, shorter necks, narrower wings which are more pointed, and wing beats which are more rapid." He seemed to have reached some conclusion, but I couldn't figure out what.
I blinked. This was not what I had expected. I blinked a few more times so I'd remember what it was like. 'Sharky' was supposed to be a brutal killer, not - well, not this. Not some sort of nature freak. I looked at my watch. Bedtime was long gone. Hell, I don't even go home anymore, so there's not much point talking about it. I sleep at my desk, when I can, and make up for the rest with coffee. Well, and other things. Our evidence room fills up quickly, so I help clean it out once in a while.
I turned back to Sharky, who was eagerly smiling at me. That was a little strange, sure - most fellas don't smile when they're under police interrogation. And most don't file their teeth into sharp points, either. But I honestly couldn't find anything criminally wrong with him - he was odd, sure, but then, so are most folks.
"So, let's go over this again - you have no idea why another squirrel's paw was found in your car?"
His bushy tail twitched a little. That made me nervous - I thought he might be ready to jump at me. I was glad I'd tied him down. Sure, that was illegal, but he was crazy. I doubt he'd even noticed.
"Well, sir, did you know that ducks are also warm-blooded? It's true! Modern scientists agree that class Aves, of which all Anatidae are members, is most likely descended from dinosaurs! And ducks have gizzards! Truly incredible!"
There were better ways to spend my time. I imagined a lengthy examination of my eyelids, from the backside. Yeah. That sounded nice. I put a paw to my forehead. My hat felt a little crooked, so I pushed it into place. It never sat quite right over my ears.
"Alright," I started, "I like ducks as much as the next guy -"
"And what's even more incredible," he continued, "is the taste."
"Wait - what did you just say?" I wasn't sure I'd heard him right.
He actually looked at me - like he noticed I'd spoken. That was new. "Oh, yes! Their skin is so crispy and fatty and greasy and hot and drippy and...", he was starting to pant, "oh, it's so good."
My stomach started up, trying to squeeze itself dry. I held myself together. I'd seen worse. "You eat ducks? After all they've done for us?"
He seemed not to notice. "Oh, they have a special term just for roast duck in China. They aren't shy. They know just what they want. They call it kaoya - literally, flamed duck. I highly recommend it."
I decided not to bring my associates in just yet - they were dependable mallards, but there was only one of me, and they'd probably try to kill this guy. I might not be the best cop, but I don't kill anyone I don't have to. Or let it happen. Well, not yet.
"So," I started, cautiously, "why do you eat ducks? Is it just the flavor?"
"Oh, I suppose." He looked around like he was stumped. "That's really all there is to it." He licked his lips.
"Don't you - ." I wasn't sure how to say this. "Aren't they a lot like you and me? They fought on our side in the war, remember?" We wouldn't have won without them - together, we'd been able to banish the dogs to the coldest, most hellish parts of the world.
"How silly. Of course they're like you and me."
"Well, then...then, why are you eating them?" I realized I was almost happy about all this - I could bust this freak for something! I wondered if I should feel ashamed.
"I just said. They're a lot like you and me. Do they not have the same blood pumping through their veins? Are they not made of flesh, just as we are? Are they not delicious?"
That hand in his car took on a new meaning. "Are you saying," I grimaced, "that you eat squirrels, too?"
"Hey, winters get long, man. You don't know what it's like out there. Squirrel's got to look out for himself. You know that. you were in the war, just like me, right?"
"Damnit! I don't know about you, but me and my guys, we took care of each other. Like brothers! We weren't fucking cannibals!" He'd gotten to me. That bastard was really smiling now - those knife-edged teeth of his gleamed in the harsh light, and I wondered if that's what he used - it probably was. I guess he wasn't called 'Sharky' for nothing.
"Oh. Well, enough about you. Did you also - "
I cracked my fist into the side of his head. Little needles shot up my arm, and he reeled back like a punching bag. He careened right back to me like one, too, due to my fine ropework.
He started drooling, and his eyes got distant. "I saw God once, you know." He looked ecstatic, even though he was drooling a little blood. I just clobbered this guy - what the hell was wrong with him?
"He understands me. He said I was special. He showed me the way."
I was more bewildered now than angry. What was he getting at? Was he really going to tell me something useful, or was this just more babble? I had enough to charge him with something already.
"He told me something else special, too." He looked at me, like a child would look at its father - seeking approval, admiration in his bright eyes. "If you force them to eat, and eat, and eat - a miracle happens."
He was rubbing his paws together through the ropes, and his eyes wandered like lazy summer bees. I let him continue.
"After a while, they get sick. And then, you take out their liver, and - " my eyes must've widened, because his suddenly darted to me, "and it is so, so good."
I couldn't keep quiet. I had to know. "...What you're saying...let me get this straight. You force-feed ducks, and, when it starts to kill them, you pull out their liver? Just like that? How many times -"
"Oh, it's nothing. There's a special term for this, too - it's called pate. It's really easy!"
I kicked his chair over. He crashed to the floor, and I smiled, knowing I would crush his worthless skull. I had a sudden vision, of cleaning his evil, splattered brains - his evil thoughts - off my boots with a hose. Then the door burst open.
"Sir! Are -" They started, but then stopped when they saw me. Damnit. It was the mallards, too. They froze.
"Boys. This -" I pointed at the floor. I couldn't call that thing a squirrel. "This thing, here, has...shit, he's evil."
He seemed to have recovered himself - or at least, to have returned to whatever was normal for him - and he looked right at the ducks. His eyes lit up, he smiled, and even though he was on his side, strapped to a chair, he started chanting, "pate. pate. pate. pate. pate..."
The mallards looked at me nervously. "Sir? What is he -"
I hung my head. "Boys, you're not gonna like this. There's a reason you never hear that term. It's a special term for...well, for your liver. After it's diseased and fatty."
"But why -"
He kept chanting, quietly but insistently, filling the short moments of silence. "Some sick bastard must've decided to eat it a long time ago. I've heard about it. He must've liked it, too, because it was considered a delicacy."
Sgt. Plume, the older one, cocked his long neck back. Officer Scutt just looked dazed.
"Look, I'm done here. We need to lock this guy up, have a look around his place. I get the feeling he's done a few things we'd like to know about."
Smiling a little, Sgt. Plume said, "like, or need to know?"
"Yeah, you're right." I nodded. "Who wants to know this stuff?"
They moved in, and I walked out. My tail was spasming a little - time to go find a fix.
I had to wonder, and not for the first time, why I get so many of these nutcases. Yeah, those ducks like to say it's because I'm a squirrel, but I'm tired of it anyway. I'm tired of cracking them open. Well, this one isn't going anywhere yet. Maybe, for once, I can get some shut-eye. Yeah. They can handle things for a while. I'll just check up on the old place. Just a little nap. Not too long....
"I like ducks," he said with great earnestness. "But did you know ducks belong to the sub family Anatinae? Not only is this grouping the largest group of waterfowl, it is also the most diverse." His beady eyes shone brightly in the harsh light. "The characteristics generally held in common by ducks when compared to geese and swans are the small body size, shorter necks, narrower wings which are more pointed, and wing beats which are more rapid." He seemed to have reached some conclusion, but I couldn't figure out what.
I blinked. This was not what I had expected. I blinked a few more times so I'd remember what it was like. 'Sharky' was supposed to be a brutal killer, not - well, not this. Not some sort of nature freak. I looked at my watch. Bedtime was long gone. Hell, I don't even go home anymore, so there's not much point talking about it. I sleep at my desk, when I can, and make up for the rest with coffee. Well, and other things. Our evidence room fills up quickly, so I help clean it out once in a while.
I turned back to Sharky, who was eagerly smiling at me. That was a little strange, sure - most fellas don't smile when they're under police interrogation. And most don't file their teeth into sharp points, either. But I honestly couldn't find anything criminally wrong with him - he was odd, sure, but then, so are most folks.
"So, let's go over this again - you have no idea why another squirrel's paw was found in your car?"
His bushy tail twitched a little. That made me nervous - I thought he might be ready to jump at me. I was glad I'd tied him down. Sure, that was illegal, but he was crazy. I doubt he'd even noticed.
"Well, sir, did you know that ducks are also warm-blooded? It's true! Modern scientists agree that class Aves, of which all Anatidae are members, is most likely descended from dinosaurs! And ducks have gizzards! Truly incredible!"
There were better ways to spend my time. I imagined a lengthy examination of my eyelids, from the backside. Yeah. That sounded nice. I put a paw to my forehead. My hat felt a little crooked, so I pushed it into place. It never sat quite right over my ears.
"Alright," I started, "I like ducks as much as the next guy -"
"And what's even more incredible," he continued, "is the taste."
"Wait - what did you just say?" I wasn't sure I'd heard him right.
He actually looked at me - like he noticed I'd spoken. That was new. "Oh, yes! Their skin is so crispy and fatty and greasy and hot and drippy and...", he was starting to pant, "oh, it's so good."
My stomach started up, trying to squeeze itself dry. I held myself together. I'd seen worse. "You eat ducks? After all they've done for us?"
He seemed not to notice. "Oh, they have a special term just for roast duck in China. They aren't shy. They know just what they want. They call it kaoya - literally, flamed duck. I highly recommend it."
I decided not to bring my associates in just yet - they were dependable mallards, but there was only one of me, and they'd probably try to kill this guy. I might not be the best cop, but I don't kill anyone I don't have to. Or let it happen. Well, not yet.
"So," I started, cautiously, "why do you eat ducks? Is it just the flavor?"
"Oh, I suppose." He looked around like he was stumped. "That's really all there is to it." He licked his lips.
"Don't you - ." I wasn't sure how to say this. "Aren't they a lot like you and me? They fought on our side in the war, remember?" We wouldn't have won without them - together, we'd been able to banish the dogs to the coldest, most hellish parts of the world.
"How silly. Of course they're like you and me."
"Well, then...then, why are you eating them?" I realized I was almost happy about all this - I could bust this freak for something! I wondered if I should feel ashamed.
"I just said. They're a lot like you and me. Do they not have the same blood pumping through their veins? Are they not made of flesh, just as we are? Are they not delicious?"
That hand in his car took on a new meaning. "Are you saying," I grimaced, "that you eat squirrels, too?"
"Hey, winters get long, man. You don't know what it's like out there. Squirrel's got to look out for himself. You know that. you were in the war, just like me, right?"
"Damnit! I don't know about you, but me and my guys, we took care of each other. Like brothers! We weren't fucking cannibals!" He'd gotten to me. That bastard was really smiling now - those knife-edged teeth of his gleamed in the harsh light, and I wondered if that's what he used - it probably was. I guess he wasn't called 'Sharky' for nothing.
"Oh. Well, enough about you. Did you also - "
I cracked my fist into the side of his head. Little needles shot up my arm, and he reeled back like a punching bag. He careened right back to me like one, too, due to my fine ropework.
He started drooling, and his eyes got distant. "I saw God once, you know." He looked ecstatic, even though he was drooling a little blood. I just clobbered this guy - what the hell was wrong with him?
"He understands me. He said I was special. He showed me the way."
I was more bewildered now than angry. What was he getting at? Was he really going to tell me something useful, or was this just more babble? I had enough to charge him with something already.
"He told me something else special, too." He looked at me, like a child would look at its father - seeking approval, admiration in his bright eyes. "If you force them to eat, and eat, and eat - a miracle happens."
He was rubbing his paws together through the ropes, and his eyes wandered like lazy summer bees. I let him continue.
"After a while, they get sick. And then, you take out their liver, and - " my eyes must've widened, because his suddenly darted to me, "and it is so, so good."
I couldn't keep quiet. I had to know. "...What you're saying...let me get this straight. You force-feed ducks, and, when it starts to kill them, you pull out their liver? Just like that? How many times -"
"Oh, it's nothing. There's a special term for this, too - it's called pate. It's really easy!"
I kicked his chair over. He crashed to the floor, and I smiled, knowing I would crush his worthless skull. I had a sudden vision, of cleaning his evil, splattered brains - his evil thoughts - off my boots with a hose. Then the door burst open.
"Sir! Are -" They started, but then stopped when they saw me. Damnit. It was the mallards, too. They froze.
"Boys. This -" I pointed at the floor. I couldn't call that thing a squirrel. "This thing, here, has...shit, he's evil."
He seemed to have recovered himself - or at least, to have returned to whatever was normal for him - and he looked right at the ducks. His eyes lit up, he smiled, and even though he was on his side, strapped to a chair, he started chanting, "pate. pate. pate. pate. pate..."
The mallards looked at me nervously. "Sir? What is he -"
I hung my head. "Boys, you're not gonna like this. There's a reason you never hear that term. It's a special term for...well, for your liver. After it's diseased and fatty."
"But why -"
He kept chanting, quietly but insistently, filling the short moments of silence. "Some sick bastard must've decided to eat it a long time ago. I've heard about it. He must've liked it, too, because it was considered a delicacy."
Sgt. Plume, the older one, cocked his long neck back. Officer Scutt just looked dazed.
"Look, I'm done here. We need to lock this guy up, have a look around his place. I get the feeling he's done a few things we'd like to know about."
Smiling a little, Sgt. Plume said, "like, or need to know?"
"Yeah, you're right." I nodded. "Who wants to know this stuff?"
They moved in, and I walked out. My tail was spasming a little - time to go find a fix.
I had to wonder, and not for the first time, why I get so many of these nutcases. Yeah, those ducks like to say it's because I'm a squirrel, but I'm tired of it anyway. I'm tired of cracking them open. Well, this one isn't going anywhere yet. Maybe, for once, I can get some shut-eye. Yeah. They can handle things for a while. I'll just check up on the old place. Just a little nap. Not too long....
First result
So you know what's going on, I posted a bulletin a few weeks ago, asking people to send me a sentence or two so that I could write something from it. My cousin Alex sent me the first line. Here is the resulting story.
"This is fantastic! ... but why is it shaped like Sonic?"
Zhang Li was excited, but stumped. That couldn't be what it was. It was far too large - at least the size of a small hill. The colors were right, though. He turned his head to look at his comrades - they were all looking back at him, with the exception of the cultural officer, who was busily but quietly speaking into a transmitter.
The captain, his face creased into his best likeness of unconcern, asked, "What is a Sonic?" Li almost shook his head with pity - he couldn't believe he was working with such country bumpkins. How did they ever make it out here? Country bumpkins belonged on the earth, with their farms, not up here among the stars.
"Sir, it is an American restaurant chain. You drive into the parking lot, and then they bring you food. The service is fast, and often they have serving girls wearing roller-skates. We have many in the cities."
Nodding sagely, the captain said, "Oh. I see." Li knew he didn't. He was a bumbling fool.
Turning to view the..well, the object, he would have to call it; he said, "So, Sir, why would this be here?" He waited for the foolish response his captain would surely make. Privately, he was burning with curiosity - the astrogeologist in him badly wanted to see what was in this...thing. Could it really be a Sonic? What was it made of? As large as it was, it could probably be mined, and it was surely full of valuable metals. He might be promoted for this discovery! He might even get the attention of senior Party leaders! But he had been on this ship for months now, forced to tolerate this man whom his comrades all looked up to. They were all so backwards. This man had grown up on a pig farm. He was not a stoic leader! He was nothing!
The deck was quiet. Zhang felt his skin crawl a little, and then little beads of sweat crept out under his arms. He wondered if he'd gone too far - the captain might have taken offense, and so it was with some hesitation and caution that he turned his head.
The captain smiled down beautifically from his chair. His fingers splayed out and came together, looking like the fangs of a particularly nasty predator. There they rested, on his desk, and Zhang noticed that they were in fact very muscular. The rumors he'd heard crept into his mind, like spiders from a black pit. Whispers filled his mind - of the captain killing a man bare-handed - that he had once shoved his fingers into a man's eyes, and then held the blinded fellow until his shrieking stopped. After that no one agreed what happened, except that the man had died. Zhang shuddered a little, and hoped it went unnoticed.
The captain finally spoke: "You are the the science officer. You tell me." His smile had gone unbroken. Zhang's heart jumped at each word, anticipating some sort of horror: he was relieved that it had not turned out badly, yet.
"Sir, I," he started, his voice shaking, "...that's not my specialty Sir!"
"Well," the captain said, "it isn't mine, either. If you can't do what you're here for, I fail to see why I should keep you."
"Sir! I...Sir! I'll look into it. Send me in, Sir!" Blackness was devouring Zhang's mind - things had been so good only seconds ago, and now he was facing possible dismissal, or maybe worse. Zhang decided the captain probably did deserve more respect.
"Very well, Zhang." Being addressed by name was never a good sign. "I want you to investigate this for me." That wasn't so bad; in fact, this was a pretty good turn of events. He could investigate the composition of the object! He could prove his usefulness! Zhang's vision became less black, and he noticed the cultural officer scowling, clenching his communicator. That bastard! Zhang hated those Party tools. They were always looking for people to rat out. Well, his luck hadn't run out, yet. He was born lucky. That little rat of a man would have to find someone else to report on for today.
"Even before you said it was an American restaurant, Zhang, I suspected this might have something to do with their accident. For that reason alone it is worthy of investigation." The captain's gaze was faraway, and Zhang wondered if he was remembering the exploratory mission in America. The captain had first gained fame there, after all.
"Sir, are you saying -"
"I've heard enough from you, Zhang. Gather your team and go." And though he hated being dressed down, hated being addressed by his family name, he decided this was best. He had other things to think about, now - like the idea of solving the American mystery. That was exciting. He would surely win fame today.
And then it occurred to him - his captain had ordered him into a Sonic. "What a ridiculous universe," Zhang thought, as he made his way to his quarters.
"This is fantastic! ... but why is it shaped like Sonic?"
Zhang Li was excited, but stumped. That couldn't be what it was. It was far too large - at least the size of a small hill. The colors were right, though. He turned his head to look at his comrades - they were all looking back at him, with the exception of the cultural officer, who was busily but quietly speaking into a transmitter.
The captain, his face creased into his best likeness of unconcern, asked, "What is a Sonic?" Li almost shook his head with pity - he couldn't believe he was working with such country bumpkins. How did they ever make it out here? Country bumpkins belonged on the earth, with their farms, not up here among the stars.
"Sir, it is an American restaurant chain. You drive into the parking lot, and then they bring you food. The service is fast, and often they have serving girls wearing roller-skates. We have many in the cities."
Nodding sagely, the captain said, "Oh. I see." Li knew he didn't. He was a bumbling fool.
Turning to view the..well, the object, he would have to call it; he said, "So, Sir, why would this be here?" He waited for the foolish response his captain would surely make. Privately, he was burning with curiosity - the astrogeologist in him badly wanted to see what was in this...thing. Could it really be a Sonic? What was it made of? As large as it was, it could probably be mined, and it was surely full of valuable metals. He might be promoted for this discovery! He might even get the attention of senior Party leaders! But he had been on this ship for months now, forced to tolerate this man whom his comrades all looked up to. They were all so backwards. This man had grown up on a pig farm. He was not a stoic leader! He was nothing!
The deck was quiet. Zhang felt his skin crawl a little, and then little beads of sweat crept out under his arms. He wondered if he'd gone too far - the captain might have taken offense, and so it was with some hesitation and caution that he turned his head.
The captain smiled down beautifically from his chair. His fingers splayed out and came together, looking like the fangs of a particularly nasty predator. There they rested, on his desk, and Zhang noticed that they were in fact very muscular. The rumors he'd heard crept into his mind, like spiders from a black pit. Whispers filled his mind - of the captain killing a man bare-handed - that he had once shoved his fingers into a man's eyes, and then held the blinded fellow until his shrieking stopped. After that no one agreed what happened, except that the man had died. Zhang shuddered a little, and hoped it went unnoticed.
The captain finally spoke: "You are the the science officer. You tell me." His smile had gone unbroken. Zhang's heart jumped at each word, anticipating some sort of horror: he was relieved that it had not turned out badly, yet.
"Sir, I," he started, his voice shaking, "...that's not my specialty Sir!"
"Well," the captain said, "it isn't mine, either. If you can't do what you're here for, I fail to see why I should keep you."
"Sir! I...Sir! I'll look into it. Send me in, Sir!" Blackness was devouring Zhang's mind - things had been so good only seconds ago, and now he was facing possible dismissal, or maybe worse. Zhang decided the captain probably did deserve more respect.
"Very well, Zhang." Being addressed by name was never a good sign. "I want you to investigate this for me." That wasn't so bad; in fact, this was a pretty good turn of events. He could investigate the composition of the object! He could prove his usefulness! Zhang's vision became less black, and he noticed the cultural officer scowling, clenching his communicator. That bastard! Zhang hated those Party tools. They were always looking for people to rat out. Well, his luck hadn't run out, yet. He was born lucky. That little rat of a man would have to find someone else to report on for today.
"Even before you said it was an American restaurant, Zhang, I suspected this might have something to do with their accident. For that reason alone it is worthy of investigation." The captain's gaze was faraway, and Zhang wondered if he was remembering the exploratory mission in America. The captain had first gained fame there, after all.
"Sir, are you saying -"
"I've heard enough from you, Zhang. Gather your team and go." And though he hated being dressed down, hated being addressed by his family name, he decided this was best. He had other things to think about, now - like the idea of solving the American mystery. That was exciting. He would surely win fame today.
And then it occurred to him - his captain had ordered him into a Sonic. "What a ridiculous universe," Zhang thought, as he made his way to his quarters.
Saturday, April 01, 2006
Random Writings
Oh, it is poetry day! Why? Because. I promise it is not too pretentious or dramatic.
Everything I write
is crap.
Well, at least
I have lots of paper.
Oh, wow, that was really something, wasn't it? heheh.
I hope you weren't disappointed. I had some other stuff to write down, but I've forgotten it now.
Ah, but now it is story time!
The people of a certain land were very peaceful. In defending their peace they shunned outsiders, saying only that they brought war and strife, and all were turned away. These people had good land, with herds and crops both bounteous, and rain often caressed their earth, so that they did not know famine or thirst. They believed, with such good fortune, that surely the gods smiled upon them.
One day they awoke to see a dark wall of clouds, clouds so black and massive that the sky itself was fenced away, accompanied by thunder like a conquering army - it was as though the world itself had come to make war on them. While they were standing in awe, a man made his way along their road, and they did nothing, for they were greatly dumbfounded.
Without introduction, he approached the largest group of them, and called out, "I bear ill tidings from afar - I am almost too late. The storm you see before you is the worst there has ever been, and many lands have joined the sea; many more kingdoms will soon be washed away. There is no time to make boats, to set aside supplies, or to run, for this storm will not soon stop, and it will be known everywhere. Do not despair! For I met a messenger along the road who said he knew a way to save you, a way a few brave souls have followed. He said to me, 'if only their young women and men will give up their lives in sacrifice to the gods, rain shall not fall upon their heads. If they are very devout, as I hear they are, then the gods shall pity them.' That was all his message."
So the people debated for a time, and the man left, saying he must warn other lands. Soon some brave youths offered their lives to appease the gods, and the people were much saddened, but greatly proud of their children, and the debate came to an end. Many of their youths left with the priests, and those who stayed behind bowed their heads in shame. The priests swore, with tears and grim faces, that they would please the gods with the rituals they knew.
With hung heads, the priests returned, and said it was done. There was much weeping, and many openly wondered if the gods' favor would be won, and why they were so cruel. They waited, and the clouds did not lift. Their weeping threatened to drown the land before the storm; many set out to find the messenger, in order that they might kill him. But he was not found, and the people despaired, and the clouds rolled on.
But it did not rain, just as they had been told. They began rejoicing, and prayed, and some questioned whether the rain would have come at all. That night the people slept well, and were much relieved - even those who had lost children for they said to themselves, "it was a worthy sacrifice."
The next day they woke to find their river swollen, full with the drowned. They were not concerned, for these were not their own: they told themselves that these were sinful and ignorant people who had not bothered to save themselves. Still, they were not without pity, and they spent some time looking for the living. All they found was one ancient man, improbably alive, with skin as thin as paper - he was sodden and soggy, and could not possibly have lived, yet the floods had spared him.
He gasped out, quietly, feebly, sadly, "they say that the wisest men are the saddest, and I must be wisest of all. I gave my children over to death to save so many; a wandering traveler said we must, should we want to stop the rain. He spoke truly, for never did a drop fall on our heads, but the truth was much more, and much harder to bear. The waters came from our neighbor's lands and swept all away, though not a drop came to us from the sky. Now I see I am not alone in my foolishness...pity moves my heart, and I fear it is too much for me to bear."
And soon, just as he said, the waters rose, coming crashing down from the mountains, sweeping all away, and the land and all its people were drowned, and never heard from again.
Everything I write
is crap.
Well, at least
I have lots of paper.
Oh, wow, that was really something, wasn't it? heheh.
I hope you weren't disappointed. I had some other stuff to write down, but I've forgotten it now.
Ah, but now it is story time!
The people of a certain land were very peaceful. In defending their peace they shunned outsiders, saying only that they brought war and strife, and all were turned away. These people had good land, with herds and crops both bounteous, and rain often caressed their earth, so that they did not know famine or thirst. They believed, with such good fortune, that surely the gods smiled upon them.
One day they awoke to see a dark wall of clouds, clouds so black and massive that the sky itself was fenced away, accompanied by thunder like a conquering army - it was as though the world itself had come to make war on them. While they were standing in awe, a man made his way along their road, and they did nothing, for they were greatly dumbfounded.
Without introduction, he approached the largest group of them, and called out, "I bear ill tidings from afar - I am almost too late. The storm you see before you is the worst there has ever been, and many lands have joined the sea; many more kingdoms will soon be washed away. There is no time to make boats, to set aside supplies, or to run, for this storm will not soon stop, and it will be known everywhere. Do not despair! For I met a messenger along the road who said he knew a way to save you, a way a few brave souls have followed. He said to me, 'if only their young women and men will give up their lives in sacrifice to the gods, rain shall not fall upon their heads. If they are very devout, as I hear they are, then the gods shall pity them.' That was all his message."
So the people debated for a time, and the man left, saying he must warn other lands. Soon some brave youths offered their lives to appease the gods, and the people were much saddened, but greatly proud of their children, and the debate came to an end. Many of their youths left with the priests, and those who stayed behind bowed their heads in shame. The priests swore, with tears and grim faces, that they would please the gods with the rituals they knew.
With hung heads, the priests returned, and said it was done. There was much weeping, and many openly wondered if the gods' favor would be won, and why they were so cruel. They waited, and the clouds did not lift. Their weeping threatened to drown the land before the storm; many set out to find the messenger, in order that they might kill him. But he was not found, and the people despaired, and the clouds rolled on.
But it did not rain, just as they had been told. They began rejoicing, and prayed, and some questioned whether the rain would have come at all. That night the people slept well, and were much relieved - even those who had lost children for they said to themselves, "it was a worthy sacrifice."
The next day they woke to find their river swollen, full with the drowned. They were not concerned, for these were not their own: they told themselves that these were sinful and ignorant people who had not bothered to save themselves. Still, they were not without pity, and they spent some time looking for the living. All they found was one ancient man, improbably alive, with skin as thin as paper - he was sodden and soggy, and could not possibly have lived, yet the floods had spared him.
He gasped out, quietly, feebly, sadly, "they say that the wisest men are the saddest, and I must be wisest of all. I gave my children over to death to save so many; a wandering traveler said we must, should we want to stop the rain. He spoke truly, for never did a drop fall on our heads, but the truth was much more, and much harder to bear. The waters came from our neighbor's lands and swept all away, though not a drop came to us from the sky. Now I see I am not alone in my foolishness...pity moves my heart, and I fear it is too much for me to bear."
And soon, just as he said, the waters rose, coming crashing down from the mountains, sweeping all away, and the land and all its people were drowned, and never heard from again.
Saturday, March 04, 2006
A Strange Meeting
It is a cavernous, dingy room, the edges of which recede into shadow. Perhaps it is a warehouse. It is muffled and quiet inside, like the inside of a closet full of coats.
Enter Two Strange Gentlemen, from opposite sides
Thin gentleman: "Hey! It's been a while.'"
Gentleman in white: "Oh, it's only been a few years. And, we've known each other for so long - it's like we never parted ways."
Thin gentleman: "So true. So what have you been up to?"
Gentleman in white: "Oh, well, you know. The usual, of course. I've got a few projects in the works. They're pretty exciting, really. Never seen anything like it, I guarantee you."
Thin gentleman: *laughs* "Is that right? And here I thought you'd been in a rut lately. I never hear about you anymore - at least, not like the old days. Don't tell me it has to do with the birds?"
Gentleman in white: "A real showman never tells - he shows. And it's not ready yet."
Thin gentleman: "Huh. So what're the dates looking like?"
Gentleman in white: "Well, I can't say."
Thin gentleman: "Well, I already know anyway. It seems like it has good potential - but I wonder if you can really execute - like in the old days. Remember how it was the other year? With that thing - SARS, was it? What happened there?"
Gentleman in white: "Come on. Everyone has their rough spots."
Thin gentleman: "Then you should invest in sandpaper."
Gentleman in white: *quickly* "How about you? What've you been up to? Still sticking to your little patch of home turf?"
Thin gentleman: "You know very well I have international operations. True, I've mostly been in Africa lately. But - life's just so easy there, you know? I hardly have to put any effort into anything. I have people to do it all for me, there. You really ought to give that a try sometime."
Gentleman in white: "I did. It wasn't nearly as rewarding as you promised."
Thin gentleman: "I can't help it if your help is helpless."
Gentleman in white: "They were not helpless! They did excellent work developing new products! Delivery methods, too - they just never delivered. You know that as well as I do."
Thin gentleman: "Like I'd bother to know every detail of your work. I've got important things of my own to do."
Gentleman in white: "Don't give me that. You're always hanging on my coattails. You always try to steal my glory!"
Thin gentleman: "Now you're one to talk."
*something crashes in the distance*
Gentleman in white: "I wonder if that's..."
Thin gentleman: "Of course. Who else would make such a racket?"
*A huge, burly figure marches up to the group*
Big man: *roaring with laughter* "Fighting like an old couple! You two never change!"
Thin gentleman: "Nor do you."
Gentleman in white: "What'd you break this time?"
Big man: *laughs again* "I have no idea! It doesn't matter, anyway. So how've you two been?"
Thin gent: "Oh, we were just talking about that. We've both got some things in the works, you know. Always busy. How about you?"
Big man: "I may be loud, but I heard you fighting. Riding each others' coattails, and all that. Hah! The pot calls the kettle black!"
Both gents: "Is that so."
Big man: "Sure thing. My coat's never fit quite right what with you two weighing it down." *laughs* "Well, I guess our thin friend doesn't weigh all that much. And I suppose you've got to get around somehow. You ticks, you!"
Gent in white: "Arrogant as ever, I see. Well, even ticks can bring a man down. One bite, that's all. Just one bite from one of those diseased little buggers. That's all it takes."
Big man: *laughs* "And what, exactly, has ever stopped me?"
*the two gents scowl*
Thin gent: "We don't stop, either. If we're ticks, then so long as you keep going - we do, too. Maybe a tick could even suck its host dry."
Big man: "You two always were funny. If you'd spend more time working - just imagine what you could do! Leave the fighting to me. That's my raison d'etre, you know."
Gent in white: "Sure, you get a lot done. But - you have no artistic vision! No class! No cares! Try working our way for once."
Big man: "Eh, I've done that. Lot of extra effort for nothing. I mean, really, who appreciates my work, anyway? Not you two. Nobody else, either. I just do things my way. Good enough for me."
Thin gent: "No one appreciates your work because it's just not that original. What is your vision? It seems to be the same as ours."
*a pale man suddenly leaks from the shadows, like an inkstain spreading on paper. His face is set to a perpetual grin*
Pale man: "Same as mine."
*the big man stiffens with respect, the other two simply stare*
*Silence*
Pale man: *smiling?* "Hmm. I killed the party, it seems."
Big man: *laughs awkwardly* "Oh, not yet. Not yet. We were just talking about work."
Pale man: "Yes, work. Ah, it never ends. But such a joy."
Gent in white: "We, uh, we didn't know if you would be here."
Pale man: "I'm always here."
Thin gent: "But I've seen you everywhere!"
Pale man: "I do get around, don't I?"
Gent in white: "That's...that's confusing."
Pale man: "Are we strangers?"
Gent in white: "What?"
Pale man: "I haven't changed. So - tell me what you're doing."
All three start talking: "Well, I -"
Pale man: "No, I'll see soon enough. Surprise me. I really must be going. I've work to do yet."
*fades back into the blackness*
Thin gent: "That guy is so damn creepy. Who made him boss?"
Gent in white: "We did. Remember? We can't get anything done without him. Not any of us. But, yeah. I never can tell what he's thinking."
Big man: "He's a good guy, I think. He's always treated me with respect."
Gent in white: "Me too - but, I've never seen him angry. Or even happy. I've only ever seen that unsettling smile. Like he's just gonna keep smiling until judgment day, come Hell and high water. Nothing ever bothers him. He never struggles. And he never stops. He makes us look...lazy."
Thin gent: "And we rely on him so much..."
Gent in white: "I always wondered where he came from. Do either of you know?"
Big man: *quick laugh* "He's as old as the hills. Ask them."
Gent in white: "I have a feeling I could disinter the hills and valleys both of all their secrets - and still find no answers."
Big man: "Probably not. Well, you've got to respect the guy."
Gent in white: "I suppose."
Big man: "Anyway, didn't you two have some important projects to attend to? My business is calling to me. I'll be seeing you."
*exits*
Thin gent: "I hate relying on those guys."
Gent in white: "Well, we can take some satisfaction from the fact that our big friend is just as reliant on the boss as we are."
Thin gent: "That doesn't change anything for us, though."
Gent in white: "I suppose not. Well, I'd better let you get back to your life of...well, whatever you've been doing recently."
Thin gent: "Same to you. Shall we meet again soon?"
Gent in white: "Of course. Maybe what we need to break out of our collective ruts is a little collaboration. What do you say?"
Thin gent: "Soon, but not yet. I'd like to try a few things out first - just a few little projects, a little housecleaning. Let's get that out of the way first, shall we? Then we can do something major."
Gent in white: "Fair enough. I'll see you soon, then."
Thin gent: "Adios, man."
Gent in white: *chuckles* "Yeah, Adios to you, too."
*exeunt*
Enter Two Strange Gentlemen, from opposite sides
Thin gentleman: "Hey! It's been a while.'"
Gentleman in white: "Oh, it's only been a few years. And, we've known each other for so long - it's like we never parted ways."
Thin gentleman: "So true. So what have you been up to?"
Gentleman in white: "Oh, well, you know. The usual, of course. I've got a few projects in the works. They're pretty exciting, really. Never seen anything like it, I guarantee you."
Thin gentleman: *laughs* "Is that right? And here I thought you'd been in a rut lately. I never hear about you anymore - at least, not like the old days. Don't tell me it has to do with the birds?"
Gentleman in white: "A real showman never tells - he shows. And it's not ready yet."
Thin gentleman: "Huh. So what're the dates looking like?"
Gentleman in white: "Well, I can't say."
Thin gentleman: "Well, I already know anyway. It seems like it has good potential - but I wonder if you can really execute - like in the old days. Remember how it was the other year? With that thing - SARS, was it? What happened there?"
Gentleman in white: "Come on. Everyone has their rough spots."
Thin gentleman: "Then you should invest in sandpaper."
Gentleman in white: *quickly* "How about you? What've you been up to? Still sticking to your little patch of home turf?"
Thin gentleman: "You know very well I have international operations. True, I've mostly been in Africa lately. But - life's just so easy there, you know? I hardly have to put any effort into anything. I have people to do it all for me, there. You really ought to give that a try sometime."
Gentleman in white: "I did. It wasn't nearly as rewarding as you promised."
Thin gentleman: "I can't help it if your help is helpless."
Gentleman in white: "They were not helpless! They did excellent work developing new products! Delivery methods, too - they just never delivered. You know that as well as I do."
Thin gentleman: "Like I'd bother to know every detail of your work. I've got important things of my own to do."
Gentleman in white: "Don't give me that. You're always hanging on my coattails. You always try to steal my glory!"
Thin gentleman: "Now you're one to talk."
*something crashes in the distance*
Gentleman in white: "I wonder if that's..."
Thin gentleman: "Of course. Who else would make such a racket?"
*A huge, burly figure marches up to the group*
Big man: *roaring with laughter* "Fighting like an old couple! You two never change!"
Thin gentleman: "Nor do you."
Gentleman in white: "What'd you break this time?"
Big man: *laughs again* "I have no idea! It doesn't matter, anyway. So how've you two been?"
Thin gent: "Oh, we were just talking about that. We've both got some things in the works, you know. Always busy. How about you?"
Big man: "I may be loud, but I heard you fighting. Riding each others' coattails, and all that. Hah! The pot calls the kettle black!"
Both gents: "Is that so."
Big man: "Sure thing. My coat's never fit quite right what with you two weighing it down." *laughs* "Well, I guess our thin friend doesn't weigh all that much. And I suppose you've got to get around somehow. You ticks, you!"
Gent in white: "Arrogant as ever, I see. Well, even ticks can bring a man down. One bite, that's all. Just one bite from one of those diseased little buggers. That's all it takes."
Big man: *laughs* "And what, exactly, has ever stopped me?"
*the two gents scowl*
Thin gent: "We don't stop, either. If we're ticks, then so long as you keep going - we do, too. Maybe a tick could even suck its host dry."
Big man: "You two always were funny. If you'd spend more time working - just imagine what you could do! Leave the fighting to me. That's my raison d'etre, you know."
Gent in white: "Sure, you get a lot done. But - you have no artistic vision! No class! No cares! Try working our way for once."
Big man: "Eh, I've done that. Lot of extra effort for nothing. I mean, really, who appreciates my work, anyway? Not you two. Nobody else, either. I just do things my way. Good enough for me."
Thin gent: "No one appreciates your work because it's just not that original. What is your vision? It seems to be the same as ours."
*a pale man suddenly leaks from the shadows, like an inkstain spreading on paper. His face is set to a perpetual grin*
Pale man: "Same as mine."
*the big man stiffens with respect, the other two simply stare*
*Silence*
Pale man: *smiling?* "Hmm. I killed the party, it seems."
Big man: *laughs awkwardly* "Oh, not yet. Not yet. We were just talking about work."
Pale man: "Yes, work. Ah, it never ends. But such a joy."
Gent in white: "We, uh, we didn't know if you would be here."
Pale man: "I'm always here."
Thin gent: "But I've seen you everywhere!"
Pale man: "I do get around, don't I?"
Gent in white: "That's...that's confusing."
Pale man: "Are we strangers?"
Gent in white: "What?"
Pale man: "I haven't changed. So - tell me what you're doing."
All three start talking: "Well, I -"
Pale man: "No, I'll see soon enough. Surprise me. I really must be going. I've work to do yet."
*fades back into the blackness*
Thin gent: "That guy is so damn creepy. Who made him boss?"
Gent in white: "We did. Remember? We can't get anything done without him. Not any of us. But, yeah. I never can tell what he's thinking."
Big man: "He's a good guy, I think. He's always treated me with respect."
Gent in white: "Me too - but, I've never seen him angry. Or even happy. I've only ever seen that unsettling smile. Like he's just gonna keep smiling until judgment day, come Hell and high water. Nothing ever bothers him. He never struggles. And he never stops. He makes us look...lazy."
Thin gent: "And we rely on him so much..."
Gent in white: "I always wondered where he came from. Do either of you know?"
Big man: *quick laugh* "He's as old as the hills. Ask them."
Gent in white: "I have a feeling I could disinter the hills and valleys both of all their secrets - and still find no answers."
Big man: "Probably not. Well, you've got to respect the guy."
Gent in white: "I suppose."
Big man: "Anyway, didn't you two have some important projects to attend to? My business is calling to me. I'll be seeing you."
*exits*
Thin gent: "I hate relying on those guys."
Gent in white: "Well, we can take some satisfaction from the fact that our big friend is just as reliant on the boss as we are."
Thin gent: "That doesn't change anything for us, though."
Gent in white: "I suppose not. Well, I'd better let you get back to your life of...well, whatever you've been doing recently."
Thin gent: "Same to you. Shall we meet again soon?"
Gent in white: "Of course. Maybe what we need to break out of our collective ruts is a little collaboration. What do you say?"
Thin gent: "Soon, but not yet. I'd like to try a few things out first - just a few little projects, a little housecleaning. Let's get that out of the way first, shall we? Then we can do something major."
Gent in white: "Fair enough. I'll see you soon, then."
Thin gent: "Adios, man."
Gent in white: *chuckles* "Yeah, Adios to you, too."
*exeunt*
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
Some British journal I found in the attic....
Journal Entry
15th January, 7:30 AM
A thought occurs to me - "why can't butter spread itself?" A very good question, indeed. After some consideration, it occurs to me that there are, in fact, things that do spread themselves. Fire, for example, or disease.
9:00 AM
Spent the last hour and a half attempting various mixtures of butter and fire. Most were failures. However, science is not discouraged by failure, and I did eventually have some success. It seems that when the butter is not set on fire, but rather heated by it, it gains the attribute of spreadability - at least, in part. There does not seem to be more butter than before, as there is when fire spreads, but some degree of spreadability is transferable, as evidenced by the fact that my toast was buttered without my needing to use a knife. However, the toast cannot share this attribute. It merely burns.
12:00 PM
I expected success in my further experiments, but have so far had mostly abject failures and one result that only barely qualifies as otherwise. The failures I will not detail at this time, for success is what matters. Encouraged by my results in mixing butter with fire, I next turned to jelly. I tried as many combinations of jelly and fire as there can possibly be and was dismally disappointed. The best I attained was a result very similar to that of the butter - the jelly became runny, and managed to spread itself. However, warm, watery jelly is not in the least appetizing. I decide to repeat the admixture of fire and toast again. It still burns, but now smells of jelly.
5:00 PM
I have been negligent! Other substances do spread on their own, and I even detailed one in my earlier entry! Encouraged by this thought, I have mixed the remainder of the jelly with the influenza, obtained from one of my dying servants. So far nothing very much appears to be happening, but I have gambled all my jelly on this in desperation. I certainly wish I hadn't, for I simply cannot go without jellied toast to-morrow morning, and I refuse to manually spread anything now that I know it can be done for me. If there is no great payoff, I suppose I will have to ask a servant to perform this menial task for me.
9:00 PM
Still nothing. I suppose I shall have to call it a night. On the morn, after toast, perhaps I shall make more attempts.
- Sorry, guys, but this journal seems to end here. I am thinking his experiment sort of worked.
15th January, 7:30 AM
A thought occurs to me - "why can't butter spread itself?" A very good question, indeed. After some consideration, it occurs to me that there are, in fact, things that do spread themselves. Fire, for example, or disease.
9:00 AM
Spent the last hour and a half attempting various mixtures of butter and fire. Most were failures. However, science is not discouraged by failure, and I did eventually have some success. It seems that when the butter is not set on fire, but rather heated by it, it gains the attribute of spreadability - at least, in part. There does not seem to be more butter than before, as there is when fire spreads, but some degree of spreadability is transferable, as evidenced by the fact that my toast was buttered without my needing to use a knife. However, the toast cannot share this attribute. It merely burns.
12:00 PM
I expected success in my further experiments, but have so far had mostly abject failures and one result that only barely qualifies as otherwise. The failures I will not detail at this time, for success is what matters. Encouraged by my results in mixing butter with fire, I next turned to jelly. I tried as many combinations of jelly and fire as there can possibly be and was dismally disappointed. The best I attained was a result very similar to that of the butter - the jelly became runny, and managed to spread itself. However, warm, watery jelly is not in the least appetizing. I decide to repeat the admixture of fire and toast again. It still burns, but now smells of jelly.
5:00 PM
I have been negligent! Other substances do spread on their own, and I even detailed one in my earlier entry! Encouraged by this thought, I have mixed the remainder of the jelly with the influenza, obtained from one of my dying servants. So far nothing very much appears to be happening, but I have gambled all my jelly on this in desperation. I certainly wish I hadn't, for I simply cannot go without jellied toast to-morrow morning, and I refuse to manually spread anything now that I know it can be done for me. If there is no great payoff, I suppose I will have to ask a servant to perform this menial task for me.
9:00 PM
Still nothing. I suppose I shall have to call it a night. On the morn, after toast, perhaps I shall make more attempts.
- Sorry, guys, but this journal seems to end here. I am thinking his experiment sort of worked.
Helpful hints for ruling the world
If you're planning to conquer the world, don't come looking to me for advice. That sort of thing is best left to professionals. However, if you do find yourself somehow in possession of a world, or actually manage to conquer one, (which I must add is considered a serious breech of etiquette in some circles), then I believe you should at least run it well.
Many will say that running the world is hard work; if you actually try it, you will find that to be absolutely correct. For every person on Earth, there are problems, and, as Emperor (or Empress, though I am certain the first will be a man), you are ultimately responsible for all of them. There are endless problems, but only one of you; one might ask what one is to do in such a situation. The answer is to outsource, of course. It works for business, and it will work for you. There are many qualified individuals who will jump at the chance to rule the world for very little pay - leaving you with far more leisure time. Some of them might decide to go their own way after getting some experience. Fortunately, there are many, many potential applicants for this position, and one who does not properly appreciate his job or loyalties to you can easily be replaced. It is a simple and ancient plan, but with a proven formula, after all: they do the work, you get the benefits. If they misstep or show a troubling lack of strict obedience, you need only berate their incompetence, and then have them removed & replaced. One hardly even need to pay attention, the system runs itself so well.
There is another matter I would like to bring to your attention. I think you'll agree with me when I say, there are a great many people who do very little to contribute to your glorious Empire. The solution that most immediately springs to mind is to imprison, execute, or press into military service those individuals. However, I have one convenient trick that not only will better employ these people, but make administration run brook-smooth throughout your holdings. Presumably you speak English. It would be wise for you to choose your own language as the language of law, governance, and trade. This might seem problematic, but here's the trick: all the people you will need to implement this already have been trained. Not only that, they have done it themselves, at their own cost. How could this be? Who are these strange individuals who seem to have foreseen a need for their skills? A bit of thought will reveal the answers. To teach English throughout your Empire, and to teach and practice law, what two groups will be needed? Simply, teachers and lawyers. Teachers being in short supply, though, you will settle for the next best thing: English majors, who are as plentiful as sunlight. It is not clearly understood just why so many have selected to receive this training, but that's really no concern of yours - all that matters is that they do exist, bounteously. There has also been a surplus of lawyers for years now, and it would be wise of you to use this surplus to your advantage. Neither group contributes much currently to your Empire's well-being, and the lawyers probably are detrimental to it. Sending these to all ends of the Earth can only help you so long as you assign them to perform their chosen professions, and they do so dutifully. They will teach your chosen language, and run your legal system, everywhere on Earth. It is a beautiful solution since, like all good solutions, it solves many problems at once.
You see? There are a great many things one can do in order to run an Empire smoothly and without much hassle, though I have only briefly detailed two here. If I feel it will be especially appreciated or useful, perhaps I will reveal more in future writings. But until then, it would most benefit you to study your tactics and strategy; that is, if you are serious in your aims of conquering the world. Until next time.
Many will say that running the world is hard work; if you actually try it, you will find that to be absolutely correct. For every person on Earth, there are problems, and, as Emperor (or Empress, though I am certain the first will be a man), you are ultimately responsible for all of them. There are endless problems, but only one of you; one might ask what one is to do in such a situation. The answer is to outsource, of course. It works for business, and it will work for you. There are many qualified individuals who will jump at the chance to rule the world for very little pay - leaving you with far more leisure time. Some of them might decide to go their own way after getting some experience. Fortunately, there are many, many potential applicants for this position, and one who does not properly appreciate his job or loyalties to you can easily be replaced. It is a simple and ancient plan, but with a proven formula, after all: they do the work, you get the benefits. If they misstep or show a troubling lack of strict obedience, you need only berate their incompetence, and then have them removed & replaced. One hardly even need to pay attention, the system runs itself so well.
There is another matter I would like to bring to your attention. I think you'll agree with me when I say, there are a great many people who do very little to contribute to your glorious Empire. The solution that most immediately springs to mind is to imprison, execute, or press into military service those individuals. However, I have one convenient trick that not only will better employ these people, but make administration run brook-smooth throughout your holdings. Presumably you speak English. It would be wise for you to choose your own language as the language of law, governance, and trade. This might seem problematic, but here's the trick: all the people you will need to implement this already have been trained. Not only that, they have done it themselves, at their own cost. How could this be? Who are these strange individuals who seem to have foreseen a need for their skills? A bit of thought will reveal the answers. To teach English throughout your Empire, and to teach and practice law, what two groups will be needed? Simply, teachers and lawyers. Teachers being in short supply, though, you will settle for the next best thing: English majors, who are as plentiful as sunlight. It is not clearly understood just why so many have selected to receive this training, but that's really no concern of yours - all that matters is that they do exist, bounteously. There has also been a surplus of lawyers for years now, and it would be wise of you to use this surplus to your advantage. Neither group contributes much currently to your Empire's well-being, and the lawyers probably are detrimental to it. Sending these to all ends of the Earth can only help you so long as you assign them to perform their chosen professions, and they do so dutifully. They will teach your chosen language, and run your legal system, everywhere on Earth. It is a beautiful solution since, like all good solutions, it solves many problems at once.
You see? There are a great many things one can do in order to run an Empire smoothly and without much hassle, though I have only briefly detailed two here. If I feel it will be especially appreciated or useful, perhaps I will reveal more in future writings. But until then, it would most benefit you to study your tactics and strategy; that is, if you are serious in your aims of conquering the world. Until next time.
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
A proposal!
I wrote about this on my MySpace blog, but I'll do it here, too.
You may have read this article, "Cyberspace is dead." Apparently the term is well past its expiration date; well, fine by me. I never really liked it anyway. I don't mind it now only because I'm so used to hearing it.
So all these eggheads are trying to come up with a new term for whatever we should call the electronic space we find ourselves in. As the article states, "Twenty years after William Gibson coined the term 'cyberspace' in his novel Neuromancer, we live in a world of smart objects, always-on devices, and perpetually open information channels. The Internet feels less like an alternate world that we 'go to' and more like just another layer of life."
They list several alternates, but unsurprisingly I don't like any of their suggestions. "Infosphere" is the least bad. Except there's nothing really spherical about it. And it's four damn syllables - way too long. "The World" is less awkward, except it's not really descriptive at all. So I have decided on my own term.
I call the stuff around us, the electronic interconnectedness of all things, the i-ther. It's the same concept as the ether, which a very few of you might remember as a somewhat archaic english word. Only now, it is the internet-ether. The I-ether. The ither.
I seriously do like this word - it's better than the alternates, at least. I think I'll start using it.
You may have read this article, "Cyberspace is dead." Apparently the term is well past its expiration date; well, fine by me. I never really liked it anyway. I don't mind it now only because I'm so used to hearing it.
So all these eggheads are trying to come up with a new term for whatever we should call the electronic space we find ourselves in. As the article states, "Twenty years after William Gibson coined the term 'cyberspace' in his novel Neuromancer, we live in a world of smart objects, always-on devices, and perpetually open information channels. The Internet feels less like an alternate world that we 'go to' and more like just another layer of life."
They list several alternates, but unsurprisingly I don't like any of their suggestions. "Infosphere" is the least bad. Except there's nothing really spherical about it. And it's four damn syllables - way too long. "The World" is less awkward, except it's not really descriptive at all. So I have decided on my own term.
I call the stuff around us, the electronic interconnectedness of all things, the i-ther. It's the same concept as the ether, which a very few of you might remember as a somewhat archaic english word. Only now, it is the internet-ether. The I-ether. The ither.
I seriously do like this word - it's better than the alternates, at least. I think I'll start using it.
Something to think about
Let's say there's a family. The two parents are miserably bad: they drink a lot, and they beat their children without mercy. As one would expect, their oldest son hates and resents them, and spends his time fantasizing about the day he will be big enough to take them down. Would it make sense, or be fair, for him to beat his younger siblings? Maybe they also hate their parents, maybe they do not. Either way, being beaten by their brother will not make them want to fight their parents. Even if they were adopted it would not. Neither would it be right for him to beat his friends and neighbors. Would they see the injustice he suffered, and help him to fight against his parents? Of course not. They would fight him.
Or, let's say you want to destroy a house. Would you start by shooting the furniture and shredding the wallpaper? Would you burn the carpet? Crush the drywall into powder? Blow up the water pipes? These things are all part of the house, but they are not supporting it. You could take all these things away, and still the house would stand. If one wanted to bring the house down, it would make sense only to remove the structural supports. If there was time, and if one were wise, other parts of the house could be removed and reused elsewhere, or in making a new house.
I put forth both these examples for a reason. In both, there is something big - a family, or a house - composed of many separate things. In the first, the son wants to free himself from his parents' tyranny. In the second, there is a house that needs to be demolished, either because it is decrepit or in order to make way for something better.
Governments are very similar. But, those who resort to terrorist tactics to fight them - killing civilians and causing mayhem wherever it is easiest - are doing foolish things. They are beating their siblings. They are blowing up the pipes. If they truly desired the destruction of their targets, they would get the support of their siblings and neighbors; they would attack only the support structure of the house*.
Resorting to terrorist tactics is never right, never justified, never admirable, and is never effective.
*(The support structure of the government is not the people, and it is not businesses, and it is not hospitals or hotels or restaurants or oil wells or anything else. The one thing that gives the government its power is its ability to use force. So, the support structure of the government is the military, and the police. Without those the government has no power to enforce its will, and a powerless government is not a government at all. So if one truly wishes to fight, those are the things to destroy. Leave the rest alone, except where it is directly used by the armed forces. Why would anyone support you against the government if you are brutal? If things are bad enough that revolution is necessary, the people will not sympathize with those who kill them, even if they hate the government. Oppression is oppression.)
Or, let's say you want to destroy a house. Would you start by shooting the furniture and shredding the wallpaper? Would you burn the carpet? Crush the drywall into powder? Blow up the water pipes? These things are all part of the house, but they are not supporting it. You could take all these things away, and still the house would stand. If one wanted to bring the house down, it would make sense only to remove the structural supports. If there was time, and if one were wise, other parts of the house could be removed and reused elsewhere, or in making a new house.
I put forth both these examples for a reason. In both, there is something big - a family, or a house - composed of many separate things. In the first, the son wants to free himself from his parents' tyranny. In the second, there is a house that needs to be demolished, either because it is decrepit or in order to make way for something better.
Governments are very similar. But, those who resort to terrorist tactics to fight them - killing civilians and causing mayhem wherever it is easiest - are doing foolish things. They are beating their siblings. They are blowing up the pipes. If they truly desired the destruction of their targets, they would get the support of their siblings and neighbors; they would attack only the support structure of the house*.
Resorting to terrorist tactics is never right, never justified, never admirable, and is never effective.
*(The support structure of the government is not the people, and it is not businesses, and it is not hospitals or hotels or restaurants or oil wells or anything else. The one thing that gives the government its power is its ability to use force. So, the support structure of the government is the military, and the police. Without those the government has no power to enforce its will, and a powerless government is not a government at all. So if one truly wishes to fight, those are the things to destroy. Leave the rest alone, except where it is directly used by the armed forces. Why would anyone support you against the government if you are brutal? If things are bad enough that revolution is necessary, the people will not sympathize with those who kill them, even if they hate the government. Oppression is oppression.)
Thursday, February 02, 2006
Hell on Earth?
Not that the world needs any help in generating suffering - in fact, one might suspect it was set up to do precisely that. To what end, I wouldn't know.
But I was thinking, and not for the first time. About this. I think often, you smarmy bastard.
Anyway. I was thinking: advertising is supposed to make people want stuff. No argument there. Does it really accomplish that? Maybe. Sometimes.
How many of you have watched old commercials, or seen old ads? Some? Usually they dissapear after a few weeks or months. But like great works of art, great advertisements should work for all time, for anyone who sees them. I'm not going to say I know of any, but there must be some.
So what you do is this: you simply submerse people in great old ads. Posters from the early 1900s. Newspaper spreads. Tv ads. Old newsreel bits. And especially focus on products that are no longer in existence. If the ads work, the people exposed should develop some desire for something that they cannot have.
Can you profit from this? Perhaps. Probably not directly. But is it fun? Yes. Oh, yes.
What? You can't possibly think it's undeserved? Christians and Buddhists both teach that one should be seperate from earthly desires, right? Presumably, longings for such earthly and transitory things are bad. So, this will have no effect on those people who have their priorities straight. Moral people, in other words. It is thus a perfect plan, for it punishes only the wicked. Heheheh.
Unfortunately, there is no guarantee it'd work, and worse yet, people are very clever. Those old products would probably be recreated and sold again, until people quickly remembered why the product failed in the first place. Does that mean the people would stop wanting those products, even with great ads? Or does it mean people already experience longing for things that no longer exist? Perhaps this system is already somewhat in effect....
It's an interesting idea.
But I was thinking, and not for the first time. About this. I think often, you smarmy bastard.
Anyway. I was thinking: advertising is supposed to make people want stuff. No argument there. Does it really accomplish that? Maybe. Sometimes.
How many of you have watched old commercials, or seen old ads? Some? Usually they dissapear after a few weeks or months. But like great works of art, great advertisements should work for all time, for anyone who sees them. I'm not going to say I know of any, but there must be some.
So what you do is this: you simply submerse people in great old ads. Posters from the early 1900s. Newspaper spreads. Tv ads. Old newsreel bits. And especially focus on products that are no longer in existence. If the ads work, the people exposed should develop some desire for something that they cannot have.
Can you profit from this? Perhaps. Probably not directly. But is it fun? Yes. Oh, yes.
What? You can't possibly think it's undeserved? Christians and Buddhists both teach that one should be seperate from earthly desires, right? Presumably, longings for such earthly and transitory things are bad. So, this will have no effect on those people who have their priorities straight. Moral people, in other words. It is thus a perfect plan, for it punishes only the wicked. Heheheh.
Unfortunately, there is no guarantee it'd work, and worse yet, people are very clever. Those old products would probably be recreated and sold again, until people quickly remembered why the product failed in the first place. Does that mean the people would stop wanting those products, even with great ads? Or does it mean people already experience longing for things that no longer exist? Perhaps this system is already somewhat in effect....
It's an interesting idea.
An interesting day
I already posted this to Myspace a few days ago, but I figured it'd last longer here. And people seemed to enjoy reading it, so I'll preserve it.
First order of business: Are you familiar with memory sticks, or flash cards, or whatever you want to call them? I have a SanDisk cruzer micro, 256 megs. I rely on it to carry files around, and it's pretty good.
No, I haven't sold out, but am definitely interested in doing so. This particular product is one I would be glad to advertise: it is awesome. Sure, it holds files and all that, nice, nice, whatever. But the other night, I went to do laundry. I was very tired, and kind of hurrying. I emptied my pockets, and usually I sort of inventory what I've got to make sure it's all there - but not that time. So the next morning I'm putting stuff in a clean pair of pants, and notice my flash card is missing. This distresses me, because that thing cost me $30, and it's really convenient. I figure it must've fallen out of my pocket at school, because the seats in some classrooms are sort of awkward, especially if you're trying to get comfortable, and so I figured I'd never see the thing again. It wouldn't matter if it was a $2 pen I lost - I'd feel terrible about losing something I still could've used. Heh. I am cheap.
Later in the day..., well, you know what's coming. I went to get my laundry out of the basket. I saw metal. I dug through my clothing. Sure enough, it was my flash card. It went through both the washer and dryer, and looked actually better than it did before. It was shinier. So, after I touched it to make sure it didn't have any charge, I plugged it into the USB port - and the damn thing worked!
That's impressive.
In other news...
Usually, one would think being attractive was a good thing, and yesterday (Monday 30th Jan.) I must have been especially good-looking (or something?). People just kept looking at me, and when I was at the pool, the lifeguard just couldn't seem to get her eyes off me. Of course, maybe she just thought I was crazy. That happens too. Heh. Probably pretty often.
So, after I was done swimming, I of course went back to the locker room and showered off. Now, I don't especially care about being naked - it's not like I'm showing off anything new or unusual. I mean, hell, we're all naked under our clothes, right? So I usually don't get dressed until I'm all the way dry. I was standing there, toweling off, and I see this runty half-retarded looking little guy walking down the corridor towards me. Nothing unusual about people walking down corridors, but I hated him at first sight. He is just one of those people you instinctively want to hurt. Maybe you've never felt that, and if so, you're very lucky. He's apparently walking to the showers, and was naked as well. I began walking to the urinals, and as he passed me by, I noticed he was looking at my crotch.... Well, his gaze was a bit more specific than that.
A string of profanities ran through my mind, something along the lines of "what the fuck is your problem, you half-bit queer? You never seen a cock before? Your mother must've been a dumptruck, cause she sure dumped a load when she had you." And other things. You know how thoughts are in the moment - incomplete and only possessing a few words. The ideas are there, but it's only later that they get embellished with coherent speech. I considered how I might turn this sort of thing to my advantage - I could charge people money to look at me - but couldn't come up with anything both profitable and honorable. After I'd washed my hands and weighed myself (did you know that I somehow lose two pounds every time I swim? I really don't get it), I returned to my pile of stuff. That ugly little shit was sitting on a bench right outside the shower, toweling himself, and staring intently at me.
Then my mind replayed the scene, and I looked again. Sure enough, the towel was only covering his crotch. And it seems a certain body part was in need of excessive drying, because he just kept rubbing it. I like to give people the benefit of the doubt - but it was obvious by the towel's outline that he deserved none. And he was still staring. More than that - it was with rapt admiration.
Immediately, I, too, began fantasizing - though probably not in the way he would wish. It occured to me that I would love to know how much damage I could do to someone without actually killing them. It also occured to me that I didn't know how quickly I would be able to carry that out -and that was also worth knowing. An experiment was in order! The satisfaction of hearing his ribs crack, of feeling the obscenely beautiful thud of his head against the concrete wall, the excitement of the rushing chase and the madness of violence - but then, before I was fully aware of it, I had decided to be calm.
I am not sure why, but my line of thought was something like, "he is not an immediate threat. he is disgusting. do you really want to touch that filth? he might actually enjoy it. that makes me want to kill him even more. but he's no threat. they're queer-friendly here...they wouldn't listen to me...i'd likely be caught. since when has that stopped you? but he's so pathetic. he's so worthless it's not worth hurting him."
There it was, calmness. I won't deny I still felt a half-psychotic rage, but it was under control. I looked again; he was still beating off madly with his towel, and he was fully aware of my disgusted glare. I'm not sure if he didn't think I'd figure it out, or what, but there he still sat, pathetic deformed little creature that he was, fucking a towel. I dressed myself. I considered, once I had my shoes on, beating the living shit out of him anyway. "Shoes have better grip than bare feet on the floor, after all", I reasoned. Not that I would've needed it: I automatically look for any justification that'll let me act, that's all. He was so little, though, and so pathetically, laughably worthless...perhaps I thought it far more cruel to do nothing, to allow him to live that way. I really have mellowed with age.
I regret not acting now, in a way. I still wish to do horrifically painful things to him, and I've always wanted to know if I could drive my hand through the soft underside of someone's jaw. I've always been able to hold back enough not to do anything really stupid like that in the past, and I should be able to continue, but I really am pissed off. If I never see him again, that would probably be best.
Heh. I'm glad to have written this down - it's the sort of thing bizarre enough that you start questioning whether it ever really happened. It's also good stress-relief.
So anyway, my point is, being attractive is not always good (though I guess you ladies already knew that). And though I don't mind gay people existing, in some sort of detached, mental way - in reality, I hate fags. Good day.
First order of business: Are you familiar with memory sticks, or flash cards, or whatever you want to call them? I have a SanDisk cruzer micro, 256 megs. I rely on it to carry files around, and it's pretty good.
No, I haven't sold out, but am definitely interested in doing so. This particular product is one I would be glad to advertise: it is awesome. Sure, it holds files and all that, nice, nice, whatever. But the other night, I went to do laundry. I was very tired, and kind of hurrying. I emptied my pockets, and usually I sort of inventory what I've got to make sure it's all there - but not that time. So the next morning I'm putting stuff in a clean pair of pants, and notice my flash card is missing. This distresses me, because that thing cost me $30, and it's really convenient. I figure it must've fallen out of my pocket at school, because the seats in some classrooms are sort of awkward, especially if you're trying to get comfortable, and so I figured I'd never see the thing again. It wouldn't matter if it was a $2 pen I lost - I'd feel terrible about losing something I still could've used. Heh. I am cheap.
Later in the day..., well, you know what's coming. I went to get my laundry out of the basket. I saw metal. I dug through my clothing. Sure enough, it was my flash card. It went through both the washer and dryer, and looked actually better than it did before. It was shinier. So, after I touched it to make sure it didn't have any charge, I plugged it into the USB port - and the damn thing worked!
That's impressive.
In other news...
Usually, one would think being attractive was a good thing, and yesterday (Monday 30th Jan.) I must have been especially good-looking (or something?). People just kept looking at me, and when I was at the pool, the lifeguard just couldn't seem to get her eyes off me. Of course, maybe she just thought I was crazy. That happens too. Heh. Probably pretty often.
So, after I was done swimming, I of course went back to the locker room and showered off. Now, I don't especially care about being naked - it's not like I'm showing off anything new or unusual. I mean, hell, we're all naked under our clothes, right? So I usually don't get dressed until I'm all the way dry. I was standing there, toweling off, and I see this runty half-retarded looking little guy walking down the corridor towards me. Nothing unusual about people walking down corridors, but I hated him at first sight. He is just one of those people you instinctively want to hurt. Maybe you've never felt that, and if so, you're very lucky. He's apparently walking to the showers, and was naked as well. I began walking to the urinals, and as he passed me by, I noticed he was looking at my crotch.... Well, his gaze was a bit more specific than that.
A string of profanities ran through my mind, something along the lines of "what the fuck is your problem, you half-bit queer? You never seen a cock before? Your mother must've been a dumptruck, cause she sure dumped a load when she had you." And other things. You know how thoughts are in the moment - incomplete and only possessing a few words. The ideas are there, but it's only later that they get embellished with coherent speech. I considered how I might turn this sort of thing to my advantage - I could charge people money to look at me - but couldn't come up with anything both profitable and honorable. After I'd washed my hands and weighed myself (did you know that I somehow lose two pounds every time I swim? I really don't get it), I returned to my pile of stuff. That ugly little shit was sitting on a bench right outside the shower, toweling himself, and staring intently at me.
Then my mind replayed the scene, and I looked again. Sure enough, the towel was only covering his crotch. And it seems a certain body part was in need of excessive drying, because he just kept rubbing it. I like to give people the benefit of the doubt - but it was obvious by the towel's outline that he deserved none. And he was still staring. More than that - it was with rapt admiration.
Immediately, I, too, began fantasizing - though probably not in the way he would wish. It occured to me that I would love to know how much damage I could do to someone without actually killing them. It also occured to me that I didn't know how quickly I would be able to carry that out -and that was also worth knowing. An experiment was in order! The satisfaction of hearing his ribs crack, of feeling the obscenely beautiful thud of his head against the concrete wall, the excitement of the rushing chase and the madness of violence - but then, before I was fully aware of it, I had decided to be calm.
I am not sure why, but my line of thought was something like, "he is not an immediate threat. he is disgusting. do you really want to touch that filth? he might actually enjoy it. that makes me want to kill him even more. but he's no threat. they're queer-friendly here...they wouldn't listen to me...i'd likely be caught. since when has that stopped you? but he's so pathetic. he's so worthless it's not worth hurting him."
There it was, calmness. I won't deny I still felt a half-psychotic rage, but it was under control. I looked again; he was still beating off madly with his towel, and he was fully aware of my disgusted glare. I'm not sure if he didn't think I'd figure it out, or what, but there he still sat, pathetic deformed little creature that he was, fucking a towel. I dressed myself. I considered, once I had my shoes on, beating the living shit out of him anyway. "Shoes have better grip than bare feet on the floor, after all", I reasoned. Not that I would've needed it: I automatically look for any justification that'll let me act, that's all. He was so little, though, and so pathetically, laughably worthless...perhaps I thought it far more cruel to do nothing, to allow him to live that way. I really have mellowed with age.
I regret not acting now, in a way. I still wish to do horrifically painful things to him, and I've always wanted to know if I could drive my hand through the soft underside of someone's jaw. I've always been able to hold back enough not to do anything really stupid like that in the past, and I should be able to continue, but I really am pissed off. If I never see him again, that would probably be best.
Heh. I'm glad to have written this down - it's the sort of thing bizarre enough that you start questioning whether it ever really happened. It's also good stress-relief.
So anyway, my point is, being attractive is not always good (though I guess you ladies already knew that). And though I don't mind gay people existing, in some sort of detached, mental way - in reality, I hate fags. Good day.
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
Would anyone like to send a letter to Target?
Dear Target:
I do not frequent your stores. I find myself in one once or twice a year, perhaps. They seem nice enough, and the merchandise appears to be of fair quality. I am a simple man - the sort that seems nearly extinct in our land. I do not buy frivolous things; in fact, I rarely buy anything at all. To put it simply, I have no reason to enter your stores, and am thus unfamiliar with your normal operations or business philosophy.
However, while driving yesterday, I noticed a sign. This sign concerns you -it was on your building. It seems to have been there an intermediate length of time: it is not worn heavily, neither is it shining new. I would guess, then, that you do have knowledge of it, but I bring it to your attention nonetheless.
This sign left me somewhat muddled.
It said, without explanation, "Target: Greatland." Fortunately my sister, one of your more frequent visitors, was riding with me and quickly provided me with lucidity.
She said it simply indicated that that particular store was a large one, with greater variety in merchandise. She likened it to a "Super Wal-Mart".
However, I would like to bring to your attention the following: "Super Wal-Mart" indicates exactly what the store is. "Wal-Mart" is short for Walton's Mart - Walton being the name of the founder, and "mart" being another word for market. "Super" indicates surpassing excellence or degree, so from "Super Wal-Mart", one would expect not only the normal services and goods your esteemed competitor provides, but also additional ones not regularly available. It is a Wal-Mart, only more so, or better.
The name of your store is a problem in itself, though I can understand why it was chosen. I would speculate it was meant to indicate that your store is a shopper's target - exactly what they should hit in their meandering path. Shoppers are rather like bees, in a way: without any clear sense of direction, but attracted to the wild gesturings of their peers and to bright colors or scents. You are aware of this, I am certain - one of your many ads did liken your symbol to a sunflower. This is all reasonable enough, though perhaps I should want to name the establishment something less martial - especially in these troubled times.
But the name of your business, combined with the supposed descriptor, "Greatland", is greatly confusing. Firstly, "Greatland" is reminiscent of Russian naming schemes. This, together with other recent developments such as the Homeland Security office, surely do not put the minds of our fellow citizens at ease. "Greatland" is not a genuine word of the language we commonly speak; I have never once heard a single utterance of it. Further, "Target: Greatland" sounds precisely like the title for a thriller, or for a spy novel.
But, if these issues do not concern you, at least consider this: the descriptor, "Greatland", does not actually describe what your business does. If one were to ask, "how does this Target differ from the others?," the only reasonable reply would be that it is situated in a great land. I have no argument that this land is exceedingly great; however, not all of your stores have this moniker. Am I to assume that only some of the land is great, while the rest is suboptimal? Is this an open display of discrimination towards unfavorable locations? Customers, I think, do not like to be told their neighborhood is less appealing than others. I only note that if one store in this country carries that particular moniker, it would be only fair and sensible for the others to be thusly named. The alternate would indicate a suboptimal situation, or, perhaps, that the stores without that appellation are situated in a different country. This is one nation, and if you are referring to our ancient and bloodily contested British ownership, or to our being only a part of the world, I am greatly offended.
All I desire, if I must make it known in such straightforward terms, is for your business to find a name that informs the potential customer, such as myself, as to what can be expected. "Target: Greatland", as I have spent some little effort demonstrating, does no such thing.
I write this petition in solicitation of your time and a suitable explanation, or, better yet, a change. I am anxious to hear your reply.
I do not frequent your stores. I find myself in one once or twice a year, perhaps. They seem nice enough, and the merchandise appears to be of fair quality. I am a simple man - the sort that seems nearly extinct in our land. I do not buy frivolous things; in fact, I rarely buy anything at all. To put it simply, I have no reason to enter your stores, and am thus unfamiliar with your normal operations or business philosophy.
However, while driving yesterday, I noticed a sign. This sign concerns you -it was on your building. It seems to have been there an intermediate length of time: it is not worn heavily, neither is it shining new. I would guess, then, that you do have knowledge of it, but I bring it to your attention nonetheless.
This sign left me somewhat muddled.
It said, without explanation, "Target: Greatland." Fortunately my sister, one of your more frequent visitors, was riding with me and quickly provided me with lucidity.
She said it simply indicated that that particular store was a large one, with greater variety in merchandise. She likened it to a "Super Wal-Mart".
However, I would like to bring to your attention the following: "Super Wal-Mart" indicates exactly what the store is. "Wal-Mart" is short for Walton's Mart - Walton being the name of the founder, and "mart" being another word for market. "Super" indicates surpassing excellence or degree, so from "Super Wal-Mart", one would expect not only the normal services and goods your esteemed competitor provides, but also additional ones not regularly available. It is a Wal-Mart, only more so, or better.
The name of your store is a problem in itself, though I can understand why it was chosen. I would speculate it was meant to indicate that your store is a shopper's target - exactly what they should hit in their meandering path. Shoppers are rather like bees, in a way: without any clear sense of direction, but attracted to the wild gesturings of their peers and to bright colors or scents. You are aware of this, I am certain - one of your many ads did liken your symbol to a sunflower. This is all reasonable enough, though perhaps I should want to name the establishment something less martial - especially in these troubled times.
But the name of your business, combined with the supposed descriptor, "Greatland", is greatly confusing. Firstly, "Greatland" is reminiscent of Russian naming schemes. This, together with other recent developments such as the Homeland Security office, surely do not put the minds of our fellow citizens at ease. "Greatland" is not a genuine word of the language we commonly speak; I have never once heard a single utterance of it. Further, "Target: Greatland" sounds precisely like the title for a thriller, or for a spy novel.
But, if these issues do not concern you, at least consider this: the descriptor, "Greatland", does not actually describe what your business does. If one were to ask, "how does this Target differ from the others?," the only reasonable reply would be that it is situated in a great land. I have no argument that this land is exceedingly great; however, not all of your stores have this moniker. Am I to assume that only some of the land is great, while the rest is suboptimal? Is this an open display of discrimination towards unfavorable locations? Customers, I think, do not like to be told their neighborhood is less appealing than others. I only note that if one store in this country carries that particular moniker, it would be only fair and sensible for the others to be thusly named. The alternate would indicate a suboptimal situation, or, perhaps, that the stores without that appellation are situated in a different country. This is one nation, and if you are referring to our ancient and bloodily contested British ownership, or to our being only a part of the world, I am greatly offended.
All I desire, if I must make it known in such straightforward terms, is for your business to find a name that informs the potential customer, such as myself, as to what can be expected. "Target: Greatland", as I have spent some little effort demonstrating, does no such thing.
I write this petition in solicitation of your time and a suitable explanation, or, better yet, a change. I am anxious to hear your reply.
Saturday, January 07, 2006
From "The Musings of a Cat"
"Now, the vacuum is evil, but the humans do not see it. Practical as they are, they care only for results and will overlook imperfections . It is so crass and common of them, yet, it charms me all the same. It often allows them success in spite of themselves, success where others fail. I am almost proud of them.
To the issue at hand, though. Ah, that phrase! I have heard it too often, and now I use it! I suppose these things happen when one lives with humans.
As I was saying: the vacuum promises cleanliness, which we all agree is a great virtue. I have spoken with a few others, but none seem able to articulate exactly why they fear that monstrous aberration. I think I've finally caught it, though. The vacuum does deliver on its promise - it does clean. The noise is terrible, I admit, but reasonable beings do not fear loud noises if they signal no harm. The problem, as I shall reduce it, is thus: it provides cleanliness by taking away, rather than by imposing order. If I were to do the same, I would remove my fur rather than neatly grooming it. This is the worst, most careless way to solve problems - by destroying them."
- End of Excerpt
To the issue at hand, though. Ah, that phrase! I have heard it too often, and now I use it! I suppose these things happen when one lives with humans.
As I was saying: the vacuum promises cleanliness, which we all agree is a great virtue. I have spoken with a few others, but none seem able to articulate exactly why they fear that monstrous aberration. I think I've finally caught it, though. The vacuum does deliver on its promise - it does clean. The noise is terrible, I admit, but reasonable beings do not fear loud noises if they signal no harm. The problem, as I shall reduce it, is thus: it provides cleanliness by taking away, rather than by imposing order. If I were to do the same, I would remove my fur rather than neatly grooming it. This is the worst, most careless way to solve problems - by destroying them."
- End of Excerpt
Thursday, December 29, 2005
Locking the forum (not to keep us out, but to keep the windbags safely away)
I was thinking earlier today - why are politicians so irresponsible and short-sighted? Probably part of it is that the least logical people make the best leaders. There's not a lot we can do about that. We could make logic tests necessary for holding office, but, by virtue of the irrational being the best leaders, they would still make trouble, elected to office or not.
However, while not exemplars of logic, or of knowledge, or perhaps even common sense, politicians are rational - they do what they perceive to be best for themselves. And it seems to me that for the most part, politicians pursue whatever sounds good, as pleasing the people will lead to re-election. Not what is good, or what they think is good, but what sounds good. Many have a knack for saying things that sound logical, moral, and insightful, but which are actually proven not to work.
Take, for example, the issue of corporate taxes. Many argue that corporations have more money, so they should pay more. That they have a debt to society, and must help to pay for the burden of governance. Currently, corporate taxes in this country are at nearly 40%. Most corporations find loopholes to avoid paying taxes. Many legislators are outraged by this, and say that better enforcement must be put in place, and loopholes closed. However, they forget that businesses can locate themselves wherever they wish - if taxes are high, they will leave. It does not matter how good enforcement is, if there are no businesses to collect from. These same people will argue that we cannot lower taxes because the government is running a deficit. They ignore that businesses, when allowed to keep the money they earn, are much better at investing than the government. They ignore the fact that a low tax rate allows for high growth and for a bigger economy - this brings in just as much, if not more, tax revenue, and has the added benefit of raising everyone's standard of living. And why should business be responsible for government's inability to restrain itself?
But politicians ignore this, because it is far easier to demonize big business for big problems, and to ignore the fact that government is usually to blame when acts of God are not. After all, if big business can cause big problems, what worse mischief could our government cause? It is, after all, larger than any company on earth.
So, what can be done?
Politicians say what sounds good. So, what will they say if no one can hear them? I would propose a system whereby politicians are given no media voice - the media can report their actions, but not their words. And politicians will not be allowed, under any circumstances, to appear on TV. The only possible exception being the President, who as commander in chief, must occasionally address the entire nation.
Just think how pleasant life would be if there were no more political commercials! We could spend election months watching the usual ads for beer, feminine hygiene, and food. They are insipid, mindless, and even disgusting enough to hold us over, I'm sure.
I expect politics would carry on as usual, for a time. Then politicians, attention-seekers by nature, would notice that no one was watching. Perhaps that means they would be more corrupt, but I fail to see how they could be. With no one watching their grandstanding, they would be forced to accomplish things for the papers to report - without accomplishments, people would wonder what exactly they were doing. Accomplishments would be the only way of seeking attention.
Perhaps denying them all outlets would be too harsh. I don't especially think so, as most people are rather reasonable when discussing issues other than politics. And since most are ignorant of issues until politicians raise them, I believe most people would be more reasonable if they were not so misled. However, as I said, some people may think it too harsh to deny these firebrands all communication.
Perhaps they could be permitted time in the slow media - newspapers and the like. Sound bites work well on TV, but are much harder to sell in written form. And since people often don't read, the discussions would be limited to politicians, those who understood the issues, and the insane. The first and third categories would be assumed by the second to be dangerously ill-informed, and rightly so. Once those two sides were excluded, only those with understanding would be left, and their recommendations could be easily examined. In practice, it might not be possible to separate the first and third groups. At any rate, written discussions take more effort and thought, and it is much harder to intimidate or yell over the other side. Of course, the extra effort and thought might go into making even more devious and misleading statements, but, since the supply of truly devious writers is rather limited, I am willing to risk that.
In summary: politicians will nearly always pursue their rational self-interest; that is, to get re-elected. The only way to be elected is for people to know of you, and to support what you do. In order to be known, you must get attention. The current system allows politicians to garner attention mostly by making nonsensical statements, or to say whatever is popular at the moment, both being usually the same thing. If these masters of publicity were restricted - if people could only know of them by their actions - they would be forced to act, rather than bloviate, in order to receive attention. No amount of "ethics training" and no set of qualifications will change the way politicians act: human nature never changes. So it is far better to change the system, in order to reward different behaviors.
The main problem with this proposal is that legislators make the rules, and rarely make rules restricting themselves. So I expect this idea will never be implemented. But I do want to see it happen, if only to discover why it is a bad idea.
However, while not exemplars of logic, or of knowledge, or perhaps even common sense, politicians are rational - they do what they perceive to be best for themselves. And it seems to me that for the most part, politicians pursue whatever sounds good, as pleasing the people will lead to re-election. Not what is good, or what they think is good, but what sounds good. Many have a knack for saying things that sound logical, moral, and insightful, but which are actually proven not to work.
Take, for example, the issue of corporate taxes. Many argue that corporations have more money, so they should pay more. That they have a debt to society, and must help to pay for the burden of governance. Currently, corporate taxes in this country are at nearly 40%. Most corporations find loopholes to avoid paying taxes. Many legislators are outraged by this, and say that better enforcement must be put in place, and loopholes closed. However, they forget that businesses can locate themselves wherever they wish - if taxes are high, they will leave. It does not matter how good enforcement is, if there are no businesses to collect from. These same people will argue that we cannot lower taxes because the government is running a deficit. They ignore that businesses, when allowed to keep the money they earn, are much better at investing than the government. They ignore the fact that a low tax rate allows for high growth and for a bigger economy - this brings in just as much, if not more, tax revenue, and has the added benefit of raising everyone's standard of living. And why should business be responsible for government's inability to restrain itself?
But politicians ignore this, because it is far easier to demonize big business for big problems, and to ignore the fact that government is usually to blame when acts of God are not. After all, if big business can cause big problems, what worse mischief could our government cause? It is, after all, larger than any company on earth.
So, what can be done?
Politicians say what sounds good. So, what will they say if no one can hear them? I would propose a system whereby politicians are given no media voice - the media can report their actions, but not their words. And politicians will not be allowed, under any circumstances, to appear on TV. The only possible exception being the President, who as commander in chief, must occasionally address the entire nation.
Just think how pleasant life would be if there were no more political commercials! We could spend election months watching the usual ads for beer, feminine hygiene, and food. They are insipid, mindless, and even disgusting enough to hold us over, I'm sure.
I expect politics would carry on as usual, for a time. Then politicians, attention-seekers by nature, would notice that no one was watching. Perhaps that means they would be more corrupt, but I fail to see how they could be. With no one watching their grandstanding, they would be forced to accomplish things for the papers to report - without accomplishments, people would wonder what exactly they were doing. Accomplishments would be the only way of seeking attention.
Perhaps denying them all outlets would be too harsh. I don't especially think so, as most people are rather reasonable when discussing issues other than politics. And since most are ignorant of issues until politicians raise them, I believe most people would be more reasonable if they were not so misled. However, as I said, some people may think it too harsh to deny these firebrands all communication.
Perhaps they could be permitted time in the slow media - newspapers and the like. Sound bites work well on TV, but are much harder to sell in written form. And since people often don't read, the discussions would be limited to politicians, those who understood the issues, and the insane. The first and third categories would be assumed by the second to be dangerously ill-informed, and rightly so. Once those two sides were excluded, only those with understanding would be left, and their recommendations could be easily examined. In practice, it might not be possible to separate the first and third groups. At any rate, written discussions take more effort and thought, and it is much harder to intimidate or yell over the other side. Of course, the extra effort and thought might go into making even more devious and misleading statements, but, since the supply of truly devious writers is rather limited, I am willing to risk that.
In summary: politicians will nearly always pursue their rational self-interest; that is, to get re-elected. The only way to be elected is for people to know of you, and to support what you do. In order to be known, you must get attention. The current system allows politicians to garner attention mostly by making nonsensical statements, or to say whatever is popular at the moment, both being usually the same thing. If these masters of publicity were restricted - if people could only know of them by their actions - they would be forced to act, rather than bloviate, in order to receive attention. No amount of "ethics training" and no set of qualifications will change the way politicians act: human nature never changes. So it is far better to change the system, in order to reward different behaviors.
The main problem with this proposal is that legislators make the rules, and rarely make rules restricting themselves. So I expect this idea will never be implemented. But I do want to see it happen, if only to discover why it is a bad idea.
Advice on writing
Ach. I was going to write something earlier. I was excited, motivated, and knew precisely what I was going to say. And actually, I still know what I'm going to say, because it is directly related to my forgetting. But it won't be as good, and it will definitely be less organized.
I was going to say: here are my rules for writing.
It's not like I'm some wonderfully successful writer (I have won a little prize money, but nothing to brag about); however, these work for me.
The first, most important rule, and the one that I can't forget because forgetting reminds me of it, is this: never, never, never delay writing anything down. When it comes to mind, write it down. Don't wait until it's convenient. That'll be too late. Thoughts are ethereal - they leave once new ones come, and are gone without a trace. Sometimes you can summon them back by mulling over the same things that led to them, but that depends on you remembering those thoughts. Thoughts are like lives - they are ours, but they are not ours to keep. Use them while you have them.
The other important rule is very similar - write all the time. I say it is similar because most people will say to themselves, "someday I will write this or that," but someday is always another day away. There is only now.
As an excuse, people often say, "I don't know how to write very well," or, "I don't know what to write." That isn't important. The only way to improve is to practice. So, even though the first efforts will almost certainly be terrible, write them anyway. Go nuts. Finish them. Then, when time has removed you from the effort, go back and read it. You will be disappointed, and, if not, have someone else critique it. You will be disappointed. Write something new. Repeat. And if you say you have nothing to write about - well, having nothing to say has never stopped anyone from talking, has it? Write whatever comes to mind. If nothing comes to mind, you might be dead. Get that checked out. If you're not dead, something will come to mind. If you are, try writing anyway. Everyone wants to know what the dead can tell.
I suppose it would also be helpful to read good writing. Very helpful. Having friends, or even enemies, tear apart your writing can probably do an alright substitute job. But it is always easier to learn by following an example, than to learn through error what is not allowed. Writing only seems easy while you're reading it. When you know how difficult it is to write, you will learn much more from reading. Chances are, you will lose respect for some authors when you see how boring and mechanical their writing is. And of course you will gain respect for others.
A big part of writing is forcing people to see. We all forget the things that are always around us, due to familiarity. Often these things are important. So the writer's job is to find a new way of looking at the familiar, in a way that makes it strange and new again.
There are exceptions to these rules, and by no means are they inclusive. If you can concentrate on one thought, uninterrupted, you might not want to write it down immediately. Consider it, and let it develop and mature. See how it is embellished and changed. It may become more interesting than it originally was. Of course, it might also become dull, and then you will not want to write your original thought. Which is your loss, really - that thought may not have been bad, and it may be that it only occurred to you. Or, more likely, it has occurred to many, but none have written it. Be the first. There are other good rules on writing, but I am stubborn: I only know the ones I use, and ignore the advice of others.
I give this advice assuming you want to write, and that you are fool enough to trust me. I think nearly everyone wants to write, though. Most people like the idea of making their thoughts known, or at least making them permanent (as permanent as things get around here). Like I said, there is no way of knowing when, where, or whom 'your' thoughts will next strike - with such an uncertain future, it seems best to immortalize what we can while we still have time.
Probably the biggest misconception people have about writing is that it's easy. That is where nearly all the problems originate. People assume that, because it is easy, it requires no practice - the thoughts on paper will flow beautifully without effort. That writers do no 'real' work, but only relax and amuse themselves. Those are both totally wrong, of course. Writers are all crazy - the importance and difficulty of their work is out of all proportion to their pay. They control ideas, the most powerful tools we posses. And yet, most writers can only afford to write on the side, when they are not earning money at a 'real' job.
So, my message, especially for those of you in school: write. Now. Don't put it off.
(Oh - heh - and let me read it. We can help each other out.)
I was going to say: here are my rules for writing.
It's not like I'm some wonderfully successful writer (I have won a little prize money, but nothing to brag about); however, these work for me.
The first, most important rule, and the one that I can't forget because forgetting reminds me of it, is this: never, never, never delay writing anything down. When it comes to mind, write it down. Don't wait until it's convenient. That'll be too late. Thoughts are ethereal - they leave once new ones come, and are gone without a trace. Sometimes you can summon them back by mulling over the same things that led to them, but that depends on you remembering those thoughts. Thoughts are like lives - they are ours, but they are not ours to keep. Use them while you have them.
The other important rule is very similar - write all the time. I say it is similar because most people will say to themselves, "someday I will write this or that," but someday is always another day away. There is only now.
As an excuse, people often say, "I don't know how to write very well," or, "I don't know what to write." That isn't important. The only way to improve is to practice. So, even though the first efforts will almost certainly be terrible, write them anyway. Go nuts. Finish them. Then, when time has removed you from the effort, go back and read it. You will be disappointed, and, if not, have someone else critique it. You will be disappointed. Write something new. Repeat. And if you say you have nothing to write about - well, having nothing to say has never stopped anyone from talking, has it? Write whatever comes to mind. If nothing comes to mind, you might be dead. Get that checked out. If you're not dead, something will come to mind. If you are, try writing anyway. Everyone wants to know what the dead can tell.
I suppose it would also be helpful to read good writing. Very helpful. Having friends, or even enemies, tear apart your writing can probably do an alright substitute job. But it is always easier to learn by following an example, than to learn through error what is not allowed. Writing only seems easy while you're reading it. When you know how difficult it is to write, you will learn much more from reading. Chances are, you will lose respect for some authors when you see how boring and mechanical their writing is. And of course you will gain respect for others.
A big part of writing is forcing people to see. We all forget the things that are always around us, due to familiarity. Often these things are important. So the writer's job is to find a new way of looking at the familiar, in a way that makes it strange and new again.
There are exceptions to these rules, and by no means are they inclusive. If you can concentrate on one thought, uninterrupted, you might not want to write it down immediately. Consider it, and let it develop and mature. See how it is embellished and changed. It may become more interesting than it originally was. Of course, it might also become dull, and then you will not want to write your original thought. Which is your loss, really - that thought may not have been bad, and it may be that it only occurred to you. Or, more likely, it has occurred to many, but none have written it. Be the first. There are other good rules on writing, but I am stubborn: I only know the ones I use, and ignore the advice of others.
I give this advice assuming you want to write, and that you are fool enough to trust me. I think nearly everyone wants to write, though. Most people like the idea of making their thoughts known, or at least making them permanent (as permanent as things get around here). Like I said, there is no way of knowing when, where, or whom 'your' thoughts will next strike - with such an uncertain future, it seems best to immortalize what we can while we still have time.
Probably the biggest misconception people have about writing is that it's easy. That is where nearly all the problems originate. People assume that, because it is easy, it requires no practice - the thoughts on paper will flow beautifully without effort. That writers do no 'real' work, but only relax and amuse themselves. Those are both totally wrong, of course. Writers are all crazy - the importance and difficulty of their work is out of all proportion to their pay. They control ideas, the most powerful tools we posses. And yet, most writers can only afford to write on the side, when they are not earning money at a 'real' job.
So, my message, especially for those of you in school: write. Now. Don't put it off.
(Oh - heh - and let me read it. We can help each other out.)
Thursday, December 22, 2005
Prisoners
I was thinking today, not for the first time, that we should do something with our prisoners. Sure, we could set them to work doing menial labor - but we already do that, and while we do get some use out of them, they don't benefit much from it. They are returned to the world beaten men, without skills or money. So of course they get arrested again. And while we could continue as we are - raising taxes and building ever more prisons - I'm not happy with that.
Who does it benefit to re-arrest these men, time and time again? Not me. I pay for them. And yet I get no benefit - there is a reduction in crime, but the lack of negative action is not the same as the presence of the positive. They do not benefit, either: in prison they make almost no money, no real friends, and no useful skills. Even if they do stay clean after their sentences, they have records that will haunt them - records that make employment difficult.
Our prisons are full. So full, in fact, that many have to parole prisoners early, just to free up space. There are nearly two million imprisoned at this moment, and so I say the time is right for something new.
We could provide job-training, forgive lesser criminals, and give money with which to start new lives. But no one wants to pay criminals, and chances are most of them wouldn't take it seriously.
My thoughts are not so original: we need to train these prisoners, at least the promising ones, and give them a new path in life. We also need more soldiers.
The military most likely does not want criminals in its ranks. And neither would I. Instead, I would create a new branch - the American Foreign Legion. It would accept anyone seeking a fresh start, offering a clean record and American citizenship to those able to fulfill their contract.
Criminals would be free to choose whether to serve time in prison, or in the Legion. The Legion would be under no obligation to accept them, and could thus weed out some of the worst from the start. Training would be brutal, of course, and discipline harsh. Those who made it through training would make it into the Legion; those who did not would return to prison.
These soldiers would be paid like any others, and would learn discipline, trust, and honor, as well as pride in themselves and in their country. They would be sent wherever they were needed, and would not require the large bases that ordinary units require: they would have no families.
Remember, they are new men, with no past.
At the end of their commitment they would be free, with new skills, money, and clean records. If they so desired, they could remain in the Legion. Or they could join one of the other armed services. But they would be under no obligation to do so - after all, they have met their obligation, and been forgiven.
This would decrease crowding at jails to some degree, though that would depend on a decent number graduating from training; it would teach prisoners valuable skills, as well as give them money and clean records for life after the sentence; and it would provide us with more manpower. It would probably cost more than current programs, but this money would be well-spent. After all, better a man should feed himself than we should feed him. A jailed man benefits no one, whereas a free man, working, benefits all. And most importantly, don't we in this country believe in forgiveness, and in new beginnings?
I see this as a system that can benefit everyone.
Who does it benefit to re-arrest these men, time and time again? Not me. I pay for them. And yet I get no benefit - there is a reduction in crime, but the lack of negative action is not the same as the presence of the positive. They do not benefit, either: in prison they make almost no money, no real friends, and no useful skills. Even if they do stay clean after their sentences, they have records that will haunt them - records that make employment difficult.
Our prisons are full. So full, in fact, that many have to parole prisoners early, just to free up space. There are nearly two million imprisoned at this moment, and so I say the time is right for something new.
We could provide job-training, forgive lesser criminals, and give money with which to start new lives. But no one wants to pay criminals, and chances are most of them wouldn't take it seriously.
My thoughts are not so original: we need to train these prisoners, at least the promising ones, and give them a new path in life. We also need more soldiers.
The military most likely does not want criminals in its ranks. And neither would I. Instead, I would create a new branch - the American Foreign Legion. It would accept anyone seeking a fresh start, offering a clean record and American citizenship to those able to fulfill their contract.
Criminals would be free to choose whether to serve time in prison, or in the Legion. The Legion would be under no obligation to accept them, and could thus weed out some of the worst from the start. Training would be brutal, of course, and discipline harsh. Those who made it through training would make it into the Legion; those who did not would return to prison.
These soldiers would be paid like any others, and would learn discipline, trust, and honor, as well as pride in themselves and in their country. They would be sent wherever they were needed, and would not require the large bases that ordinary units require: they would have no families.
Remember, they are new men, with no past.
At the end of their commitment they would be free, with new skills, money, and clean records. If they so desired, they could remain in the Legion. Or they could join one of the other armed services. But they would be under no obligation to do so - after all, they have met their obligation, and been forgiven.
This would decrease crowding at jails to some degree, though that would depend on a decent number graduating from training; it would teach prisoners valuable skills, as well as give them money and clean records for life after the sentence; and it would provide us with more manpower. It would probably cost more than current programs, but this money would be well-spent. After all, better a man should feed himself than we should feed him. A jailed man benefits no one, whereas a free man, working, benefits all. And most importantly, don't we in this country believe in forgiveness, and in new beginnings?
I see this as a system that can benefit everyone.
Saturday, December 10, 2005
Part 5
Something was definitely wrong.
The sunshine was gone. Worse, something had woken me. My confusion didn't last long: everyone was running from the restaurant. I got up, and followed the crowd to the door.
In the middle of the street was a mob of people - crowded around someone laying on the ground. Chuck was kneeling beside the person and, when he reached his hands back to wipe them on his pants, I could clearly see they were red.
I started to run, to see if I could help, but someone grabbed my sleeve.
It was an old woman, leaning on a cane, her eyes wide with concern. Holding my shirt both for balance and in plea, she asked, "what is it? What's going on?" I couldn't let her down.
"I don't know! I was going to find out! Whoever that is, they're bleeding pretty bad." I tried to see through the crowd, without much luck.
"Oh dear! I thought I heard a rifle. I hope it was just an accident." She was shivering, but just a little. She shook her head back and forth as if she could simply disagree the situation away. She didn't look at all like she thought it an accident.
"You think they got shot?"
"People don't just lay down in the street, bleeding. "
"You're right. Look, I've got to go see -"
"Are you a doctor?" I looked. Her eyes were stony. I wondered why.
"No."
"A nurse?"
"No!"
"Any medical training?"
"No, ma'am," I spat out, trying to stare her down "look, I -"
"Then don't get in the way. That boy looks like he knows what he's doing." Damnit. I couldn't just run from such a helpless (and demanding) old woman.
The crowd drifted a little. That seemed like a good sign. But, as it began to break apart, I saw him. That pale kid was right there in the crowd. He was smiling...at the wounded man?
It was a little creepy.
The crowd faded into darkness, as though something had covered the sun. No, my head...something...can't focus. The bottom dropped out of my stomach. I shuddered uncontrollably. I saw the crowd staggering, even through my dull vision. What was going on?
Then I saw him moving - and heard a sudden, slick sound. I hoped I had misheard, but it replayed in my mind. The man he had been near slumped forward, and then met the ground. The sound repeated, another man curled up on himself, then fell.
I think it happened more, and the sound was very wet. That's all I know. A wet sound, obscene. I kept hearing it.
I don't know why no one moved. I couldn't see.
Someone was yelling. Someone angry. It was Chuck! With that thought, my vision came back. I was laying on the ground. Chuck had a big gash in his shirt, and there was blood everywhere. On him and on the ground. I hoped it wasn't his. He was still yelling when he lunged at the kid.
That pale freak's eyes widened, and he reeled back, arms out. I was glad to see him surprised. He tripped as he threw himself backwards, and suddenly I felt much better. Everything would be alright.
But, still falling, he smiled again, wider than ever. I wanted the moment to end, but time was slow. Chuck tackled him. They skidded slowly through the air. I worried - what was behind that lunatic, beatific smile? I felt like I could reach out and grab him, demand to know what he was doing, and still have time left before he hit the ground.
There was a sudden, hollow sound, a resounding heavy drum, and they were down. I wondered if his ribs were broken. Chuck pinned him. The kid did nothing but wheeze, and weakly struggle - I felt exultant. Then I noticed why he was able to struggle as much as he was - Chuck was getting very, very pale, and shaking like a sheet in the wind. He slouched forward, slowly. And then, like he was laying down to sleep, ever so slowly, with his arms resisting, he fell, and there was a heap of two bodies.
I was halfway there before I remembered the old woman. I turned my head quickly, and, unsurprisingly, she had collapsed without my support. I looked forward again, and I was already there. I rolled Chuck over, and looked at the kid: sure enough, he wasn't moving. So I turned my attention to Chuck, and to his wounds. Where his shirt was torn and bloody, there was an oozing hole, and blood coursed from it. I fumbled around, trying to apply pressure, but I'm not sure it did any good. A little less leaked out, but I think it leaked out inside, instead. Or maybe there wasn't much left. No! Damnit! He couldn't die!
He moaned. He was alive! I never thought I'd enjoy hearing moans of pain, but it meant he was alive!
"Chuck, buddy, you gotta help me out. Hang in there. Tell me what to do. You know what to do. You're bleeding. A...a stab wound. A puncture, I guess. I'm trying to stop the bleeding but I don't know how! Help me out!" He rolled his eyes to me, slowly.
He mumbled, "...shit. Praugh...probably too late. So cold. .... I need...a little water."
I really wanted to get him some water. I didn't think it'd do much good, but I really wanted to help. I got up - and the kid was gone. I panicked.
Up the street just a bit, I saw him. He seemed to have recovered. He saw me, and started running, hard. His knife swung in his hand, tearing the air. This couldn't be! He had been so weak only moments before! I ran.
I felt ashamed, running off to let Chuck die. And these people, too. I couldn't even think straight.
I collapsed again. Before I hit the ground, all I could think of was, "why?"
I was terrified, yet, I could not move. In a way, it was peaceful. Everything was out of my control now. There was nothing I could do; no reason to worry. I'd always known I was going to die, sooner or later. Now was not so -
There was a harsh grunt. That got through to me. It was followed by a sound - perhaps like the sound of a sack of flour, filled with sticks, cracking against the ground. From the tops of my eyes, I saw the kid slide down a wall, and Chuck's limbs drop to the ground. I couldn't understand.
My senses returned, at least a little. That perplexing sound...
Then I knew. That was the sound of bones breaking. Somehow, whether by luck, or blind rage, or divine intervention, the kid had run right overtop of my dying friend. The old man must have willed enough strength to pull off a throw - transferring all that forward momentum into a short flight to the wall. I felt sick from the sound.
Slowly, unsteadily, I rose to my feet. There were a lot of people on the ground, now that I had time to look. I moved to my friend as quickly as my legs and balance permitted.
There was just a flicker of life left in his eyes. He looked around, dully, and though I called his name, he did not look. He did not hear, and he could not see. He whispered, "it's only fear, only fear, that's all, that's how they do it, just...weak mind...just...." Almost imperceptibly, he was moving slower, and less, each instant. Each moment was a short age. I pleaded with him, and with God. Nothing happened. And, before I was ready, there was no movement at all.
I felt sticky.
I was covered with drying blood, and with tears. I do not know how long it was, but as the blood was not dry, and the body not cold, it could not have been long. Something had broken through my sorrow. It was...it was another noise. A slick noise. That same one as...what was it? That was so long ago. Another. Again. Oh, wait...my stomach knotted up. It was...it was....
Oh shit.
I looked up. There, as if reaping a crop, was the thing. Kneeling, cutting, rising, and then stumbling to the ground again. It was only a thing now. No human being could do that. Not so...gleefully. So mechanically. He limped, and sagged, and was misshapen. I could not understand how he still moved. He staggered from body to body. His head rolled to one side, and he saw me. Blood leaked into his eyes, and a crusty stream ran from his mouth. He straightened somewhat, and turned to me. He shambled towards me, smiling, but his jaw hung to one side, and there were new gaps in his grin. Before, his eyes had sparkled with evil delight. Now, they were vacant, dead, empty - they simply saw. But still he smiled, and shambled more.
Directly before him, a woman woke up. Before she could move, though, he stooped, and put his knife through her neck, just behind her windpipe. He pulled, and I saw it rise - oh, it rose! He never looked away from me.
I was running. I did not know it, and then, once I did, I did not know where I meant to go. Away. I only wanted away. But he would follow me! Like before! He followed me from the woods. It did not matter if I ran - I would tire, and he could not. He would walk until I collapsed, and then he'd have me, too.
I saw a van. A white van. The driver was slumped in the seat, leaning against the door. It was patiently trying to idle forward, but a...a something I would not look at was keeping it back (oh her eyes! They...stared!). I scrambled to it, and yanked the door open. I was not sure, but I thought the driver might be alive. Before I had decided anything, I tossed him from his seat and onto the pavement - the murderer was almost here.
I was driving away already. I thought, "I could not run him over - I would have to run over the people who might not be dead. I can't." But this was just an excuse - the van was turned around before this even occurred to me.
After that, I do not know what happened. I was at home. I did not want to sleep. There were times when I was not awake - black times - but they were not sleep. I could see the heaps of bodies, still, and I imagined that poor old woman I had let fall, murdered because of me. Chuck was breathing raggedly, leaking blood, staring at me with hateful accusation. That driver...he was in his rightful place, in his own vehicle, bloody from the wounds that killed him, and he watched my every move. They all watched me. All of them. I screamed, and I told them it wasn't my fault, but they did not care. They were dead. They had all the patience in the world. They would never stop.
I am not sure how long I was there. I had not changed clothing. I could not shower. It would be too noisy - I couldn't hear if I showered. And what if he came when I was changing clothes? I didn't eat. There was no way to eat.
Even though it was noisy, I turned on the television. I had to know.
"We bring you more on this evening's tragic news. Police responding to a nearly incoherent motorist found a grisly sight - an entire town, murdered. Police do not have any details, but they are recommending that people in the local area stay in their homes, and be on the lookout. And for those of us further away, they urge caution as well - they do not know where the killers went. Whoever did this, whatever group it was, is very dangerous, and presumably heavily-armed. Police have not yet said what they think killed these people, or how long it took, or why no one called for help. But they stressed that they do have some leads - some witnesses recall the last vehicle on the highway from that direction as being a white van." My mind went blank, and the room was suddenly cold. The TV said something about the model and license. "Preliminary reports are sketchy, but it appears that the vehicle was stolen from town - its owner was among the victims. The police ask that any and all possible sightings be reported - and that if you spot this van, do not go near it. I repeat, do not go near this van. It may very well be the murderer's getaway vehicle.
Even more troubling, it appears that most of these victims did not put up a struggle. Only one young man survived, and he appears to have put up a fierce fight - many of his bones are broken. He currently is in extremely serious condition. But he alone seems to have resisted. Could this have been a chemical or biological attack? Is this the work of terrorists? The governor and the President both are asking people around the nation to join in prayer for -"
I switched it off. They were coming for me. Coming for me. And they would not believe.... They would never believe anything I said! I felt like I deserved it. I abandoned those people. They all died. And here I was, alive. They all died so I could get away.
Damn them all! The cops had their killer. But they were coming for me! Why? Why had any of this happened?
The sunshine was gone. Worse, something had woken me. My confusion didn't last long: everyone was running from the restaurant. I got up, and followed the crowd to the door.
In the middle of the street was a mob of people - crowded around someone laying on the ground. Chuck was kneeling beside the person and, when he reached his hands back to wipe them on his pants, I could clearly see they were red.
I started to run, to see if I could help, but someone grabbed my sleeve.
It was an old woman, leaning on a cane, her eyes wide with concern. Holding my shirt both for balance and in plea, she asked, "what is it? What's going on?" I couldn't let her down.
"I don't know! I was going to find out! Whoever that is, they're bleeding pretty bad." I tried to see through the crowd, without much luck.
"Oh dear! I thought I heard a rifle. I hope it was just an accident." She was shivering, but just a little. She shook her head back and forth as if she could simply disagree the situation away. She didn't look at all like she thought it an accident.
"You think they got shot?"
"People don't just lay down in the street, bleeding. "
"You're right. Look, I've got to go see -"
"Are you a doctor?" I looked. Her eyes were stony. I wondered why.
"No."
"A nurse?"
"No!"
"Any medical training?"
"No, ma'am," I spat out, trying to stare her down "look, I -"
"Then don't get in the way. That boy looks like he knows what he's doing." Damnit. I couldn't just run from such a helpless (and demanding) old woman.
The crowd drifted a little. That seemed like a good sign. But, as it began to break apart, I saw him. That pale kid was right there in the crowd. He was smiling...at the wounded man?
It was a little creepy.
The crowd faded into darkness, as though something had covered the sun. No, my head...something...can't focus. The bottom dropped out of my stomach. I shuddered uncontrollably. I saw the crowd staggering, even through my dull vision. What was going on?
Then I saw him moving - and heard a sudden, slick sound. I hoped I had misheard, but it replayed in my mind. The man he had been near slumped forward, and then met the ground. The sound repeated, another man curled up on himself, then fell.
I think it happened more, and the sound was very wet. That's all I know. A wet sound, obscene. I kept hearing it.
I don't know why no one moved. I couldn't see.
Someone was yelling. Someone angry. It was Chuck! With that thought, my vision came back. I was laying on the ground. Chuck had a big gash in his shirt, and there was blood everywhere. On him and on the ground. I hoped it wasn't his. He was still yelling when he lunged at the kid.
That pale freak's eyes widened, and he reeled back, arms out. I was glad to see him surprised. He tripped as he threw himself backwards, and suddenly I felt much better. Everything would be alright.
But, still falling, he smiled again, wider than ever. I wanted the moment to end, but time was slow. Chuck tackled him. They skidded slowly through the air. I worried - what was behind that lunatic, beatific smile? I felt like I could reach out and grab him, demand to know what he was doing, and still have time left before he hit the ground.
There was a sudden, hollow sound, a resounding heavy drum, and they were down. I wondered if his ribs were broken. Chuck pinned him. The kid did nothing but wheeze, and weakly struggle - I felt exultant. Then I noticed why he was able to struggle as much as he was - Chuck was getting very, very pale, and shaking like a sheet in the wind. He slouched forward, slowly. And then, like he was laying down to sleep, ever so slowly, with his arms resisting, he fell, and there was a heap of two bodies.
I was halfway there before I remembered the old woman. I turned my head quickly, and, unsurprisingly, she had collapsed without my support. I looked forward again, and I was already there. I rolled Chuck over, and looked at the kid: sure enough, he wasn't moving. So I turned my attention to Chuck, and to his wounds. Where his shirt was torn and bloody, there was an oozing hole, and blood coursed from it. I fumbled around, trying to apply pressure, but I'm not sure it did any good. A little less leaked out, but I think it leaked out inside, instead. Or maybe there wasn't much left. No! Damnit! He couldn't die!
He moaned. He was alive! I never thought I'd enjoy hearing moans of pain, but it meant he was alive!
"Chuck, buddy, you gotta help me out. Hang in there. Tell me what to do. You know what to do. You're bleeding. A...a stab wound. A puncture, I guess. I'm trying to stop the bleeding but I don't know how! Help me out!" He rolled his eyes to me, slowly.
He mumbled, "...shit. Praugh...probably too late. So cold. .... I need...a little water."
I really wanted to get him some water. I didn't think it'd do much good, but I really wanted to help. I got up - and the kid was gone. I panicked.
Up the street just a bit, I saw him. He seemed to have recovered. He saw me, and started running, hard. His knife swung in his hand, tearing the air. This couldn't be! He had been so weak only moments before! I ran.
I felt ashamed, running off to let Chuck die. And these people, too. I couldn't even think straight.
I collapsed again. Before I hit the ground, all I could think of was, "why?"
I was terrified, yet, I could not move. In a way, it was peaceful. Everything was out of my control now. There was nothing I could do; no reason to worry. I'd always known I was going to die, sooner or later. Now was not so -
There was a harsh grunt. That got through to me. It was followed by a sound - perhaps like the sound of a sack of flour, filled with sticks, cracking against the ground. From the tops of my eyes, I saw the kid slide down a wall, and Chuck's limbs drop to the ground. I couldn't understand.
My senses returned, at least a little. That perplexing sound...
Then I knew. That was the sound of bones breaking. Somehow, whether by luck, or blind rage, or divine intervention, the kid had run right overtop of my dying friend. The old man must have willed enough strength to pull off a throw - transferring all that forward momentum into a short flight to the wall. I felt sick from the sound.
Slowly, unsteadily, I rose to my feet. There were a lot of people on the ground, now that I had time to look. I moved to my friend as quickly as my legs and balance permitted.
There was just a flicker of life left in his eyes. He looked around, dully, and though I called his name, he did not look. He did not hear, and he could not see. He whispered, "it's only fear, only fear, that's all, that's how they do it, just...weak mind...just...." Almost imperceptibly, he was moving slower, and less, each instant. Each moment was a short age. I pleaded with him, and with God. Nothing happened. And, before I was ready, there was no movement at all.
I felt sticky.
I was covered with drying blood, and with tears. I do not know how long it was, but as the blood was not dry, and the body not cold, it could not have been long. Something had broken through my sorrow. It was...it was another noise. A slick noise. That same one as...what was it? That was so long ago. Another. Again. Oh, wait...my stomach knotted up. It was...it was....
Oh shit.
I looked up. There, as if reaping a crop, was the thing. Kneeling, cutting, rising, and then stumbling to the ground again. It was only a thing now. No human being could do that. Not so...gleefully. So mechanically. He limped, and sagged, and was misshapen. I could not understand how he still moved. He staggered from body to body. His head rolled to one side, and he saw me. Blood leaked into his eyes, and a crusty stream ran from his mouth. He straightened somewhat, and turned to me. He shambled towards me, smiling, but his jaw hung to one side, and there were new gaps in his grin. Before, his eyes had sparkled with evil delight. Now, they were vacant, dead, empty - they simply saw. But still he smiled, and shambled more.
Directly before him, a woman woke up. Before she could move, though, he stooped, and put his knife through her neck, just behind her windpipe. He pulled, and I saw it rise - oh, it rose! He never looked away from me.
I was running. I did not know it, and then, once I did, I did not know where I meant to go. Away. I only wanted away. But he would follow me! Like before! He followed me from the woods. It did not matter if I ran - I would tire, and he could not. He would walk until I collapsed, and then he'd have me, too.
I saw a van. A white van. The driver was slumped in the seat, leaning against the door. It was patiently trying to idle forward, but a...a something I would not look at was keeping it back (oh her eyes! They...stared!). I scrambled to it, and yanked the door open. I was not sure, but I thought the driver might be alive. Before I had decided anything, I tossed him from his seat and onto the pavement - the murderer was almost here.
I was driving away already. I thought, "I could not run him over - I would have to run over the people who might not be dead. I can't." But this was just an excuse - the van was turned around before this even occurred to me.
After that, I do not know what happened. I was at home. I did not want to sleep. There were times when I was not awake - black times - but they were not sleep. I could see the heaps of bodies, still, and I imagined that poor old woman I had let fall, murdered because of me. Chuck was breathing raggedly, leaking blood, staring at me with hateful accusation. That driver...he was in his rightful place, in his own vehicle, bloody from the wounds that killed him, and he watched my every move. They all watched me. All of them. I screamed, and I told them it wasn't my fault, but they did not care. They were dead. They had all the patience in the world. They would never stop.
I am not sure how long I was there. I had not changed clothing. I could not shower. It would be too noisy - I couldn't hear if I showered. And what if he came when I was changing clothes? I didn't eat. There was no way to eat.
Even though it was noisy, I turned on the television. I had to know.
"We bring you more on this evening's tragic news. Police responding to a nearly incoherent motorist found a grisly sight - an entire town, murdered. Police do not have any details, but they are recommending that people in the local area stay in their homes, and be on the lookout. And for those of us further away, they urge caution as well - they do not know where the killers went. Whoever did this, whatever group it was, is very dangerous, and presumably heavily-armed. Police have not yet said what they think killed these people, or how long it took, or why no one called for help. But they stressed that they do have some leads - some witnesses recall the last vehicle on the highway from that direction as being a white van." My mind went blank, and the room was suddenly cold. The TV said something about the model and license. "Preliminary reports are sketchy, but it appears that the vehicle was stolen from town - its owner was among the victims. The police ask that any and all possible sightings be reported - and that if you spot this van, do not go near it. I repeat, do not go near this van. It may very well be the murderer's getaway vehicle.
Even more troubling, it appears that most of these victims did not put up a struggle. Only one young man survived, and he appears to have put up a fierce fight - many of his bones are broken. He currently is in extremely serious condition. But he alone seems to have resisted. Could this have been a chemical or biological attack? Is this the work of terrorists? The governor and the President both are asking people around the nation to join in prayer for -"
I switched it off. They were coming for me. Coming for me. And they would not believe.... They would never believe anything I said! I felt like I deserved it. I abandoned those people. They all died. And here I was, alive. They all died so I could get away.
Damn them all! The cops had their killer. But they were coming for me! Why? Why had any of this happened?
Further non-work on that story
But seriously, I'll finish it sometime. There are two reasons why I haven't so far:
1. It takes time, which I unfortunately have wasted on other things.
2. It takes the right mood, and honestly, I'm far too cheerful to finish this the way I intended. At least for the past few weeks.
I'm thinking of something to write in the future. It's about...space Mormons!
...
I wrote a description on it. The description was desperately boring. So, I deleted it. If I get around to fleshing it out (or perhaps flushing it out), maybe it will be funny. Or maybe it'll piss people off. Either way, I'll be entertained.
Well, it's more than space Mormons. But that probably doesn't matter to you right now.
When I'm tired, like I am now, I can't write for crap. It comes out boring and insipid, and kind of depressing (I have now gone through and rewritten every sentence - because they were all crap the first time, and some even the second or third. When I'm less tired I need less revising). So, why don't I go to sleep and write later? When I am well-rested, I want to do everything but write. That's why. Come to think of it, I'm most lazy when I feel good. When I'm tired, or overwhelmed with work - that is when I am usually most productive. I could speculate that's it's because when I feel good, it doesn't seem like I need to do anything further. So I don't. Hmmm....
Why did you read all that? It couldn't have been very interesting.
Sleep is sounding really good now.
Want a poem? No? Unfortunately, the Internet is not yet interactive through time. If you are protesting, you'll have to do it just a little louder and without regards to the usual chronological flow. If you do that, I'll definitely do as you ask, just for the novelty of it.
Of course, you could easily stop reading.
How about this one -
If ever I gain
enough acclaim,
perhaps I shall be renouned -
recalled by a different name.
(I am such a sucker for bad puns. My apologies to those of you who aren't - http://dictionary.reference.com/search?q=renown might help you figure things out.)
1. It takes time, which I unfortunately have wasted on other things.
2. It takes the right mood, and honestly, I'm far too cheerful to finish this the way I intended. At least for the past few weeks.
I'm thinking of something to write in the future. It's about...space Mormons!
...
I wrote a description on it. The description was desperately boring. So, I deleted it. If I get around to fleshing it out (or perhaps flushing it out), maybe it will be funny. Or maybe it'll piss people off. Either way, I'll be entertained.
Well, it's more than space Mormons. But that probably doesn't matter to you right now.
When I'm tired, like I am now, I can't write for crap. It comes out boring and insipid, and kind of depressing (I have now gone through and rewritten every sentence - because they were all crap the first time, and some even the second or third. When I'm less tired I need less revising). So, why don't I go to sleep and write later? When I am well-rested, I want to do everything but write. That's why. Come to think of it, I'm most lazy when I feel good. When I'm tired, or overwhelmed with work - that is when I am usually most productive. I could speculate that's it's because when I feel good, it doesn't seem like I need to do anything further. So I don't. Hmmm....
Why did you read all that? It couldn't have been very interesting.
Sleep is sounding really good now.
Want a poem? No? Unfortunately, the Internet is not yet interactive through time. If you are protesting, you'll have to do it just a little louder and without regards to the usual chronological flow. If you do that, I'll definitely do as you ask, just for the novelty of it.
Of course, you could easily stop reading.
How about this one -
If ever I gain
enough acclaim,
perhaps I shall be renouned -
recalled by a different name.
(I am such a sucker for bad puns. My apologies to those of you who aren't - http://dictionary.reference.com/search?q=renown might help you figure things out.)
Sunday, December 04, 2005
Unfortunately, it's still not finished (unless you don't want it finished, in which case you are in luck)
Things have been a little busy. But just you watch - if they get busier, I'll retreat by writing. Then it'll be finished. And we can all be happy. Unless you're disgusted by such a worthless collection of words. Hey, at least I have started a small collection. Maybe it's not very exotic or well-arranged, but at least it's something.
Anyway. Here's a poem.
Raised and called,
raised and called
Good Christian nation
that we are, but
Lazarus's not involved.
The preacher's going
to drive me to drink
I wish instead
I could be seeing the shrink.
He wants me to give up
all my earthly possessions -
and he'll get them all
in these damn poker sessions.
Heh.
Anyway. Here's a poem.
Raised and called,
raised and called
Good Christian nation
that we are, but
Lazarus's not involved.
The preacher's going
to drive me to drink
I wish instead
I could be seeing the shrink.
He wants me to give up
all my earthly possessions -
and he'll get them all
in these damn poker sessions.
Heh.
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