He stood above me flexing his metallic arms - pumping his bat like a madman.
"Now It's my turn! Rrrrrargh!" he screamed as he swung the bat down at me.
I rolled away but could feel the strong wind as the blunt weapon crashed into the floor catapulting green shag, foam mat, and concrete chips into the air. I rolled over again and flipped up to my feet. Putting the small device into my other hand I drew my knife.
"Taste Eddie!"
Again, the mechanized redhead swung his baseball bat at me. I miscalculated and only had time to parry with my knife. I fell to the floor and my knife disappeared from my hand. I snatched the little computer tightly with both hands and slid under the table and back to the other side of the room.
"Give it to me now." he repeated.
"No way."
His eyes lit up with anger and he ground his teeth with a nasty snarl.
"Then you shall perish, mortal!"
He jumped over the table and swung the bat. It smashed through the thick roof beam but had lost too much momentum by the time it got to me. I flipped to the side and pushed some more buttons on the small computer. Only a few more seconds . . .
He charged and rammed me, knocking me back across the room and through the wall. The small computer plug had been ripped from the main terminal. All I could hear was the sound of certain destruction - that horrid music that means you are dead.
"Alright," I subsided, "take your damn paddle. I was getting tired of playing Castlevania III anyway."
"Hey, Evey, can I have another Coke?"
"That dick would be a more than welcome experience at this time. People are fucking with me and the odds of all this shit happening are so out of line that I'm beginning to wonder if some higher entity, or maybe some psycho working for the Grand Poobah, is screwing with my life. I get to stay up 'till midnight tonight too, I'm the passionate fruit of the night. I come into your home with shiny blades that slice so nice, and cut your connection in order to have a better chance at dialing in. Unfortunately I have to write a program tonight and take a really big shit all at the same time. I think I'm going to make it top secret stuff too, I'm going to encript it and make it so you have to download it and use wordperfect 1.2 in order to read the fucking thing. Well, the shit just took care of itself, I'm sure glad I'm not in a lab right now because that would have been embarassing, you know? My schedule sucks next semester too, sort of like big rocks in your sandals that not only won't fall out, but they're stuck so far into the bottom of your foot that you actually have to stop and pull them out from the bottom of your heel (I hate those assholes). Do you have decent radio there Bill? I want a gun right now so bad I can taste gun smoke, AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!"
"So, is that a yes or a no?"
"There is actually a song out now by the cheerleaders of the New York Nicks, they call themselves "SheMoves" and they all sing together to the same fucking beat as every other piece of shit song about breaking all the rules and they're ready to do anything at all except shut their fucking cunts!!! Where's that fucking gun . . ."
Yeah, and A.T.H.E.N.A. calls him their leader. Sometimes I think the poor guy is a little unstable - but it's hard to badmouth the only person who stayed by my side during the Firefly Incident. He can be leader as long as he wants . . . I'm just lucky that I don't follow orders.
"Evey, I can't believe you cut Amy's brain out of her head and put it in this stupid ship."
"It was the only logical solution, Bill. A key role in combating sectoids is randomness. If we have a ship that is completely computer based the actions will be too predictable and completely worthless. Computers are not entirely left out, they still operate minor systems but Amy is the true key - a human mind. Subsiquently, the sectoids won't be able to tell if we're coming of going. They have no chance."
"Yeah, but you chopped up your damn girlfriend! I hope you don't mind resorting to your hand like the rest of us."
"Oh . . ."
Amy's voice rang over the intercom.
"Shut up buttface! I just made some more cookies."
I began to drool as those hot tasty treats popped out of her control board.
He must have squeezed the trigger at least eight times before the hammer had a chance to swing and contact the bullet.
"Empty!" Glitter Boy shouted. "Give me another clip!"
"Yeah . . ." I threw him another magazine that he promptly slipped into his pistol and cocked.
"Now that I've got the hang of this, they are all DEAD!" Again he unloaded the magazine in record time while rolling around on the ground and sticking the gun between his legs and behind his back and spinning the damn thing around. Flying metal blew everything apart except for the uncountable soldiers scattered everywhere in front of us. I guess he did get a civilian, which is always a plus, but they aren't shooting back.
"Empty! Give me another clip!"
"Hang on," I told him. Swinging the smartgun up and around I dropped seven more marines.
"C'mon! My gun's empty! Give me another clip!"
I'm out of bullets. Completely out, but I don't have the heart to tell Sean. I pull the empty magazine from my gun and slip it by my belt and then toss it to him. He slams it into his gun without noticing that it's empty.
*CLICK*CLICK*CLICK*CLICK*CLICK*CLICK*CLICK*CLICK*CLICK*CLICK*CLICK*CLICK*
"I think your gun must have jammed Sean, let me have a look at it."
He hands me the tired pistol.
"I hate those things. They're about as reliable as an orgasm from the Kappa Sigma midget."
I slip Sean's gun into my belt and hopefully far from his attention.
Glitter Boy pulls a grenade from his candy-assed suit and arms it with a small speech: "If I was in the military, I would have a pink helmet, a pretty blue gun, and some red vinyl pants. Then I would do a ballet every time I killed someone. 'You're dead. and this dance is called the Splendid Pegasus!' And I would gloss up the ass of my red pants with the blood of my enemies. And the only thing in my backpack would be a pack of Milk Duds and a Slip n' Slide. A big pack of Milk Duds. The kind they sing songs about on after school specials after the skinny kid stands up to the bully. The kind that make you want to spew your 2% milk all over the store mannequin. The kind you can feel in your soul before you put on your scuba gear. That kind of pack."
*BOOM*
Soldiers, civilians, and even a little puppy are sent flying. Now that's what I want to see! Except for that last soldier way back there, hiding in all those orphans. I pick up the stray chain gun laying by the smoldering ATV.
It's a good thing little kids aren't bullet proof or that soldier might have survived.
Glitter Boy flies around me like a sick exerpt from Swan Lake stuck in fast forward.
Big Red and I were doing a little shopping in Generica Supermarket for articles yet to be identified. The supermarket was unbelievably large and extremely crowded - it must have been that nice time when all the normal people get off work and scare the old women out of the market who have been hoarding there all day for some perverted reason. I, that is, The Ripper, approached the butcher's or baker's counter - to which at this time I still have no distinction which, but since I had no idea what I wanted I guess it doesn't matter. All the employees were the basic Generica Supermarket, middle-aged, semi-fit, moderately attractive female employee. In my kindest manner I asked one of the hers for an unidentified article to place in my happy basket to best assume the role of a normal shopper - seeing how superheroes are never seen at the supermarket - only dead Elvises and everybody's long lost Siamese twin. This was also my first time ever shopping and Big Red, although it might have been his first time too, was obviously here to keep an eye on me.
"Ahem. Excuse me most kind of ladies fair, wouldst thou mind slicing me a half-pound of your most splendiferous cut of Generica Grocery so that I mightst purchase the fine article without any nasty thought of stuffing it into my diabolically sinister jacket - for that is why I have one of your most finely crafted happy-plastic baskets that is kindly provided for your Narrator's use."
I held the basket high and proud showing off my bright smile knowing that surely this is the way that normal people shop Generica. Big Red was to my side backing me up wholeheartedly with his beard groomed to best reveal his pearlies, topped off by his combed glory. And how could these two peachblossoms possibly be refused?
Then I pulled my gun and shot her. The Smart Gun has grown big and nasty - no longer like a normal pistol but aproachingly two feet long of shiny metallic-blue and sounding more like a super killing war cannon than a hand pistol. I could tell by the look in Big Red's eyes that he also knew too well what was going on. The lady of whom I so kindly asked to fetch some Grocery was a Government Killing-Machine. When I shot her she did not fall but took the bullet like a mile wide mountain of topless peak. So I shot again. And again. And again. And again. Most of these to her averagely attractive face. And she fell with a thunkalunk to the shinywaxed floor.
The middle-aged, semi-fit, moderately attractive female next to her didn't seem happy go-go pleased that I had just filled her Generica Manager's face with heavyfast shot.
"Curses to you who art Unholy and Crazed. And shall the both of you be rightly Generica punished."
I looked at Big Red who indeed did look back in a most mirrorfully understanding glare for she was a Generica Government Killing-Machine as were all the employees in this Generica Supermarket. Big Red skipped and hopped away to the isle of goodies ready to slap some Generica Ass. And myself, glowing from the happiness so well radiant from Big Red, shot again and again and again at the other Generica Employee.
and stopped to lean my body for the while,
getting worried much looking side to side,
a market O robot to skin my hide,
I without weapon to break their bonies,
not Eddie, gun, nor kung-fu gripped ponies,
The Ripper mind has gone far out in space,
madman echo splatters head from its place,
a psycho he is to cut the damn lights,
the emergency red gives us all frights,
so I duck down low and peer to and fro,
not a curtain shall stop this final show.
By now the Smart Gun was to breathe and breathe again it did - long and steady sending all who dare show to a merciless afterlife. Bangabang-bang. Generica Supermarket Inc. was angry something awful and somewhere the Masterbrain flipped the switch to reveal all and all who be near as nasty machinedeath- warriortypes who sought to kill Big Red and I. Crashing through windows and breaking from shelves mindless zombies they were but tough they kept coming and reaching so close to get a shot or two or ten to the melon and tumble to lick waxiness.
Now the kids started coming. Little tiny sniveling monsters they were. Grabbing my arms and legs and everything I had. I shook them off so hard but more kept grabbing and biting like the little curs children are. Enter the Red and Unholy with loaf of fifty-nine cent French to beat little snot from little snot from Ripper the Crazed. Whackitywack-wack. Together we stood on the mound of mechanized chunk scanning the market for anything to come our way and come our way it did.
A mouthful-deadly-death-barking-snort-shiver-growlie-bangbang-thrashing-kind-of-monster. It was big and mean and a million inches high looking the might bit close to Samuel L. Jackson. He drew gun and more gun and more gun still. I drew my own quick and held it to his noggin.
"Drop thine weapon mangy beast of foulest darkness for thou hast met thine match with fine happy tragedy of said and told. Droppeth thine musket of feet uncounted fore I should forced to unload my gun of unlimited bounty - tis suchith a cornucopia of carnage and thou shall only find it painfully true."
From behind his back stepped Non-Generica Womanish Wonder. Beauty of fine and fabulous figure athletical womanish wonderfulness. Being as this may and was the options were few and looking to Big Red his eyes flew back to Narrator and with a nod all was understood. Hailing bullet of speed they ran and hid getting gooey reddish-red and flying arm away and leg dropping to gone. Big sexy wonder grabbing menacingly at Ripper and bite and scratch so hard it be spoken with all unconsciousness.
Blinking on and off. It just keeps going. Consistancy in duration. Flashing through closed eyelids. Must have broken down like the rest. Order. It keeps in order with the chime. Negative. This is punishment. The red glow is cutting through the blackness. Past the flesh and through the lens. Vitreous humor is boiling. The chime will almost fade out under the sound of heavy machinery. Smell of exhaust. Strong. It must be trying to kill the monster. It's upon that moment. And it will all fade from memory. Muscles are burning from the heat of consumption. Give it some oxygen. More. More. Enough to let the monster scream. The sound echoes through the head. Bouncing into a far corner of recollection. And now the pain will start. Suggested punishment. The pin sticks the skin and makes the blood run thick. The industry of death. It's alright now. I'm getting over it . . .
Stretch - sweat - pierce - lash
Choke - crush - strange desire to fly
Scream - fight not to scream . . .
Shadows in the heat
Weaving on the ground
Sparkle in the sun
Boil in the dark
Start to vaporize
Here comes that need to fly . . .
Muscles in the dust
Figures in the light
Choking in the haze
Lashing at the heart
Hurt
Fire
Shout
Burst
Fly
Hate time - hard time - crush time - strong time
Scream - fight not to scream . . .
The day It wakes still haunts me. The Storms. They are still there when my eyes open at night. The only order to my memory is that it grasps what I wish I could forget.
Torn boots crush against the metal grating. Sweat streams blindingly. Bones contort as muscles reach their limit. Then the mind takes over. A scream deep in the head. Eyes flare alive and see the machine in front. Hold the sur ge back until it is an explosion. Release. Le gs straighten through the weight and arms push it forward. The heavy guage steel grating buckles under smashed legs and the machine groans. Scream becomes louder . . .
. . . the pilot's scared eyes through the armored canopy. And smile. Punch the machine's chest plate. His eyes bulge and lips twitch for release - his lungs are compressed by the concave metal.
It hit. It hit hard. I fell to my knees with a shower of blood. Part of my stomach is pulled out. I try to put it back with my broken hand. I try. It hits again. Harder.
I tried to run away - to fly. My legs no longer responded. I turned my head to the side. All I saw was shadow. All sound stopped. Except the breathing. The pounding of a heart echoing into my mind. My head expanded with every pulse of blood. It contracted during the silence brought by breath. But there was another behind shadow. Then the heat came - the fire.
I saw the Ripper fall. Rounds from the Stranger's pistol tore holes in his chest. He toppled forward, groping at the mess . . .
I sat at my table writing. I don't remember what. It was nothing. I kept thinking back on what had happened. Cycling it through my mind again and again. He tried to rape his mind with his drugs and his guns. He tried to change it to a world for his time but he never let go. All of the industries of hate and all of the industries of crime left him. He ripped apart his mind. He never let go.
The Stranger ran forward. I pulled my sword from the Monster and charged. He lifted his gun and fired. The flash blinded me as I swung my sword. Then there was a pain in my chest. I staggered to the side and fell down emptying my cold fingers from their clutch. He fell next to me. Part of him anyway. His eyes were open and staring at me blankly. His waist fell behind the outline of his torso and air slipped from his blueing lips. Rain soaked my jacket to my body. The fibers burned against the torn flesh. Pushing my arms against the ground I help raise my head. Nobody is standing. Where have they all gone?
I am suspended upside down by thin metallic wires falling from the darkness to deep below my exposed skin. My head feels heavy and aches from the excess of blood. My arms are held outstretched and legs pinned together. Then I snap out of the daze. I look down but there is no sign of a floor. Just darkness. The same darkness that is everywhere. That is, everywhere except for in front of me. There is a pulsing green light. The green color of disease and rot.
The voice builds in my head. He is to my side. I look over and see that he is suspended as I am - but seems to be in more pain. His long hair is covering his face and falls into his mouth as he speaks. I can't make any of it out. Concentrating makes me nauscious so I tune out. The darkness below holds my attention.
I was hypnotyzed by the darkness. But broke the gaze as the green light began to glow brighter. Or is it getting closer? I look to my side and he is still there but now is motionless.
"Wake up."
"Uh . . ?"
"Wake up."
He twisted his head toward me. His eyes were glazed. The purist white. He couldn't see me. He is gone. I am gone too but I'm not done struggling. I can't feel the pain.
My arms lower from the cords and tear free sending streams of blood into the darkness. I can hear them falling. Falling into nothingness. But there is something down there. "Wake up."
I tilt my head back and enjoy the brief adrenaline rush. Ear piercing screams come from below. About 200 feet below. I fall into an ocean of carnage. Terminal velocity is holding me stationary. The ground will never come . . .
I held it down - but I can't let go.
it should have happened to something like the Revolting Cocks but i got Hank Williams or one of his fellow inbred hillbillies - unfortunately it fit the company. the tires shrieked as the farm-express stopped just short of hitting me. then the yelling started - things which I couldn't follow but I'm guessing they were insults. shortly after some pairs of cowboy boots hit the dirt road and moseyed menacingly toward me. Hank was still yodeling and the goat-raping hick stood close to my face; his name is Rawhide.
"Listen here you cocksucking faggot, when I tell you to get along, you hustle. Got it? Now you jes' go an . . ."
"Sorry Rawhide, I thought you were talking to someone else."
"The name ain't Rawhide . . ."
his fat wrangler buddy was closing in and Rawhide's fists tightened.
"Let's bust him good, Clem."
"Dusty, c'mere and hold my ten-gallon . . ."
a crowd had gathered and everybody was shouting for their favorite - there were even some bets being placed.
Rawhide swung first. what a joke - i told Recessive to go get a weapon while i play with his pasture pardner. Rawhide took some rabbit punches and started to fall, the uppercut sent him flying. Recessive grabbed for my head but i ducked and broke his denim clad legs. he sat on the ground wailing as his extended family drew guns.
by now i could see Aranae in the middle of the crowd getting pushed around the wooden sidewalk. i guess they are assuming this was a setup - and he was having a hard time collecting all his money. then the bullets started flying. Aranae pulled his towel, the Palouse sun had dried it out, but he still had no problem disarming the cowboys or sending them to the boardwalk. guns were exploding behind me and i unleashed my curly wolves skyward. rednecks were flying off the parapets of the buildings, falling in troughs, breaking fences - the horses went wild.
soon i ran out of rednecks and started shooting chickens. Aranae was busy whipping up the skirt of a dancehall girl.
"Hey baby, wha's happenin'?"
the saloon doors split as a giant, greasy, sunburned man stepped from Moscow Social Club. he unlatched the whip from his belt and drew it out toward the street. dust clouds erupted from the earth as he slowly walked toward us.
"Now lookie here boys, you's gone and kill't my whole family. Sheet, you's even busted up my Chevy. Someone's gonna pay fer this."
Aranae and i stood at one end of the street, the sun setting behind us, fingering our weapons - Tumbleweed stood at the other end, spurs quiet, whip cocked, chewing slowly on his lip of goo. he turned his mouth and spat into the dirt.
"Boy's, you's got nice teeth . . ."
Special Thanks to:
Menudo, Nanavira Thera, high school algebra, Sai Baba, Roba the God, rotten fish smell, I Ching, psycho freaks, chop suey,
Ku, Chocolate Mousse, Mr. Chechong, politicians, Reverend Mandulla Petulla, Barney & Betty Rubble, Isao Nagata, Fuji
Sankei, Darby O'Gill & The Little People, Micheal Jackson & all the little boys he's touched, Alain, asbestos, Crazy Straws,
The Argonaut, F.T., Jessica Tandy, The Reagan Administration, Willy Wonka, Tracy Lords, Bauhaus, Sloppy Joe, Smirnoff,
Karlos, stray dogs, Pope John Paul II, cheap whores, mexican food, Superman, Uranus, Marco Polo, Mike & Ike, Ghandi,
cherubs, Mr. & Mrs. Romero, Taco, expensive whores, Doug Martsch, Han Yu Zhe, tequilla sunrises, Coach Mills, La
Chupacabra, Oompa Loompas, red-necked farmers, Jack Daniels, Chicken Little, Italian Futurists, Father O'Heala, rashes,
prunes, magical words of Ruby Land, Rebner, Throbbing Donkey, Abandoned Bear, Boise Police Department, Herr
Haddock, Molomar Khadaffi, flouride, Juan Curtis, alcoholics, members of A.T.H.E.N.A., rice, U of I Student Union
Maintenance Crew, Dean's Party, Area 51, Casper the Friendly Ghost, diabetics, Jeramiah Weed, U.S. Forest Service, Jesus
H. Christ, Woden, Fucking Monkey, criminally insane, Cosmic Surfer, Ren & Stimpy, stupid people, sectoids, randomness,
Sanders, Lawrence Welk, Edvard Greig, Luke Skywalker, Fidel Castro, Mr. Rudkin, Admiral Yamamoto, Jack the Ripper,
Rob Lowe, Theodor Cleaver, Cinnamon Kids, Jivamukti Center, holy shit, Basque community, Wangdoodles, the hot chick
who always falls down in horror movies, Papa Smurf, fast food, Saturday Morning Cartoons, and everybody and everything I
forgot to mention.