Here we go again

Once every three hundred and some days we find ourselves at that familiar point along our orbit called New Year's Eve. It is an indistinct point in space, not noticeably different from any other point besides the fact that our celestial-based calenders have appointed it. I would prefer we had a large stationary starting post affixed to this point so on clear nights we could all see it coming throughout the later months of the year. I imagine it would be red-and-white striped like a twirling barber's post.

For you geeky types who are saying that such a post cannot be placed. For those of you who say it violates the laws of physics, hear me out...Of course it would need to orbit the sun at the same speed as the Earth to remain at the same distance from the sun. Yet, if it simply had counter clockwise orbit, the post would pass every 6 months...unacceptable. This is a NEW YEARS EVE POST. It needs to pass by the planet once a year.

So, the post needs to orbit on a different plane, probably perpendicular to Earth's orbit. You say this is awkward because the post approaches from the north or south. I say, relax, it's more important that it only comes once a year.

But, you say, that doesn't make any sense, the post will still approach Earth in the middle of summer as well (or winter if you are in the southern hemisphere). Yes, but you place the post on an elliptical orbit so that it is too far away to see when it passes in June. You might need to throw out some other bodies to make adjustments to Earth's gravitational pull, but you could probably make it work.

See? Problem solved. Time for beer.

The Lattice

"Science is the answer, my boy. With modern technology we can do just about anything. We can create synthetic food-like substances laced with mild addictive drugs and sell them to anxious customers as nourishment. We can manufacture potent prescription pain meds and stiffy pills and use the Internet to sell them to recreational users without a prescription. The world is our oyster. Of course, we all know that success is the accomplishment of the necessary. Not one these things make any sense without some higher purpose...something to justify the malnourishment, obesity, addiction, and priapism. After all, we have a conscience too. It's all about...

The Lattice."

"Excuse me?"

"The Lattice is our secret plan which vindicates the evils we have perpetrated over the generations. Have you no guilt for feeding children dog food and calling it a "happy meal?" I sure do. Far be it from me to suspect you think otherwise. Do you loath the disturbing fact that our puppet government has perpetuated a global economic crisis? Provoked wars? We can never be accused of these things from under our thumb. Yet, we must accept responsibility for these things and act accordingly. We owe our fellow man retribution for this exploitation."

"We owe them? Didn't you say that before this whole mess? Didn't we already cause all these problems by trying to make things better?"

"Yes, we have made a few mistakes. We have dug ourselves a hole. And now we must climb. The lattice is our gift..."

"A gift? Like easy credit for people who can never pay it back? Like your whole Christmas Tsunami idea? If anyone knew who you were, you would be very unpopular. Maybe we should take it easy for a while."

"The Lattice is a light-weight structure that uses carbon nanotube technology. We cover the globe with this structure, creating a sort of new "elevated terra" or "floating Earth's crust," if you will. It will exist about a mile over the current surface of the Earth, held aloft by giant anchors in geocentric orbits. It will increase the livable area of the earth significantly, and can be erected over oceans and any terrain."

"We haven't even finished introducing the Amero yet. We are decades from a global ID card. We don't even have our herd fenced yet."

"It will be our new "overworld," where the enlightened population of consequential people, such as ourselves, live with our necessities...a utopia. The anchors will be like little stellar retreats connected by space elevators where we can vacation appropriately. The burden of our high position requires that we live an aesthetic lifestyle commensurate with our importance. It will be only the Epicurian luxuries required for sound thought. After all, these are big decisions. We must have a clear head, and for me, this requires nothing less than 100 year single-malt."

"Sir, you are drunk?"

"Mind your manners, and your pessimism. I'm afraid conditions have changed. There is now a bit more urgency than we ever expected. We are under pressure to turn a lot of lemons into lemonade. Here's the deal...the economic crisis didn't pan out exactly as we expected, but it will be our savior. We intend to hire all of the unemployed workers. They are screaming for jobs, and we are prepared to offer them."

"You are serious."

"Damn serious. On this overworld there will be spectacular golf courses, lagoons, coconut palms. Everyday life will be sort of like a cruise. We want it to revolve in the opposite direction as the planet, but we can discuss those details later. The best part is, everyone wins...the unemployed will have jobs into the foreseeable future. They will live beneath, furnishing the skills and labor needed for our system to work. The ground will be sort of like the engine room of our giant ship. They maintain the Lattice down below, farm our organic produce, prepare our meals, mow our greens, and fix us alcoholic beverages. They all have jobs serving us, we just need to place the orders."

"Yes, but what will we do other than play golf?"

"That is all the privileged class needs to do, my boy. I just told you. We are the reason the folks in the underworld have a reason to live in the first place...to serve us. We only need to sit around, feel important, and imagine ever-more-outrageous tasks for them to accomplish for our benefit. See? It's a brilliant plan!"

"How do we pay for it?"

"So naive. We have evidence against every congressman and senator in Washington. And, for the saintly ones, we plant evidence. Look how easy it was to bring down a guy as incorruptible as Spitzer. These guys have wives and children to support. When we show them the end of their career and public shame, they always join us. Remember, we don't just own law enforcement...we own the media too. All these amateur plutocrats on Capitol Hill make the laws and print the money. They think they pull the strings, dividing plunder between their friends in boardrooms with corporate jets. But, the guy offering a get-out-of-jail-free card is always their best friend, and I'm that guy. Look at the facts: the people have already given us the monetary system by electing pea-brained representatives to defend it. We have been given the power and responsibility to print as much money as we need. This is not a personal desire...this is our dire obligation. We must create order from chaos."

"We created the chaos! I know the people have let the power slip up to us. I know we don't really "owe" them anything. Sir, I object for practical reasons. If they are maintaining the overworld, they have the power to destroy it. I mean, what if the maintenance crew decides it wants to be important and make its own decisions instead of crawling around like monkeys beneath this lattice structure of yours? You can't prevent people from having their own ambitions."

"Of course not. That's why we pay them well."

"Pay them well? You're not paying them anything! You're stealing everything from them and then returning to them the scraps that you don't need. This is called extortion."

"Yes, and they don't even notice. We even blithely call the money we let them keep an "expenditure," ha. It's truly beautiful. If they are handing out their lives, who are we to refuse?"

"What happens when they wise up and try to take their lives back? You can't keep robbing them forever."

"Yes I can. If things start to fall apart we distract our good patriots with a war or something. The media owns their collective brain, and yes, they can be convinced to kill one another. We use the distraction to root out the problem. We trim the herd. Come on now, enough shop talk. Let's at least discuss this over a round of lawn bowling. Our court has been freshly trimmed, and I have a hankering for some more rollage."

"Sir, you said science was the answer, and I agree to some extent, but is this Lattice idea really worthy of such a high proportion of human effort? You are talking about the employment of billions and you say you are doing this for their own good. Do you think it is possible that people have their own agendas? I mean, do you think individual aspirations might bring them more happiness than your Lattice idea?"

"Impossible. These tiny people, if they can even be called such a thing...their dreams are minuscule compared to ours. They are simply too poor and depraved to consider even the most trivial endeavor. Our market analysis proves that they don't know what they want anyway, other than cheap food-like substances and the prescription drugs we sell them. We can turn those rolling profits into something special...something they can be proud of. We have a duty to perform. We tell them what to think, show them what to do, pay them to do it, reap the rewards for ourselves, and everyone's happy. Can you think of a better solution?"

"Well, um, not particularly."

"Do you think you can stop me?"

"No, sir."

"Then I suggest you accept a nice house next to mine on the ninth green."

"Yes, sir."

Pete's Tower

There he stood in his front yard atop 6 feet of masonry. It was round, like a short tower. Some bricks were outset, some inset, and there was a small gap where one could peer into the dark interrior. The rows were not straight and the mortar was messy in places. Pete's brick laying had become an obsession.

All through the day Pete stood on his little tower, waiting for something. He would wave as the folks passed along the sidewalk below. His awkward presence had sort of grown into the landscape of his street over the previous months, and one could always expect to see him standing there. Sometimes he was anxious to chat to passers by, other times he was completely unapproachable...his head focused into the center of his creation. He watched as an Eskimo with a harpoon over a hole in the ice, waiting for a seal's nose.

Every so often the still and quiet Pete would lunge deep into the center of his tower. He would reach down as far as his stout arms would allow, pants descending from his waist enough to humor the bystanders behind him. Sometimes he would emerge with a curse, shaking his fist in the air. Other times he would stand tall and bellow a crazy laugh, holding a brick over his head while dancing...as much as one can dance with each foot on the rim of a brick cylinder. His rectangular prize brought him more joy than just about anything, to the confused dismay of his small band of hecklers.

The following moments would be spent in concentration as Pete analyzed his tiny fortress. He would look for an appropriate spot, and place the brick accordingly...sometimes moving it here or there before deciding its final place. Once he had made his decision, he would spread the mortar carefully and set the brick, cleaning the excess with his trusty trowel. No one knew where he got the mortar, but he seemed to have an unlimited supply stored within his structure. After the brick had been set, Pete would stand again, ready to strike at his next brick.

No one saw Pete sleep or drink or eat for many months, although he was always happy to chat. His anecdotes were completely nonsensical, but professed with such cheer that some folks would listen nonetheless. He seemed to enjoy these conversations, even if they weren't taken very seriously.

Still, most of the time he liked to hunt for bricks, dance, set, and then hunt some more. Over the years, Pete's tower grew high. His conversations were hollered from an ever-greater distance and his audience grew small. Pete found himself standing among the tops of the trees, a faint and distant figure. It turns out the inability to jeer at the crack of Pete's ass diminished his audience significantly. Yet those with good hearing would still stand at the base of his tower to listen to his nonsense. Eventually, from the street below one could hardly see him hunt for bricks, and there were no longer chuckles from behind him every time he did so.

On one rainy day he was nowhere to be seen. No one admitted it at the time, but most were disappointed that he was not there to holler his usual remarks. On a day like this a dripping Pete could be heard cheerfully shouting: "The rain stings less up here, mates! No need for an umbrella! HA!"

One or two folks down below closed their umbrella in honor of Pete that day. They got some funny looks.

No one knows what happened to Pete. Some say he reached too far for a brick and fell into the middle of his tower. Some say he ran out of mortar, and unable to stack the bricks, he stopped hunting, and eventually became so sad and weak that he quietly tipped himself into the great hole he had built. Others say he waited so long for a brick that his body seemingly froze, and he still hunts atop the great tower, ready to reach as deep as he can for that next precious brick.

Still others say that all along Pete had built a staircase inside the tower, and one day he decided it was finished. So, he walked down to live inside, and to this day continues to improve the interrior of his tower. In fact, some say that if you peek into the tiny gap he left, you can still see him working. Others say it is too dark to see, but every so often, if you listen real close, you can hear his steel trowel slap mortar against the bricks within his tiny fortress.

To this day, when it rains, you still see some folks withdraw their umbrellas in honor of Pete as they walk by his tower. And, if it isn't raining too hard, you may even see an ass crack or two.

The UHM

"There it is, Mr. Wolthrow, your custom-built UHM. Do you approve?"

"Ah, a very curious shape, Mr. Ventner. You mentioned my need for such a device, but please remind me...what exactly does it do?"

"This is your Universal Happiness Machine, Mr. Wolthrow. It makes you happy."

"Is that so?"

"Yes, instantly. What do you think?"

"Well, how does it work?"

"Well, you approach the machine, like so."

"Yes, and then?"

"Then, it begins introducing the happiness waves. It places you in an agreeable mood, Mr. Wolthrow. It lifts your spirits, that is all."

"Oh, right, makes sense. Alright, let me give it a shot here..."

"Okay."

"Ah, yes, it seems to be working."

"Yes, you've just noticed, but it has already begun working, actually."

"Oh, right, of course. We have been standing here for a few minutes. I must say, excellent work Mr. Ventner! I am so impressed with your invention, that I am going to introduce it to everyone I know, do you mind?"

"Not at all, but it wouldn't matter either way."

"Excuse me?"

"Oh, well, since you are under the influence of the machine, you are happy with anything I say. I could tell you that the machine is for you alone, and must not be exposed to anyone else, and you would approve completely."

"Interesting. Yes, all for me. Indeed, I would approve of that. In fact, let us reserve the machine for ourselves. Splendid. An excellent idea."

"Thank you."

"Tell me, Mr. Ventner, can the machine be broken? I must know. Is it reliable?"

"It is solid-state titanium and impervious to damage. There are no moving parts, and its effects are completely consistent and predictable. It is powered by 1.51 giggawatts from its core fusion reactor. Its energy reserves are enough for 100 trillion years of constant use before it needs a recharge."

"Of course. You have done marvelous work, and are an excellent inverter, Mr. Ventner, but I fear there is a slight problem."

"Oh, what you are experiencing is not exactly fear, Mr. Wolthrow, but perhaps doubt or confusion. Such things challenge the UHM, but I am afraid the machine is flawless. Please be assured that while you may be experiencing the rational inclination for fear, you are nonetheless happy. The machines waves are capable of usurping rationality, and render you immune to the slightest degree of dread or angst. But, please continue..."

"Yes, well that is certainly a relief, because I was almost certain that was fear, but now it is extinguished completely. You see, it's just that..."

"I might suggest that you attempt to fear again, Mr. Wolthrow. Please do so immediately...to test the machine...be as afraid as you can be."

"Yes, that is an appropriate test. I must challenge the integrity of your work."

...

"Hm. Curious."

...

"This is incredible, Mr. Ventner. As much as I try to fear, it is useless. I seem incapable of fear presently, and it is not a fearful condition in the least. As I attempt to deliver myself into the most trepidatious state, I am simply helpless to the powerful influences of your happiness machine. I feel as though I am incapable of fear altogether. This should make me extremely concerned, but it does not."

"Of course not. Like I said, the machine does not play by your rules. You cannot challenge it with reason. It wins every time."

"That is the most terrifying thought, but I am somehow elated and relieved to hear it. How can this be?"

"Now, tell me, what was it that you thought you feared?"

"Oh, yes, well I now know that it was not fear but a tingle of doubt and maybe some confusion as well. You see, I do not care to walk away from the machine, Mr. Ventener. I do not care to experience life outside of the influences of the UHM. What I thought was fear was actually the acknowledgment that I need nothing else other than the UHM, and that is an unfamiliar feeling."

"Oh, you can't be serious, Mr. Wolthrow. It's only a machine."

"Only a machine!? But, I desire happiness so much that I care to remain standing precisely where I am forever."

"Here, let me show you that it is not as wonderful as it seems."

"Yes, you are pinching me...yes, rather hard I might add. I am in a bit of pain. Ha. Quite a bit of pain. I am still happy. This is very strange. I simply cannot wipe this smile off of my face...I expect you will stop short of a nurple."

"Oh, is that not countering the effects, Mr. Wolthrow? Well, I can resolve this."

"AAAGHGH! You have just given me a cosmic wedgie. How dare you! The elastic band of my underwear has been torn from my briefs and lifted over my head. Yet, I am almost giddy with outrageous happiness, yes, even as you pound your knuckles into my skull, delivering the most tremendous noogie I have ever experienced."

"My machine is impenetrable, Mr. Wolthrow. Invincible. It cannot be overcome, and you simply must learn to accept that. It is always here for you at your request. You see, now that you know that this machine exists, you never need to worry about leaving it. You can come back to it when you need to. You may even one day decided that you no longer need the machine."

"Impossible."

"The machine does not harm you when you walk away. In my testing procedures I spent so much time next to the UHM that I found myself unwilling to distance myself. But, I soon found that my happiness remained even when I walked away from the machine. Sometimes I could remain happy for weeks at a time without approaching the machine.

"So, how long do the effects last? How long will my happiness remain after I walk away from the machine?"

"Its residual effects are formidable, and enduring, but not permanent. Outside the sphere of the UHM, one can find much reason for things other than happiness, if such a thing could be imagined now, while under its influence. It is only the extreme integrity of the machine itself that can mitigate these things, and the knowledge that it does not alter its happiness-giving properties based on assumption or whim. I designed it to be constant and reliable. In no other way could fear and doubt be entirely removed."

"I see. Hm. So, if everyone had a UHM I imagine we would have less need for a UHM in the first place."

"Indeed. But, the necessary materials are scarce. There is only enough happiridium in the universe for one. Instead, I designed the happiness waves to be contagious. So, when you leave the machine, you emit waves around you. After all, the effects would be far from permanent if they were not transferable. In this way you should not be afraid to leave the UHM, but desire to depart it sometimes, so others can experience the effects. Eventually, you will trust the machine enough to leave for long durations. For example, these days even my worst fears disappear as soon as I even think of the UHM...even when I am thousands of miles away. "

"Excellent work, Mr. Ventner. You seem to have worked yourself out of a job."

"Thank you, Mr. Wolthrow I never much cared for a job anyway."

"One more thing. Is this plug extending from the machine supposed to be connected to an electrical outlet?"

"Oh, never mind that, Mr. Wolthrow. Remember the thermonuclear core. Come along, it's time to test the machine's endurance. There is an excellent ice cream shop outside of its immediate sphere of influence. Let us attempt to eliminate its effects there."

"Yes, that is a splendid idea. There certainly must be something terribly unhappy at the ice cream shop. I am very optimistic our plan will be a success."

Pumpkinland

It was harvest time and all the inhabitants of Pumpkinville rejoiced, for the pumpkin harvest was plentiful. These were not ordinary pumpkins, but giant pumpkins, the kind used for carriages. You could easily hollow one out and drive a couple axles through the thick orange rind, attach to a horse, and travel to the farthest reaches of Pumpkinland. Some folks would just cut a door in the side and live in them. They were very versatile.

But, this year there was a problem.

It just so happens that this year everybody in Pumpkinland already had all of the pumpkins they needed. This was a very distressing situation, for Pumpkinville had always counted on a need for more pumpkins. No one knew what to do. The farmers needed to sell their current pumpkins to afford labor to grow next year's pumpkins. And, they needed to remove all of the pumpkins from their storehouses to make room for next year's pumpkin storage. So, the hard working pumpkin farmers got together and tried to find out how to sell their pumpkins.

First, they tried painting the pumpkins gold, so they were really shiny. That didn't help. People still liked their orange pumpkins.

Then, they told everyone the new pumpkins were magical. Pumpkinlandians were bemused. It didn't work.

They really needed to move the pumpkins fast, but they didn't want to give them away. So, they gave away the pumpkins for free, and then collected the money later in increments. This worked for a while, but then people stopped paying. With so many pumpkins everywhere, it was easy to find a good used one.

Finally, when the pumpkin farmers began struggling to earn a living, they lowered their prices. Each tried to offer a lower price than his neighbor. And still, no one in Pumpkinland was interested. Then, one particular pumpkin farmer, named Otis, had an idea.

Otis had saved up quite a bit of money over the years. No one else knew...he never talked about his finances. It just so happened that Otis did not waste any money painting his pumpkins gold or pretending they were magical. He certainly didn't give his pumpkins away expecting buyers to pay him later. He asked questions like "if people don't need an orange pumpkin, why would they buy a gold pumpkin?" As everyone else was painting, Otis was sitting on his porch smoking his pipe. He was heartily ridiculed for his apparent laziness, but didn't seem to care. He had prepared for a slow pumpkin market, and the commotion confused him. Otis didn't act when he was confused. This made him a rather boring character.

Boring as he was, Otis was a loyal and honorable pumpkin farmer. It broke his heart to watch his fellow farmers struggle and he wanted to help in any way he could. So, when his neighbor offered him a pumpkin for a fraction of the usual cost, he simply couldn't refuse the offer. He knew it was more than anyone else would pay for it, and he did not need it, but decided he could resell it later when folks needed pumpkins again. These pumpkins were very resistant to spoilage. Then, he purchased his neighbor's neighbor's pumpkins. Before long, all the pumpkin farmers in Pumpkinland rushed to Otis' house to sell their pumpkins. They simply needed to put food on the table. By the end of the season, Otis owned all of the extra pumpkins in Pumpkinland. But, it wasn't only the pumpkin farmers who were struggling.

Half of everyone in Pumpkinville worked in the pumpkin fields. The other half worked in the turnip fields, as Pumpkinlandians ate nothing but turnips. With no pumpkin sales, the turnip farmers were selling less turnips. The pumpkin farmers decreased their spending to subsistence levels. They simply couldn't afford as many turnips as before, and needed to last through the winter.

So, everybody in Pumpkinland tried to figure out how to help both the turnip farmers and the pumpkin farmers.

The turnip farmers elected a representative to speak on their behalf. His name was Terrence. One cold day, Terrence and Otis scheduled a meeting in the great pumpkin, where the matter would be resolved. After a long debate, Otis, who had considerably more wealth than anyone imagined, offered to purchase all of the pumpkin fields so that the pumpkin farmers would have enough money to pay for turnips. He decided he would hire the pumpkin farmers to work the fields for him next spring. The pumpkin farmers agreed to sell their fields, and were paid handsomely. They earned enough to afford turnips for the rest of the winter.

The next growing season was much like the previous. Otis hired all of the pumpkin farmers to cultivate his fields and grow pumpkins as they always had in the past. These were the finest pumpkin farmers in all the land and were very proud of their pumpkin growing abilities. At the same time, the turnip farmers continued to grow their turnips, as sales held steady. Otis paid the pumpkin farmers enough so that they could afford turnips through the growing season, and all was well.

Then, that fall, the pumpkin harvest was the largest in Pumpkinland history. The pumpkins were large, sturdy, and plentiful. But, there was a problem. Everyone in Pumpkinland still had all of the pumpkins they needed. Otis could not sell a single pumpkin!

Otis was terrified. He had spent vast sums of his fortune to ensure his fellow pumpkin farmers had jobs and could afford turnips. He expected pumpkin sales to explode this year, as turnip farmers had gone two whole years without purchasing a single new pumpkin. Suddenly, he was on the brink of bankruptcy. He was running low on money to pay his pumpkin farmers. Otis and Terrence met on another cold day in the great pumpkin to try to resolve the matter.

After much debate, it was decided that the turnip farmers simply must give a portion of their turnips to the pumpkin farmers. Otis suggested this solution, as he could not afford to pay them himself. In return, Otis agreed to submit a portion of his land to the turnip farmers for the next growing season.

The turnip farmers were outraged. They were already hungry, and insisted that they could not afford to give away their turnips. The turnip farmers held protests demanding that many more of the pumpkin fields be converted to turnip fields. And, they offered a high price to pumpkin farmers who would cultivate the newly acquired turnip fields. After all, everybody needed more turnips, and nobody needed any more pumpkins. Terrence assured them that Otis had done all that he can.

Fearing their wages would be lowered, the pumpkin farmers formulated a citizen's group, called the Pumpkin Farmers Organization (PFO) to ensure fair wages from Otis for their skills. They all agreed to strike if Otis paid them less than the previous year.

So, another meeting took place in the great pumpkin, this time with Otis, Terrence, and the Chairman of the PFO. Otis and the Chairman insisted that their farmers continue to get paid for their hard work so they could afford turnips. After all, they already knew how to farm pumpkins, and many had never even seen a turnip. Otis certainly knew nothing about turnips other than how tasty they were. The rational was that Pumpkinlandiands would need carriages at some point in the future, and the free turnips would only be required for a short while.

Otis made a long appeal to the public on behalf of the PFO, insisting that his pumpkin farmers absolutely must keep their well-paying jobs even though no one currently needs any pumpkins. He used what remained of his fortune to conduct plays demonstrating how delightful and friendly the pumpkin farmers were, and their families. He introduced the turnip farmers to destitute, hungry pumpkin farmers to gain their sympathy. And, indeed, the turnip farmers were very sympathetic. They saw that pumpkin farmers were not just machines, but real people struggling to make ends meet. But, even as all of the turnip farmers became sympathetic with all of the pumpkin farmers, they still didn't need any carriages. It was a conundrum. Nobody knew what to do.

Nonetheless, the turnip farmers felt for the pumpkin farmers, and decided to give them all of their extra turnips for free. They figured people would need pumpkins eventually. The PFO drafted a very considerate thank you note and delivered it to Terrence.

Another winter came, and the pumpkin farmers lived off of the free turnips through the long cold months.

The next spring, all the people of Pumpkinland went back to work as usual. They worked through the summer, and finally, the next record crop of pumpkins was harvested. To the shock and dismay of Otis, the PFO, and all the pumpkin farmers, none of the previous two year's pumpkins had been sold, and this year's pumpkin harvest was the most plentiful ever! Now, Otis had three times as many pumpkins to sell as ever before, and still, nobody cared to buy any pumpkins.

But, by now the turnip farmers actually needed the pumpkins. Many had fallen into disrepair, and others were on the verge of collapsing. In fact, many turnip farmers were farming without pumpkin ploughs simply because they could not afford a new pumpkin...they had already given all of their extra turnips away to the pumpkin farmers...even the ones from the extra fields Otis had given them. By now some even planted, hoed, and harvested with their bare hands.

This autumn, the pumpkin farmers were more outraged than ever and assembled the PFO to appeal to the turnip farmers again: "You need to support the friendly pumpkin farmers. We need your help desperately." After all, the pumpkin farmers were now receiving hardly any turnips from the turnip farmers because there was no longer a surplus. Without pumpkins, the turnip farmers simply could not afford to grow enough turnips to afford a new pumpkin plough. It was a vicious cycle. By now, even if they combined all of their extra turnips, not one pumpkin carriage could be purchased.

These were desperate times, and one cold day Terrence approached Otis...

"Sir, I am afraid the turnip farmers have only one turnip to spare, and this turnip must last us a very long time. I will trade you this turnip for all of your pumpkins and all of your pumpkin fields. In return, the turnip farmers have agreed to hire all of your pumpkin farmers on credit and teach them to farm turnips. They will be paid fairly at the next harvest, which will yield enough turnips for everyone in Pumpkinland. But, all I have is this one turnip to offer. If you do not take this offer, I fear your workers will starve."

Otis looked at the lonely turnip. He was desperate to sell his extra pumpkins for a reasonable price, but knew this one turnip was his only option. It was only a token, as he knew that he had made very poor business decisions. As difficult as it would have been, he should have converted half or all of his land to turnip fields and retrained his farmers to grow turnips. He knew the risks when he made his purchases. Conscious of his actions, he accepted responsibility, and agreed to give away his pumpkins and fields for the survival of Pumpkinland. Terrence and Otis shook hands and all of the turnip farmers and their families arrived with contracts to secure their portions of the former pumpkin fields. At last, it appeared as thought Pumpkinland would be saved.

But, the PFO was a pumpkin farming organization, not a turnip farming organization. Relying on the PFO for turnips, many pumpkin farmers were far more loyal to it than Terrence, who many believed had taken some of their land and given them meager rations. They knew the turnip farmers would offer a far lower wage than Otis did. As the contracts were about to be signed, the PFO invaded the great pumpkin with signs and banners. The Chairman approached Terrence...

"These are the best pumpkins in all of Pumpkinland! They were farmed and prepared by the most skilled hands! We are outraged by your preposterous agreements and refuse to acknowledge them. However, we will make you a far better offer. The PFO agrees to trade you half of its pumpkins for all of your turnip fields. This way, your workers will have pumpkins for farming, and will be able to produce more turnips."

Terrence and Otis looked at each other. They were both confused and surprised. By this point there was no doubt that all of Pumkinland depended on these crucial voluntary agreements between Otis and the turnip farmers. Besides, these pumpkins were not the property of the PFO...they were Otis'. The pumpkin farmers had relinquished ownership when they sold to Otis in the first place, which they didn't seem to remember. Otis had assumed the risk, and having failed, he knew the land simply must be sold to the growers who were needed for the good of all Pumpkinlandians, but especially the ones who were starving. Even one turnip was far more valuable than the entire pumpkin farming portion of the countryside. He knew he was lucky to get one turnip out of the deal. Besides, everyone knew there were enough pumpkins for the next three years at the very least. Terrence responded...

"I'm sorry, but I do not own all the fields, they are owned by the turnip farmers themselves. I am only an elected representative. You must take your offer directly to them."

The PFO asked Otis to approach each turnip farmer individually before signing the contracts...he reluctantly agreed. Terrance gave Otis and the PFO three days to present their offer before the contracts were signed and the land was delivered to the turnip farmers.

So, Otis approached every turnip farm and offered to buy their land in exchange for a pumpkin. But, the turnip farmers depended on their land for survival, and could not afford to sell at any price, even if they were required to farm without pumpkins. The turnip farmers simply asked for free pumpkins in order to produce more turnips, promising to pay later, which would have been agreeable to Otis under these circumstances, not the PFO.

The founders of the PFO knew the offers would be refused. It was a decoy. As Otis was traveling from farm to farm, the PFO occupied and secured all of Otis' pumpkins. They would not allow Otis to sell for less than the previous market rate. When Otis finally returned, he was very angry. His pumpkins had essentially been stolen. Most disturbingly, he knew that his pumpkins were worthless unless they were in the turnip farmers' hands.

Otis wasn't beaten yet. He was really a shrewd businessman and felt very guilty for his uncharacteristically poor decisions. He knew he might yet be able to save Pumpkinland yet. He traveled from farm to farm hoping that just one turnip farmer had saved enough to purchase some of his pumpkins at the agreed upon PFO rate. Maybe such a turnip farmer could persuade his neighbors to sell their fields. Such a farmer could maybe start a turnip business just like his pumpkin business. Unfortunately, to Otis' great disappointment, not one turnip farmer had any money left. The wealthy turnip farmers had already shared their wealth with their neighbors who were struggling. Since all of their turnips had already been given to the pumpkin farmers, not one wealthy turnip farmer remained. There were certainly none wealthy enough to afford to purchase fields and pay employees.

The transfer of land and pumpkins from Otis for their one turnip was indeed their only hope. But, Otis' business had been hijacked by the PFO.

Meanwhile, the pumpkin farmers were starving. They became very angry that the turnip farmers were not giving them more turnips. The chairman of the PFO met with Otis in the great pumpkin again and demanded that Otis continue to pay all the pumpkin farmers for their hard work. Otis was simply broke, and could not afford to pay his farmers. He explained that the turnip farmers were also broke, and could barely afford to provide for their own families with their arduous manual labor. The turnip farmers spent their days covered in dirt, desperate to extract every last turnip from the earth. The PFO ransacked Otis' house, discovering that he had indeed spent his entire fortune paying the pumpkin farmers.

This angered the starving pumpkin farmers who just wanted to go back to farming pumpkins as they always had. Completely unfamiliar with turnips, they saw no choice but to convert their crop to battle pumpkins! The poor turnip farmers were very distraught. They had no way of creating more turnips without those precious pumpkins, yet, they were now being used for intimidation. If only the PFO was reasonable and understood how many turnips could be harvested with those pumpkins as Otis did! All turnip farmers would gladly teach the pumpkin farmers to farm turnips. Instead, they could only watch as the large, round war machines appeared on a hill above the turnip fields. This frightened the starving turnip farmers who were completely defenseless, with no battle pumpkins at all.

In desperation, Otis and Terrence met one final time in the great pumpkin. The turnip farmers wanted desperately to produce more turnips, and only needed access to pumpkins on credit. The pumpkin farmers wanted desperately to exchange pumpkins to the turnip farmers for any number of turnips up front. But, there were simply no extra turnips...not even one. Most disturbingly, the PFO suspected the turnip farmers had organized secretly and were hoarding turnips. After all, if the pumpkin farmers had not organized previously, they figured they would be starving to death by now. They couldn't have known that Otis would have quietly given away some of his pumpkins to remedy all of this, or transferred land and resources rightfully. Additionally, the PFO members didn't realize how hard the turnip farmers were struggling to survive. They certainly did not trust the turnip farmers enough to give away any of their precious pumpkins...it was all they had left.

Also, Otis explained that the PFO was afraid that the turnip farmers would convert them to their own battle pumpkins. Terrence knew this was ridiculous. No turnip farmer had a warlike bone in their body. Nonetheless, the PFO, aiming to protect the pumpkin farmers' valuable common interests, would not permit Otis to give away a single pumpkin. They were at a stalemate.

With no resolution from the meeting. Some of the fearful and hungry pumpkin farmers assembled the ranks of the PFO and began seizing turnip fields. Paranoid, they decided they needed more battle pumpkins for defense.

"No, no, no!" yelled the starving citizens of Pumpkinland. "We need more turnips, not pumpkins." Even most of the pumpkin farmers agreed. Still, without a turnip or pumpkin representative willing to face the mighty PFO, the supply began to run out completely as great swaths of turnip fields were occupied by the fearsome pumpkin farmers under strict orders from the PFO.

Finally, when the PFO had converted the last of the turnip fields to pumpkin fields, there were many battle pumpkins but no food for anyone, and every last citizen of Pumpkinland starved to death. The end.

======================
Alternative ending:
Otis delivered a speech and all of the pumpkin farmers in the PFO came to their senses and recognized the futility of clinging to Otis' worthless pumpkins and pumpkin fields. They recognized that their fear and paranoia was the result of stubbornness and ignorance, and certainly not worth placing anyone in danger of starvation. They returned all of the land they had stolen back to Otis, who sold it to the turnip farmers for the price of one turnip, as they had previously agreed. The pumpkin farmers took jobs in the turnip fields, trusting the turnip farmers to pay them a portion of their produce. They used their income from turnip farming to eventually purchase their own land once again. Then, many years into the future, when the time was right, pumpkins were again needed and entrepreneurs willing to risk a return to the pumpkin business were rewarded for their efforts with plentiful sales. For as long as pumpkin farmers were conscientious enough to acknowledge the difficult facts regarding the pumpkin and turnip business, no pumpkin in all of Pumpkinland was ever converted to a battle pumpkin.

Mr. Walnut

"What species of creature are you, Mr. Walnut?"

"I am a poltergeist."

"Creepy. Aren't those dangerous?"

"Not always. People fear us because they think we spend all of our time making noises and moving objects through the air...as if it's just for kicks. Us poltergeists are actually quite misunderstood, Mr. Acorn."

"How so? If I were invisible, I might draw attention to myself by moving objects through the air and stuff. That sounds like fun. Besides, it would be the only way to get noticed."

"That's just the thing, Mr. Acorn, poltergeists do not wish to be noticed. We can only do our work if we are invisible. It so happens that a poltergeist has many powers, but loses them immediately once he is noticed, you see? When a poltergeist or his actions are discovered, his powers usually disappear. When that happens, people are sometimes very confused."

"But, if you prefer not to be noticed, why must you make noises and move objects through the air? Also, I've noticed you, why haven't you lost your powers?"

"We can reveal ourselves to children, of course, just not adults...sober ones, anyway. Even so, we almost never risk to disclose our presence...only when absolutely required. If we must alter things in a paranormal way, the interventions are to be discrete and unnoticed. We use the plausible to our advantage, manipulating things here and there. Witnesses waste time freaking out and coming up with crazy explanations. It totally distracts from our goals."

"Your goals?"

"People often don't understand how someone without a body can have goals. Some folks think that just because we don't eat, drink, or feel, that we don't have any noble aspirations or desires. This is a very disturbing topic in the poltergeist community. So many accidents and misfortunes are blamed on us, while good fortune is often mistook for plain luck. A poltergeist usually encourages luck and discourages misfortune. We want to help. The truth is that we want to help so much that we leave our bodies behind as a means to prevent accidents and misfortune."

"But, why not use your body if you have one? Why walk around invisible and almost helpless?"

"Sometimes invisibility makes us far less helpless, Mr. Acorn. Like right now, you are looking at me, but only notice I exist because you hear my voice. Also, you can see this candle is moving slowly across the desk. Some poltergeists want to slide this candle just a few inches over to those curtains in order to burn this house to the ground. I am not one of those poltergeists. Right now I am stopping the other kind from burning down this house."

"Oh. So, if this house burns down, it means you failed to protect it?"

"Possibly. The point is, we are invisible and cannot be held accountable either way. After the house burns, people will try to imagine what happened and who is at fault. Maybe the cat tipped the candle. Maybe someone left the stove on and there was a gas leak. The point is, a poltergeist can never be blamed for the bad, or honored for the good. If I decide to stop the other poltergeist from burning this house down, I will do it. It's as simple as that."

"Why do you choose to stop the other poltergeist? Why do you care if this house burns? We just met a moment ago. Also, how do I know you don't want to burn down the house?"

"Because I would have already if I wanted to. The truth is, I happened to be in the neighborhood and noticed this house was about to burn. So, I decided to stop it. I don't know why, Mr. Acorn...it's just what I decided I needed to do. I hope you don't ask me to tell you all of my reasons, because I don't always understand them myself. But, if I simply stood and watched the house burn, I would know I was at fault somewhat, because I know I could have prevented it. Mr. Acorn, I watched too much sadness materialize before my eyes as a physical human. I saw horrible injustice and senseless destruction. I realized it was often my body that prevented me from helping. Then I realized that not only was my body preventing me from helping, it was actually causing many of the problems. So, I stepped out of it. Now, when I see things that a poltergeist can fix, I am capable of fixing them. When I see things that a human is capable of fixing, I step back into my body, which is far more comfortable. See, poltergeists are really humans too, and would rather use their bodies, but sometimes can't."

"So, why don't you just fight the other poltergeists?"

"Ha, I wish. I said I was opposing another poltergeist directly, but that wasn't entirely true. Poltergeists are always invisible, even to one another. They have no idea what was caused by another poltergeist, or what just happened by accident. They are watching for things that only another poltergeist could do, but seldom notice one directly. In a way, opposing poltergeists are fighting often...not directly, but by undoing or altering the actions of another poltergeist. For example, I recognized that it was possibly a poltergeist that wanted to burn this house down. So, I looked for the most likely action of a poltergeist. "

"Oooh, and what is that?"

"It is the most seemingly innocent, undetectable action that is most often caused by a poltergeist. Where I nudge the candle away from the curtain, another poltergeist nudges it towards it. No one notices either way. If you had placed the candle it in the middle of the room, a poltergeist could do nothing. But, because all that was required was a tiny nudge, a poltergeist could easily burn down the house. The poltergeist always aims for the greatest effect from the smallest, unnoticeable action. A two-inch shove for a disastrous raging inferno is almost irresistible to some poltergeist breeds."

"Mr. Walnut, is that why bad things always happen to me? I mean, whenever I really want something, I mean really, really want it. Well, then I never seem to be able to get it, you know? Something always goes wrong at the last minute, or someone lets me down. Am I plagued by the bad kind of poltergeist?"

"Of course you are. We all are. But, you are perhaps underestimating the helpful poltergeists that allowed you to hope for such things in the first place. We mostly help others, or we could not bear to leave our bodies behind. Mr. Acorn, I happen to know that one particular poltergeist is always trying to help you as much as he can."

"Really?"

"Sometimes that poltergeist is helpless to change things, sometimes he is helping a lot. Now, don't tell him I said anything or even act like he exists, because you need to remember that his powers are gone once he is noticed, okay? You're getting a bit old to communicate with them. I feel rather tired actually."

"Okay."

"Now, I need to go find my body to recharge. All this talking with a human has been quite a drain. A poltergeist was not built for such a thing. Goodnight, Mr. Acorn."

"Goodnight, Mr. Walnut."

Thanksgiving

Gregory plucked a large strawberry from the table, threw it into the air, and caught it between his teeth. He bit down and the leafy top fell onto the polished wood. The remainder of the giant red morsel disappeared into his large mouth. He chewed thoroughly and swallowed.

"Delicious. Who prepared this?"

"Sir, you did."

"Ah. No wonder. Thank you, Mr. Southworth."

Mr. Southworth bristled at Gregory's arrogance and returned to his quarters.

Gregory walked along the ensemble picking bits of cheese and smoked salmon. They were all his favorites, somehow arranged in the order he preferred. "Yesterday was a bit of a blur...the previous week," he thought, pouring some orange glaze over a piece of duck meat, the CSI theme song was playing in his head. He tried to remember the band...there was something about some drummer. He realized the 70s were as much a blur to him as the day before...

"Ding."

He turned toward the door. They were here. He didn't quite know who they were, but knew it would be terrifying as always, if there had been an always, or even a before. He heard the door open. Mr. Southworth greeted them and chatter began penetrating his sore ears from two rooms away...

"Damn, it's cold out there. Where's that global warming when you need it?"

"Haha."

He shuddered, searching for the most delectable item before they found him. There it was...on top, as if he had placed it there himself, as he maybe did. "Mmm. Deviled egg." The tender white bowl, the decadent yellow filling, the pimento...a trio of pure bliss. It would be stolen for sure. He lifted it to his mouth and devoured it mightely as they walked in.

"Happy Thanksgiving, Gregory! What's new?"

"Well, I think I cooked all of this, but I can't remember for sure."

"Ha! Always the jokester. Well, let me tell you about my portfolio...man, these are tough times, ya know...lost thousands just this morning."

They all meandered around the table and finally sat down, making various comments about the spread.

Gregory stood and clinked his champagne glass. "Welcome, my dear friends and family. I'm so glad you could make it today. I've been busy of late, experimenting a bit as you can see. James, you may guess who the cherry Porsche confections are for. Lin, I've shrunk down that nut cracker just for you. Enjoy the meal everyone! Cheers."

He sat down and looked for that damned deviled egg. He shouldn't have placed it in such an obvious place. He knew someone would steal it.

The Rookie

"Well, partner, it's just you and me now. You're unconscious, so you won't mind me saying that I'm a rookie at this..."

Kendell tried to lighten the room as he held the tiny object directly above the patient's lacerated flesh. He knew where it belonged, and relaxed as his fellow surgeons quietly observed, hidden behind their masks and vacuous silence. This was his first time at the center of the operating table, and he knew he was prepared.

The classes, the study, the lectures...they had all groomed him for this moment. Here he was, as he had always imagined, a tiny god among men. The fate of his patient was now entirely dependent upon him and his capabilities. His hand was steady. With a last confident glance at his mentor, the piece descended into the cavity. His concentration was immaculate.

The first centimeter was fluent, the implant lowered into the proper place. He dropped it successfully, breathing a sigh of relief. Now he ever so slowly lifted his tool from the cavity. Focus, control...higher...higher...

BUUUZZZZ!

"DAMN! Lost him."

The patient's nose turned bright red and the game board rattled with the mild electric current.

"No worries, tiger, you're blood-alcohol level will be lower for your debut by tomorrow morning."

"Well, I better not take any chances. Pass me a beer. I'd feel more comfortable knowing I had performed this one thoroughly inebriated."

"Sure thing, chief." Crack. "Hey look, 12:01...here's to your first day on the job."

"Cheers! Alright, partner, the anesthesiologist says it's just you and me again. You'll be glad to know I've performed this procedure once before, and I think I know what went wrong that time."

Repeal Women's Rights

Mary Wollstonecraft. Ever heard of her? She was an 18th century writer, philosopher, and feminist. She opposed the subjugation of women, particularly in marriage, and was a prolific writer. She wrote sparkling political essays, thought provoking philosophical treatises, and captivating works of fiction. While reading, if I was any more obsessive, I might have found myself in an unfortunate love affair with her. The droves of you who are envious of this sentiment can be relieved that she died over 200 years ago.

She compared marriage to an insane asylum, whereby the woman, as the inmate, was subject to her husband's wishes. This was the plot in her novel, Maria. Indeed, physical and verbal abuse, neglect, and even rape were seldom if ever valid crimes if perpetuated by a husband against his spouse. Women in general had very little legal recognition by themselves. It seems like an awful state of affairs intolerable by any sensible woman.

Mary experienced the wrath of men first hand as the child of a reckless husband, later as a friend/lover of a woman in an abusive marriage, and then herself the subject of a distant husband. She seems to have had little reason to care for men at all given her experiences. Yet, her writing inspired the greatest romantic poets of all time including William Wordsworth and Samuel Taylor.

After decades of misery, suicide attempts, and loneliness, her final months were spent in happiness with her lover, William Godwin. She died shortly after their relationship began, and he was left to publish much of her work, including the love letters she had written to her former husband. Sound familiar? Yes, it's the real life Moulin Rouge. And, it's available for all to see. I warn anyone who follows this path to prepare for a heart wrenching tale. (After having to much time at work, I found myself mercilessly sucked into them.)

I truly wonder how a soul so bitten by men could have any affection for them whatsoever. Her writing begs the question...should women have rights at all? Maybe they were simply designed to be locked up in cages so they could write eloquent tales of the relentless human spirit...rage against depression, that sort of thing.

Yes, I said it. Us men need to ban together and repeal all women's rights, down to the last one. I say they have one right; to live in our private dungeons writing brilliant essays and love letters. What?

Natural Resources

Did you hear they're giving out free money?

Did I? Of course, I got my share already.

You did?

Hell yeah.

I thought they were only giving money to companies that were in trouble.

That's right.

Well, you are doing just fine.

I was.

So, what happened?

Well, we were working very hard to make a profit. Too hard. So, we just started being lazy.

Being lazy?

Right, we figured, "why work when you could collect from the government instead."

So, in order to collect, I need to be a troubled business too?

That's right. Just screw up a lot, you're already pretty good at that. You'll be rolling in it in no time. Just make sure you file the papers correctly.

So, the only thing I really need to do is file the request properly? If I've got a whole company devoted simply to filing a few papers, I can't lose.

That's right. And, when you get bailed out, your stock price will go up too. The shareholders will think you will use that money to improve business rather than file more claims. See? Government is really our greatest natural resource!

I better get started doing nothing.

You better hurry, others already have a head start.

We'll never make it

We'll never make it.

What do you mean?

We'll never make it.

But, the landing is right there. See, we made it.

Hm.

Alright, time to unload the canoe and portage to the next lake.

Hm.

I've got the canoe, you've got the pack, alright, let's go.

We'll never make it.

We haven't even taken a step yet.

We'll never make it.

See, we made it across. Now we just need to go back and take one more trip. Then we can paddle to the next landing.

Hm.

See, we made the trip again. We've packed the canoe up, and now we are paddling. See paddle, paddle.

Hm.

There is the island. That is our campsite.

We'll never make it.

There. We've pitched the tent. Now, let's make some dinner.

We'll never make it.

Okay, I can make it myself.

Hm.

There, now, wasn't that delicious.

Mm.

Let's get some sleep.

Hm.

Good morning. Sun's up. If we pack up now we can make it back to the car by noon.

We'll never make it.

See, we made it, and almost as soon as we hoped. It's only 12:15!

We didn't make it.

Hm. Okay, let's pack the car.

We didn't make it.

Alright, we've packed the car, let's try to make it to a nice restaurant.

We didn't make it.

If we take a shortcut we can get there faster.

We'll never make it.

Hm.

Finding the Something

Not long ago, on a day much like any other, I became paralyzed by the Nothing. Like dusk, it descended all around me. It was akin to a mysterious fog, invisible but for the slightest vibration among the still, heavy air. To discern its source or character seemed impossible, yet the silent roar could not be muffled. Though it could not be seen, its stench lingered, a remnant of the horrors washed upon mankind in its wake. Afflictions credited to something were frequently caused by the Nothing. Yet, all continued to insist that the Nothing did not exist.

I asked why.

To stave off madness? Indeed, so horrid a thing can hardly be conceived. Yet, it breathes all around me. If I am mad, the Nothing has won, but the slight chance I am not prompts me to describe the misfortune of awakening adrift at its edge, then snatched within. The few who have escaped are loath to recollect its horrors, if they could even identify the source. I would certainly rather forget. But, for love of even my most wicked adversary, I submit these observations to allow for the Nothing's identification should circumstance will its proximity. This is not an easy task. Indeed, the fact that it is called the "Nothing" scarcely hints at its deceptive and amorphous nature. Perhaps only a fool endeavors to describe a thing that is not, yet conscience compels me to do so in a quest for truth. It can be confirmed by reason and the balance of my earthly experience that no soul, no matter how spiteful, wretched, or numb, deserves a fate so uniquely seductive and vicious as to be swallowed by the Nothing.

It might have been the Nothing described by fantasy novelist Michael Ende, but so perverse and vacuous that its identification invokes instant dread of accidentally traipsing beyond its event horizon. So void and pernicious are the jaws of this sphere that imagination itself seems its only competent adversary...simply for diversion or denial. Alas, how could I turn my head from so curious an animal? Souls whipped to or from as I stood calmly, facing its core directly. I stepped blithely forward. In hindsight, it seems that no aware victim doomed to this vortex would reject submission to its core directly, stretched efficiently into two, then four, then sixteen pieces. A fate such as this, while terrifying, seems far preferable to the dizzying trek that began for me along the fringes of its gravitational field.

Its first offering was sweet and delicious; a soft word of adoration. These sounds were convincing enough to flatter, and attractive to those even slightly adrift in its most remote regions of influence as I was. Soothing and agreeable to the listener, I must warn that these words are actually torn from the Nothing's lips with such reluctance that a blood-curdling shriek is heard by all who float nearer than its most remote target. Such effort is required by the Nothing to utter these incantations that its great body, spanning light years, is reduced to the brink of death as a consequence. It shudders in horror that such depraved a sacrifice is necessary to invite the intended subjects, but the distant bounty is most precious to the Nothing. To me, these utterances were the sound of life, springing forth from the most pure and humble sympathies of mankind. I approached them openly. In fact, they were the opposite. They were words so removed from the hearts and minds of man that none unfamiliar with the nature of the Nothing could conceive the possibility of their existence. Their subtlety was matched only by their wrath. Yet, I continued as a lone wealthy man among a pack of thieves, each fearful of one another as I strolled past, untouched.

Once drawn to its outer limits the leisurely pace was calm and hypnotic. I gradually drifted into a distant orbit, lulled by suggestion in a sea of diluted contentedness. The gentle ride was soothing, and I found myself given to a mystical trance. While perfectly at ease, the Nothing extended a tendril, which caressed me affectionately. I hardly noticed when it entered my nostril, and remained in a detached stupor as it latched securely to my brain. At this point the exact mechanism is little understood. We know the transfer of knowledge begins without resistance, depicting awe-inspiring images of scenery, natural wonders, and joyful experiences. For me, beautiful waterfalls, sunsets, and visions of innocence; happiness. This portion of the treatment, they say, is always accepted. What follows evokes a unique and unpredictable response in every individual. When the tendril is fully embedded, injustice, deception, envy, and rage are delivered to the unsuspecting prisoner. Discomfort evolves to sadness, then horror as war, death, plague, famine are injected into the cerebral cortex. Practicality prevents personal disclosure of my experience. I will say that before long I writhed in agony, desperate to break free. The struggle grew violent as the organ was stretched, prodded, and squeezed with indiscriminate truths, stark fallacies, and vapid irrelevancies. The pain was excruciating as reason demanded harsh acknowledgment of terrible truths including a vast unknown, growing to tempt superstition. I knew better. Contradictions battled within as my body was spun around the perimeter with increasing velocity. The acceleration pushed me to the exterior while my arms and legs flailed about. The tendril, which had originally pulled me deep into the center, neared exhaustion and attempted to eject me back to the outer ridge as I wrestled with it. As it released I would have broken free if I hadn't, by reflex, grasped one of its serpent-like extremities. Rather than being restored to the realm of the something, I found myself falling back through the chaos of space time. It was a lonely spiral of death, affixed to what remained of the tendril's overwhelming offerings, and the wriggling souvenir I had ripped from its terrible tip. I then found myself free to roam among the nothing, as the many dark tendrils lashed around me harmlessly, and seemed to digest the balance of humanity before my eyes.

The peaceful recesses of the outer journey was soon a distant memory as the frantic air of the middle sphere enveloped me. The region was crowded, and desperation brought us together in a frenzy of exchange, each promising the other a way out. Individuals who joined me at the fringe of this circumference were generally of regular human size. With little hesitation some companions began moving forward, even crawling over one another toward the blackness. With progress each became ever more bloated, expanding exponentially in size. Their heads grew disproportionally to their bodies, first approaching the size of moons, then planets. My hands covered my eyes and I peeked through my fingers as they pulled themselves into the dark torrent, at first with great difficulty, but soon with ease. The mass they accumulated helped pull them toward the center, and the same amount of labor brought an increasing amount of speed. We watched these events come to pass in sadness. We could see that it was all part of the same mechanism; the Nothing's feeding ground. It has one purpose...to fatten its pigs so that they can be swallowed...so that it can build strength for its next shriek. Words can scarcely be arranged to hint at the nature of this manifestation, although I can confirm its existence with complete certainty.

It is not advisable to look directly into the Nothing, a wise man once hinted. Rumor has it, one who looks straight into its depraved center is seduced instantly and consumed. I, however, was not afraid, as I found myself outside its many tubular extremities, and one does not approach its core by any other means. As such, with a calm, investigative disinterest, I directed my powerful looking glass into the darkest portion and turned the region into focus. What befell my eyes can only be described as fantastic. By following one tendril to its source I witnessed the most curious phenomenon. One head had expanded to the size of many suns and whipped in orbit around the center many times a second. Its dizzying speed was further compromised by a furious revolution, spinning like a top at an incalculable rate. From my perspective, little or no sense could be made of it all. Yet, other objects flew in orbit around this giant, further confusing the situation. Every object was locked in a disorderly maelstrom of activity, bouncing against one another, crashing one another into pieces, and so forth.

My eyes do not deceive me, yet my mouth is ill-constituted, and pen insufficient, to utter a description of so dreadful a sight. Yet, I am nonetheless obligated to use the limits of my capacity in good faith that my words are interpreted to derive from without rather than from within. I might begin by depicting the ravenous ingestion of intoxicating liquors, as a dipsomaniac awakens in a panic to quench his addiction. The foundation of the tendril is not the Nothing after all, but a head so engorged that perpetual, systematic consumption is necessary for its sustainance. Indeed, only one tendril emanates from this abysmal source, then sprouts into two, then four, then sixteen more, like branches of a tree. Each junction facilitates the combination of moon-size entities into planets, then planets into stars, then stars into bigger stars. It imbibes through the interrior of the single great tendril, ripping the life from its lessor subjects, who are, surprisingly, the most unsuspecting of victims. Their bodies become twisted and their celestial heads become warped as the giant orb snatches the most engorged, chewing mightily between its blood-spattered lips. The head, which now bears little resemblance to even the most feral human, grows as large as some galaxies, devouring with ease and a maligned gracefulness.

Through the centuries it has often masticated sensibly, but in times of abundance the voracious appetite cannot be suppressed. Its malevolence can only be compared to its merciless, pedantic nature. It does nothing but feed for the sake of feeding and nothing more. It has no other purpose, direction, or meaning than to ingest the balance of humanity into its void.

How does one forewarn of so ubiquitous and cryptid an animal? With sadness I report that conscious action within a tendril almost always accellerates its victom toward the center like a frantic man burried in quicksand. Indeed, loving the captor, and with great effort, they all swim forward. I watch with pain and angst as they struggle towards the Nothing's core, always expecting something else...always expecting something.

In this state I continue to observe, daring not submit to the unknown whims of the Nothing's grasp, yet knowing many an approach to its deepest recesses. Having seen the fate of so many a friend and foe, to enter a tendril evokes dread so great that I fear no degree of human courage or honor could possibly defend one against its severe temptations. For now I consider simply lopping off its horrid tails, and their contents, so that its diet may be reduced.

To starve the Nothing. That is what I shall do.

Brain Chains

It can be concluded with complete accuracy that clouds are white. On that topic we can all certainly agree. The existence of gray clouds does not contradict the statement "clouds are white," but only validates another true statement, that being, "clouds are gray." The statements "clouds are white" and "clouds are gray" are both entirely accurate. We have exhaustive evidence that further study or discrimination relating to the color of clouds can only lead to frustration, divisiveness, and additional questions exponential in quantity and complexity. We have complete conviction that these questions are futile because they are beyond any individual's intellectual capacity, inclination, or usefulness. Therefore, we can be confident that the acceptance of these two phrases is not only acceptable, but complete in every way, and further thought on the subject is in error. And, that concludes our investigation into the color of clouds. Class dismissed.

The Law

Some rules can be bent, others can be broken.

Didn't Lawrence Fishbourne say that in some movie?

Morpheus, in The Matrix.

That's right, The Matrix. So, which ones can be bent?

I think the key word is rules. If you follow all the rules blindly all the time, you'll be miserable. It's unsustainable. To live well and benefit from these so called "rules," you must know their reason and purpose. By following your heart, understanding the reasoning, and living your life accordingly, they sometimes bend. You will hardly even notice.

Alright. My heart tells me I want to be President of the United States. That's a worthy purpose. Which rules can I bend to get there?

None. I told you. You can't force the rules to bend, it will just happen...a side-effect. Also, they bend according to others, but never from your own perspective.

How is that useful to me?

It isn't, really. It's just an observation.

Then why are you telling me?

Because I noticed the rules bending around me, that's all.

Why do I care?

Well, because my actions may seem confusing to you, that's why. I just want you to know I'm not psycho.

No guarantees, man. I already think that. But, tell me, how can rules seemingly bend for some and not others?

It's like physics. You know anything about physics?

Sort of.

Well, look at nature. You throw a ball up and it always comes down, right? It's the law of gravity. Well, you can put the ball in a cylinder with wings on both sides welded to a jet engine and keep it in the air for a very long time. But, it will eventually come down, right?

I suppose, but what if you launch it into space?

Then it may never come down. You see, you can never escape the law of gravity, but if you understand it, you can do things that seem to break the law that really don't.

So, it's all relative?

Never in fact, only in perception. Everyone must follow the law of gravity, but by accepting it, and working with it, you can do things that, to others, seem to break the law.

Sounds like a different frame of reference...that the law applies to some differently than others. I think you are talking about moral relativism. I don't agree with that. My pastor says moral relativists go to hell.

The laws of nature apply to everyone equally. Some are exposed to those laws differently than others. Let's look at Einstein's theory of special relativity. A person moving really fast, like, nearing the speed of light, will age slowly. A day to them may seem like a week to someone hanging out on earth. Neither person notices the difference as it is happening, but when the traveler returns to earth, his or her watch will have lost time. This even happens to astronauts orbiting earth. They lose a few seconds as they're zipping around the planet. It's called time dilation. They used this mechanism to explain how they got into the future in Planet of the Apes.

So, basically, you are saying that time travel is a scientific fact?

Yes, theoretically, a person can travel into the future. If you've been on a plane you already have, but only a few microseconds. See, you've already broken the 'law' and you didn't even know it.

Is there a way to go back in time? I want that time back.

No. Sorry. That is against the law.

But, a few microseconds is completely useless. There is no way to get close to the speed of light with our technology. Why even discuss the law of gravity in the first place?

Just to demonstrate that physical laws can seem inconsistent when they really aren't. Laws of ethics and morality have exotic properties too, especially in extreme cases. Sometimes, what seems like the bending of rules is simply the natural universe doing its unpreventable thing. I'm just pointing out the similarities.

Sounds to me like you are trying to rationalize behavior you know is wrong...against the law.

Maybe I am. Maybe not. Depends which set of laws you are thinking of. Sometimes the laws of man violate the laws of nature. Some folks convince themselves that they are above any law for reasons inconsistent with the law itself; killing for peace, stealing for one's own good, etc. Some folks trust themselves a lot, and can overlook the contradictions, rationalize. I never could do that. What little I know keeps me pretty humble.

So, which rules have you bent?

None, according to me anyway. My rules don't bend, as much as others' think they do. Yesterday someone called me a psychopath. I wasn't hurt. I don't take it personally anymore. I never could bear to break or even bend the real rules...not one bit, once I understood them. Doing so never made any sense to me...

Is that why they put you in here?

Guess so...

Well, looks like my time is up. They sure don't allow much visitation, do they?

Nope, not in maximum security.

Alright. See you next month, man. You may be bat-crazy psycho, but I don't blame you for following your heart.

Ha, didn't know I had a choice. Well, see you then, man.

Under Underwater World

The cavern air became warm, then balmy as we descended. I watched the man in front of me unbutton his shirt and wipe his forehead. The line seemed to stretch for infinity in both directions. Perched on my father's shoulder, I turned around and watched the long row of men, women, and children fade into the darkness behind me. Ahead I could detect a warm red glow illuminating the heads of the tallest men. I was starting to get hungry, and looked at my watch. It was well after noon, and our tour was advertised to include a light lunch.

My mother and sisters stood silent. Over the first hour the promise of sharks and eels had grown from giddy anticipation, to frustration, to subdued outrage. I wasn't bothered much...too curious. There was a dampness shimmering on both sides, and drops flashed tiny specks of light among the bleak darkness. Several landed on my head. We seemed to have walked for miles into the earth. The cavern had grown narrow and the adults stood single file. There could be movement in one direction only...down. The very fat man behind us left no doubt of that.

We shuffled toward the exhibit and wondered what emergency had possibly trapped us. I imagined an asteroid or other cataclysm had annihilated the earth far above and we were miraculously spared because we happened to be in line for Underwater World. I knew the reality was likely mundane...a cracked aquarium or something that required a detour. The exhibit exit was far off on the other side of the mall.

I felt sorry for my sister Jane. It was her birthday, and she began to cry as mother held her against her shoulder, stroking her hair. She always loved watching fish swim among the reefs on the Discovery Channel, and dad had teased her all week about our upcoming trip to this place. "Fish day is coming! WEEE!," as he spun her around, "it will be the fishiest day all month!"

I was less enthusiastic about sea life, and found the alternative scenario much more mysterious and interesting. We had no contact with anyone. Our cell phones had no signal, and we had received no announcements or word from folks in front of us or behind us. There was a circular chatter: "Do you know what's going on?" "Nope, you?" "Not at all." The man in front of us tried to push his way back toward the entrance, but could not fit around the man behind us. Things got a bit unsettling as he started to freak out...claustrophobic I guess. Dad shut him up with a few calm words. I didn't hear what they were, but they worked.

Over the next hour the glow became more intense, the heat, beastly. Removed from my throne atop dad, I could see nothing but legs and arms through the red. I remember thinking the emergency lighting was poor, leaving our feet to stumble on the shallow steps. The cavern grew silent and eerie, and I wanted desperately to know what lay ahead. It was probably in the third hour that the line stopped moving entirely. As much as I resisted, fear started to overcome the boredom.

Finally, the stillness jumped as a thunderous bang echoed through the hallway. To our great relief, within minutes the line began to move slowly forward. Jane was no longer interested in seeing a live Ahi Tuna, she just wanted to get out of there and back up to the mall. We couldn't agree more.

A dry heat began to blast as we moved forward. There were red lights on the wall and the hallway widened. We walked around a corner and were delighted to see an open passage into a larger space. Jane might see her Ahi after all, I thought. Before I had even entered I saw little chance for Ahi, or even an aquarium, but something nonetheless incredible...

Orange and red light danced among the clean stone walls on all sides, lit by burning braziers. The ceiling was high and rocky with stalactites hanging freely among the towering pillars. It was expansive, with a sleek marble staircase up the middle and then leading in both directions to a balcony on both sides. The railings were masonry and featured gargoyles on the ends. Men in dark robes with hoods loomed above on all sides with arms folded into their large, hanging sleeves. There was not an eel or even a catfish to be seen.

We entered and found a vacant slab of polished floor to stand on. Jane was smiling. Mom held her hand. The room became gradually littered with colorful shirts. Roving bipeds of all shapes and sizes ambled about aimlessly, cameras around their necks. I saw the large man who had been waiting behind us draw his head back to admire the balcony, exposing his hairy gut.

"Must be the lobby," a young man reported. Most people were casually meandering about as if they were in a gift shop or museum. They took pictures of each other against the murals painted on one of the walls.

More folks hobbled in behind us, many gracing the area with an opinion: "I will be getting a refund." "A Refund? This is kidnapping! I'll be seeing the owner in court." Mom and dad stood still among us kids, looking around. Dad seemed more quiet than usual, I think he may have been concerned.

A man walked up a couple steps and yelled up at one of the stoic gentlemen "hey, Zoolander, what's the best way out of here?" He remained still and silent, face barely noticeable within the shade of his large hood. "Hey, I'm talking to you, peaches."

Suddenly, a steel slab crashed down over the passage we had just walked through. It's concussion shook the stone floor and was followed by a chorus of screams. A voice penetrated the area:

"Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to Under Underwater World. I am your guide, Mel, and I'm so glad you took time out of your busy schedules to join us today. Please place both feet along the black circle on the floor."

A man responded immediately. "Uh, we're her for the marine life, man. But, we've been trapped in a cave for four hours. We are ready to go home now."

Another chimed in. "Oh, and you validate parking, right? I mean, it's been all afternoon."

The voice roared: "Stand on the black circle!"

There was a dark marble strip that formed a large circle. It occupied the area between the entrance and the bottom of the stairs. The several dozen of us grumbled as we did what we were told. Soon everyone was positioned in a circle, most facing inward. Mom and dad stood on either side of us kids.

The creepy druid-like characters turned and walked around the balcony and down the stairs. There were four of them, and two walked within the circle and began distributing what looked like small, white tokens. They gave one to each individual. I took mine and began to play with it, flipping it into the air and catching it, as if playing heads and tails. It wasn't very fun...both sides were plain.

"Congratulations, brothers and sisters, each of you has been given one token. In this place you will find no mercy for any soul lacking a token. As such, each of you has actually been given precisely one life. You have complete equality. I suggest you care for your token accordingly."

Mom placed her hand on my shoulder. I still didn't know if this was a game or what. Dad just stood there, looking around anxiously.

A man on the other side of the circle raised his hand, then began speaking...

"Um, sir, my name is Harmon, and I'm afraid this is a big mistake. We all came for Underwater World, not Under Underwater World, and must have taken the wrong tunnel. Can you let us out of here, please so we can all just go home? I have a very important engagement to attend this evening."

"Oh, absolutely, Harmon. Anyone may leave at any time, of course. I only ask that you to return your token."

A druid stood in the middle of the circle with his hand out, ready to accept the token. Harmon slowly walked toward the center of the circle. He held the token over the druid's hand. He thought about the words spoken earlier, and wondered what was meant by "mercy."

Suddenly, the druid snatched the token from Harmon's hand and instantly impaled him through the chest with his staff. Harmon uttered a terrifying screech and fell to the ground dead.

Everyone in the circle began to panic, screaming and crying. I couldn't see a thing after that. Dad covered my eyes. But, after the ruckus settled down a bit, I could see the trail of blood. Apparently someone dragged him off somewhere. The voice rumbled back to life...

"Now, we have one extra token. Who wants it? Remember, one token gets you out of this place. But, now you know what happens without one."

The druid tossed the extra token into the middle of the circle.

Almost without hesitation, two young men dashed from either side and dove to retrieve the token. One man touched it first, but fumbled it, and the other grabbed it and held it tightly against his chest, curling into a ball. The man who fumbled the token walked back to his place in the circle. He pulled his own token out of his pocket and rubbed it between his fingers.

"Congratulations, sir, what is your name?"

He held a token in each hand. "I'm Andrew."

"Well, Andrew, you have an extra token. You may exchange it for passage out of here and back to the mall above. Once you exchange your extra token, it will be destroyed."

A woman spoke up from across the circle. "Wait, this isn't equality! Andrew has two tokens. Didn't you promise us equality?"

"You all still have your original token. I am sad about the misfortune of our fallen friend, but safe passage from this place costs exactly one token."

"But this isn't fair," an older gentleman bellowed. "Some of us never had a chance to acquire that extra token in the first place!"

"Who said it was fair. I only promised equality..."

"But all of us should have an equal opportunity to acquire the token. That is equality..."

"The token was dropped directly in the center of the circle. Do you believe you deserve Andrew's token?"

"Maybe I do."

"Well then, I think we can all agree that you deserve the token and Andrew does not. However, giving you the token instead does not make our situation any more equal, does it? Besides, if you have the right to take one token from Andrew, what stops others from claiming the right to take one token from you?"

"Well, it's my only one. I have none to spare."

"Neither does he, mate."

The man scoffed and threw his hands up in the air. The voice grew stronger...

"Andrew, look around you," the voice rumbled. "In order to leave, you need to hand one token to the druid, and then exit the circle. One of these people must let you through, despite the fact that they cannot join you. Once one of them does, you are free to go. If no one volunteers to allow you passage, you will rejoin the circle, retaining both tokens."

Andrew looked around at the grim faces around him. They were horrified with what they had seen. He wanted to bring them all with, especially the children. Then he thought about his own children. He decided he had no choice but to proceed. He handed the druid his extra token and walked to the edge of the circle. In front of him stood a large man with arms crossed, a fortress. He moved to the side and found a woman with an equally stern disposition. The older gentleman also stood his ground. They would simply not let Andrew pass.

I watched as he slowly came my direction. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. One after another, each person blocked him from leaving. How could it be? I wondered how folks could be so stubborn. I started to tremble, hoping he didn't make it all the way to me. How could I bear to keep him trapped? Such a thing was unthinkable.

Finally, he was standing in front of dad. I looked around and saw the menacing faces fixated on my father. I knew dad would let him pass. Dad was a good man, probably the best man ever. He looked at mom and then me. I looked at him calmly...I knew he would do the right thing. He smiled at me.

Then he did something I'll never forget. He did not budge, crossing his arms.

Before I knew it Andrew was standing in front of me. I was shaking. I looked at dad, then mom. I knew what was right. I knew it. Dad must be testing me. "Not one bit of harm could possibly come of anyone here by simply letting Andrew pass," I thought. "He had everything to gain and we had nothing to lose...after all, everyone still had their token." I stood back and let Andrew pass to the outside as gasps echoed around the circle. (I'm still sorta confused about that.)

The voice erupted. "Thank you, young man. Alright, you are all free to go now. Hermon, you cleaned up yet? Show these folks out of here so they can see some fish. Oh, and someone fix that heater. It feels like a furnace in here."

Alternative ending 1:
Before I knew it Andrew was standing in front of me. I was shaking. I looked at dad, then mom. I knew what was right. "Not one bit of harm could possibly come of anyone here by simply letting Andrew pass," I thought. "He had everything to gain and we had nothing to lose...after all, everyone still had their token." Still, I had to stand my ground. I decided to follow dad's lead. After all, what did I know about right and wrong compared to him?

He approached the last man in the circle. His eyes were closed. He was deep in thought.

"Yes, Andrew, I will let you pass. But, you owe me $10 if I ever get out of this."

They shook hands.

The voice erupted. "Thank you, gentlemen. Alright, you are all free to go now. Hermon, you cleaned up yet? Show these folks out of here so they can see some fish. Oh, and someone fix that heater. It feels like a furnace in here."

Andrew handed the man $10. "Should have asked for more..."

The man shrugged. "Well, could have done worse, I guess."

Alternative ending 2:
Before I knew it Andrew was standing in front of me. I was shaking. I looked at dad, then mom. I knew what was right. "Not one bit of harm could possibly come of anyone here by simply letting Andrew pass," I thought. "He had everything to gain and we had nothing to lose...after all, everyone still had their token." Still, I had to stand my ground. I decided to follow dad's lead. After all, what did I know about right and wrong compared to him?

The man continued around the circle. Not one person let him through. He returned to his place along the circumference. He had two tokens, but one was entirely useless. He tossed it into the middle of the circle and all immediately jumped to grab it. The man who had fumbled it earlier managed to pull it out of the hand of another.

All returned to the edge as this man stood for a while in the center. He walked up to the man who had been denied exit...

"Sir, I ask you if you will graciously allow my passage."

"Why should I let you through? You refused me."

It was no use. He held the tokens in his hand. He recognized the complete hopelessness of the situation. They all did.

And therefore, they remained in their circle until all but one died of heat exhaustion and/or dehydration. Mom lived, and got to see Underwater world on her way out. She held Jane's emaciated corpse as she walked feebly through the exhibit.

Poison

You can't ask a question like that. I'll tell you one thing straight up. There are some things a sane man will not admit. Silence is the cursed witness' sanity.

You see, I never seen life fade from an honest man's eyes when he tells the truth, quite the opposite...it's the aftershocks that sting, the skeptic's steel glare. The glint fades with time, years. It's a slow death, like a starving man with a belly full of leaves and grass. You can feed him with trust, but he's learned to accept cactus and tumbleweed. He sees the poison and might choose to submit to the earth instead, obscure and delirious. Or, he eats the poison, come what may. If true, delicious, but the weight of silence grows heavier. Why curse a trusting soul with such a fate? It is enough that they are invited. Between them less than a nod will suffice, if that.

It ain't a life for everyone, and that's a good path for some folks. You ever seen a good bullshitter lose his mind? Nope. He tells you what you can believe. He might even believe it. Hell, it might even be true. You ever heard a mother singing a lullaby about a deadly psychotic episode while rocking her baby? I recon it saved a life or two. Might have saved my life, knowing my mother. That's a regular dose of sanity for the chronically insane. Truth to some, absurd to others, irrelevant to most.

I see those eyes of yours. You see, son, a truth stranger than fiction is useless unless you're a good bullshitter. I ain't one, so you best be moving along now.

Got Nothing

Things are fine. Contentedness; a god awful state to try to write anything. Things seem fair and righteous somehow, or at least I am not bothered by them. Terrifying. Vacancy, and I am not even drunk. Will remedy soon. But, for now, where is the injustice to stew over? Where is the strife? Where is the anger? Where is the beauty to counteract all those things? Must find. Must digest and contemplate, still nothing. A death spiral to crush. It is the most wicked thing...to have nothing worth writing about, and I am afraid I endure it with a dull agony that is oh so inadequate.

The Honeycomb

"Do not awaken the hosts, Willis, they might ask for something."

Willis softened his step against the cement floor. The beds were large and soft, with down comforters, huge pillows, some with canopies. Each compartment was its own little unique capsule filled with furniture, a television, and picture frames everywhere. A large number of photos was perhaps the single common factor. Friends and family everywhere...on the nightstands, shelves, and dressers. He had never seen anything like it. It was sort of like a hospital, but arranged in a matrix of hexagonal rooms packed against one another. There were hundreds of these cells. In each lay a woman, some new arrivals. Others had been there 7, 8, even 9 months and pushed the center of the comforter up in a characteristic mound.

It was Willis' first day at the compound. He was being trained as a Maternity Warden. Many military folks signed up for maternity service to stay as far away from the front lines as possible. Life expectancy was much longer in the remote compounds saving innocent babies than in the suburbs breaking through doors of suspected terrorists.

Willis was trained for hand-to-hand combat, which qualified him for duty in the Honeycomb, which is what they called the boarding quarters. The Honeycomb was perhaps the safest place in America. It sat in the very center of the compound along with the delivery rooms. Surrounding the Honeycomb were the food storage and preparation areas, followed by the staff quarters, and finally the Perimeter. The Perimeter was a heavily reinforced series of fortifications that surrounded the complex. Two steel 30 foot walls were separated by a moat with machine gun nests every 50 yards. Beyond was an additional series of electric fences along with coils of barbed wire. The Perimeter was under constant video surveillance and observed from towers by the armed guards. Many had tried to escape, all had failed.

This was the Neil Horsley Institute, Georgia's premiere Pregnancy Fulfillment Facility. In the early 2010s, the state passed and began enforcing the "Right to Life" bill. The bill required all women of child-bearing age to wear Conception Indicators. They were small, non-invasive devices inserted beneath the flesh, usually in the back. They included a GPS tracking system and Conception Monitor. The device was designed to identify and track all women who had been fertilized.

Although state law required installation, few women would voluntarily accept the Conception Monitors. In order to enforce compliance, a state funded genomic research lab engineered an easily contractible STD requiring immediate treatment and immunization. Women at risk came to the state hospital where they were treated for the disease and underwent the Conception Monitor installation procedure, by force if necessary. It was estimated that within weeks all sexually active women in the state of Georgia were being monitored 24 hours a day.

A host, married or single, becomes property of the state at the moment of conception. This moment is immediately detected by the Conception Monitor and the Right to Life headquarters is alerted. The location of the host is identified and a unit of specially trained Embryo Protection Corps are deployed to the scene. If the host offers any resistance, she is sedated and brought by armored car to the Pregnancy Fulfillment Facility. There, she is given the appropriate diet and specially designed hormone supplements necessary for a healthy, growing fetus. Most importantly, she is separated from any physician capable of performing an illegal, murderous, abortion procedure.

The original Honeycomb was a minimum security environment offering hosts the option to move freely around the interrior of the facility. It soon became obvious that an open living quarters was hostile to the fetus. Irrate women would often attack guards in protest. Some hosts even committed murder by struggling with the compound staff. Others managed to attack and kill their own embryo in the womb using crude, makeshift instruments...all such offenses are, of course, punishable by death in the state of Georgia.

Today, all hosts are secured to their beds at all times. Maternity Wardens, such as Willis, are responsible for trips to the bathroom, showers, and so forth. The cooperativeness of many of these women demand two combat soldiers present whenever restraints are removed. This requirement is in addition to sedatives fed to the women intravenously, along with hormones and vitamins, during the duration of their pregnancy. The very low chance of birth defects that accompanies the use of this sedative is far less dangerous than allowing the host to act irrationally when unrestrained.

Willis continued to walk softly along the rows of beds. The wide, terrified eyes resembled those of captured terrorists behind bars in Florida's detention camps.

At least he was off the front lines.