After an unfortunate glance into the delusional lifestyle and attitude of the young, wealthy and entitled, I'm delighted to say I'm officially 'over it.' I whine, bitch, and moan when some jackass robs or cheats me and then I use it as an excuse to avoid responsibility..."that guy has lied and cheated, and as a result, I am less accountable for my actions - after all, how can I be accountable? He's not playing by the rules?" I get angry and unruly, and accept the role of the victim, which helps me justify my bad behavior. This same logic drives people to perpetuate injustice in the first place. Is there ever an end to this cycle? What happens when the usually-innocuous knee-jerk inclination to lie or cheat has real consequences?
However many times I've seen the cheater win, I can't seem to escape this anger when it is shoved in my face. How are we supposed to watch idly as others gleefully and repeatedly trounce on the honest with utter disregard for justice; then, watch them excuse themselves (or taunt and mock when provoked) because they have trained their minds to fabricate false truths so easily in order to preserve the illusion of self-worth. "I live on the lake and drove my dad's million dollar yacht over here. You expect me to play by the same rules as your dumb-asses?"
Upon being afflicted with such bullshit (albeit of the relatively innocuous type), how do I delude myself into believing I am not the victim? Isn't this type of delusion just as bad as the type convincing the "entitled" that their self-preserving fabrications are valid?
I think accepting that one is not a victim requires a value judgment about relative utility...what good can come from being pissed-off? Instead, why not acknowledge the danger of such behavior and respond in an effective, cathartic, yet non-destructive way? Well, that takes effort. That takes recognizing the devil for what it is, and immediately forgiving and forgetting, allowing the perpetrator to believe he/she has won, and that their behavior was justified because there were no consequences. Sick and twisted still, but the lesser of evils.
I think discussing abhorrent behavior in conditions that are consequential helps put things in perspective. "Charles" was the disturbing result...just a reminder (to myself) not to sweat the small stuff.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Charles
Every morning Charles arose in darkness for his morning walks. He savored the mist over the empty streets and then the faint purple glow against the horizon. At first the horizon meant the clay rooftops, then a patch of woods, and finally the shallow hills of the countryside. By the time he had sauntered off the cobblestone and onto the dirt path, the dew shimmered on the prairie and the silhouette of Garvey's barn could be seen way off in the distance. The silence was pure other than the gravel beneath his feet, and would finally be broken as the birds commenced their ruckus among the intermittent willows, which spotted the landscape like hundreds of shaggy puff balls; completely still in the heavy air.
Today was like any another in the mid-summer, and he didn't expect a soul to awake by the time he returned. As such, he was surprised to hear splashing in the stream nearby. He decided to adjust his course and slowly walked through the tall grass to the edge of the valley. The splashing continued as his journey became encumbered by a rock pile and a steep grade. His curiosity overcame him, and despite his weak bones he decided he must see what was causing this unfamiliar disturbance. As he finally crawled to the crest, he looked down into the valley. What he saw startled him.
A burley middle-aged man was dragging a young girl out of a stream, her bloody legs thrashing the calm water. He turned his head and covered his eyes, but couldn't help but look through a crack in his fingers as tears began to well in his eyes. Helpless, he observed three men hold down the struggling girl as the other had his way with her. She was bound with a gag, which muzzled her screams entirely, and her hair was gnarled with sand. He recognized her. She was Tom Garvey's daughter, Ann, the sweetest little girl he had ever known. Her 12th birthday was yesterday, and his wife had helped her mother bake the cake. As one of the men raised his hand he closed his eyes and heard the crack off her cheek. He shuddered in horror and loathed his old, weak frame. He knew he was helpless.
After all had taken their turn, her battered body lay half covered by the slow moving stream. When the sound of laughter faded into the distance, Charles rushed down the inside of the valley as hastily as caution allowed. He cradled her head and sobbed, telling her it would be alright, removing the gag. She was barely conscious, her clothing torn, and bloody scars ravaged her delicate skin. He knew what he needed to do.
With all his strength, Charles lifted Ann's frail body and began scaling up and out of the valley. His joints ached with arthritis and the pain shook him tremendously. The rage from what he had witnessed was all that carried her as he finally approached the crest. By now his shirt was soaked in his blood. Every step along the gravel shot terrible pangs through him. With every last bit of his strength he carried her to the edge of the cobblestone and then his body failed him. With his last, he lowered her gently onto the grass and shuffled as quickly as he could into town. He decided to go directly to the doctor's house, through the woods. He knew that Dr. Gray had a carriage and could ride to her quickly. He marched bravely, knowing each step was causing grave damage to his faltering body. Finally, he could see Dr. Gray's stable through the trees. He knew he could make it.
With his goal in sight, he cried out as he tripped and fell headlong into a boulder. Dazed, he continued to crawl toward Dr. Gray's house. He tried to holler, but his throat had grown horse. In the distance he heard something call out. To his relief it was Ann...she was screaming for help. He prayed someone would hear her. They did. He lowered his head against the mossy soil and sobbed as he heard a group of men from town running for her aid. "Thank God" he muttered before slipping out of consciousness.
Her body lay in a pool of blood as the men rushed over to her. Her father walked a few yards into the grass and vomited as Dr. Gray knelt over Ann, wrapping bandages on her torn flesh.
To Dr. Gray's anger and astonishment, Ann's father interrupted the treatment and took her daughter by the head.
"Who did this to you!?" he pleaded.
"Tell me, please, who did this to you!?"
She was delirious and incoherent. She bobbed her head back and forth.
"WHO DID THIS TO YOU, ANN!?"
Finally, they heard the slightest whisper.
"Char...Charles...he...he."
Ann's father's eyes filled with rage and bewilderment. He lowered her head and finally allowed Dr. Gray to resume caring for her.
Ann died from her wounds hours later.
That afternoon, a manhunt began. It did not take more than a half hour to find him sleeping in the middle of the dense forest at the edge of town, near where he had fallen. Ann's father reached for his hand and a tear fell from his cheek as he felt his daughter's blood on his hand.
They helped Charles back to town and placed him in jail.
The next day everyone gathered in town square for the execution. Charles stood on the gallows wearing the same bloody shirt, at Ann's father's request. The noose was hung around his neck and he was asked if he had any last words. Charles, weak of breath and still hoarse, managed to utter...
"God rest her soul..."
They dropped the trap door and his neck snapped. Charles was buried in an unmarked grave in the forest.
Today was like any another in the mid-summer, and he didn't expect a soul to awake by the time he returned. As such, he was surprised to hear splashing in the stream nearby. He decided to adjust his course and slowly walked through the tall grass to the edge of the valley. The splashing continued as his journey became encumbered by a rock pile and a steep grade. His curiosity overcame him, and despite his weak bones he decided he must see what was causing this unfamiliar disturbance. As he finally crawled to the crest, he looked down into the valley. What he saw startled him.
A burley middle-aged man was dragging a young girl out of a stream, her bloody legs thrashing the calm water. He turned his head and covered his eyes, but couldn't help but look through a crack in his fingers as tears began to well in his eyes. Helpless, he observed three men hold down the struggling girl as the other had his way with her. She was bound with a gag, which muzzled her screams entirely, and her hair was gnarled with sand. He recognized her. She was Tom Garvey's daughter, Ann, the sweetest little girl he had ever known. Her 12th birthday was yesterday, and his wife had helped her mother bake the cake. As one of the men raised his hand he closed his eyes and heard the crack off her cheek. He shuddered in horror and loathed his old, weak frame. He knew he was helpless.
After all had taken their turn, her battered body lay half covered by the slow moving stream. When the sound of laughter faded into the distance, Charles rushed down the inside of the valley as hastily as caution allowed. He cradled her head and sobbed, telling her it would be alright, removing the gag. She was barely conscious, her clothing torn, and bloody scars ravaged her delicate skin. He knew what he needed to do.
With all his strength, Charles lifted Ann's frail body and began scaling up and out of the valley. His joints ached with arthritis and the pain shook him tremendously. The rage from what he had witnessed was all that carried her as he finally approached the crest. By now his shirt was soaked in his blood. Every step along the gravel shot terrible pangs through him. With every last bit of his strength he carried her to the edge of the cobblestone and then his body failed him. With his last, he lowered her gently onto the grass and shuffled as quickly as he could into town. He decided to go directly to the doctor's house, through the woods. He knew that Dr. Gray had a carriage and could ride to her quickly. He marched bravely, knowing each step was causing grave damage to his faltering body. Finally, he could see Dr. Gray's stable through the trees. He knew he could make it.
With his goal in sight, he cried out as he tripped and fell headlong into a boulder. Dazed, he continued to crawl toward Dr. Gray's house. He tried to holler, but his throat had grown horse. In the distance he heard something call out. To his relief it was Ann...she was screaming for help. He prayed someone would hear her. They did. He lowered his head against the mossy soil and sobbed as he heard a group of men from town running for her aid. "Thank God" he muttered before slipping out of consciousness.
Her body lay in a pool of blood as the men rushed over to her. Her father walked a few yards into the grass and vomited as Dr. Gray knelt over Ann, wrapping bandages on her torn flesh.
To Dr. Gray's anger and astonishment, Ann's father interrupted the treatment and took her daughter by the head.
"Who did this to you!?" he pleaded.
"Tell me, please, who did this to you!?"
She was delirious and incoherent. She bobbed her head back and forth.
"WHO DID THIS TO YOU, ANN!?"
Finally, they heard the slightest whisper.
"Char...Charles...he...he."
Ann's father's eyes filled with rage and bewilderment. He lowered her head and finally allowed Dr. Gray to resume caring for her.
Ann died from her wounds hours later.
That afternoon, a manhunt began. It did not take more than a half hour to find him sleeping in the middle of the dense forest at the edge of town, near where he had fallen. Ann's father reached for his hand and a tear fell from his cheek as he felt his daughter's blood on his hand.
They helped Charles back to town and placed him in jail.
The next day everyone gathered in town square for the execution. Charles stood on the gallows wearing the same bloody shirt, at Ann's father's request. The noose was hung around his neck and he was asked if he had any last words. Charles, weak of breath and still hoarse, managed to utter...
"God rest her soul..."
They dropped the trap door and his neck snapped. Charles was buried in an unmarked grave in the forest.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
The Carpenter
Addendum to "The Walrus and the Carpenter" by Lewis Carrol, with inspiration from a mysterious source (thanks for that Ryan)...
Among the sand there fell a tear,
It splashed upon a shell.
His tusk had cracked the final one,
It lingered with the smell--
He hadn't left but one to waste,
As far as he could tell.
"What breed of walrus does such things?"
He pondered as he cried.
"If only I had warned them,
or if I hadn't lied--
what oyster youth has earned such fate.
Digested! While Alive!"
The Carpenter rose to his feet,
And belched a mighty roar.
"Come on, my friend, let's wash up,
don't be a dismal sore--
we haven't got all night you know,
for dinner let's find more."
They walked among the wettest sand,
the imposition done.
The orb above them stood alone,
far off purple from the sun.
It kindly acquiesced by now,
Not to spoil the fun.
"Greetings my fair oysters,
won't you come along,
Yonder sits a treat for you,
We'll entertain with song--
My friend here says he knows the way,
this Walrus is seldom wrong."
This time dozens fell in line,
each dressed in fine attire.
Coats with tails impressed the snails,
a sight one would admire--
though lacking arms the poor ones
stuffed their tiny sleeves with wire.
And a mile up the beach,
the Oysters needed rest.
"No need to ask my friends,
we've made it to the crest--
our walrus carries all of you,
now climb upon his chest.
The Carpenter then pointed to
an island just of shore.
And with his wink the walrus knew,
He'd swim the oysters over--
The Walrus understood, he thought,
"His heart is also sore."
"How nice," the Walrus gave a sigh,
the charity did warm.
The Carpenter would spare these ones,
and for them would perform--
And on the island none would see...
none could give him scorn.
The Walrus did a backstroke,
and smiled broadly still.
And headed for the island,
brimming with goodwill.
Between his flippers, dozens sat.
He was careful not to spill.
With a "SNAP" down they went,
into the slimy dark.
And felt a tingling on their skin,
digestion pure and stark--
The oysters screamed in terror,
his last word was a "bark."
The Carpenter smiled broadly,
"A meal fit for a king!"
His killer whale was gracious,
And asked if he would sing.
"Coo coo! oh I lose the words.
What next shall I bring?"
It splashed upon a shell.
His tusk had cracked the final one,
It lingered with the smell--
He hadn't left but one to waste,
As far as he could tell.
"What breed of walrus does such things?"
He pondered as he cried.
"If only I had warned them,
or if I hadn't lied--
what oyster youth has earned such fate.
Digested! While Alive!"
The Carpenter rose to his feet,
And belched a mighty roar.
"Come on, my friend, let's wash up,
don't be a dismal sore--
we haven't got all night you know,
for dinner let's find more."
They walked among the wettest sand,
the imposition done.
The orb above them stood alone,
far off purple from the sun.
It kindly acquiesced by now,
Not to spoil the fun.
"Greetings my fair oysters,
won't you come along,
Yonder sits a treat for you,
We'll entertain with song--
My friend here says he knows the way,
this Walrus is seldom wrong."
This time dozens fell in line,
each dressed in fine attire.
Coats with tails impressed the snails,
a sight one would admire--
though lacking arms the poor ones
stuffed their tiny sleeves with wire.
And a mile up the beach,
the Oysters needed rest.
"No need to ask my friends,
we've made it to the crest--
our walrus carries all of you,
now climb upon his chest.
The Carpenter then pointed to
an island just of shore.
And with his wink the walrus knew,
He'd swim the oysters over--
The Walrus understood, he thought,
"His heart is also sore."
"How nice," the Walrus gave a sigh,
the charity did warm.
The Carpenter would spare these ones,
and for them would perform--
And on the island none would see...
none could give him scorn.
The Walrus did a backstroke,
and smiled broadly still.
And headed for the island,
brimming with goodwill.
Between his flippers, dozens sat.
He was careful not to spill.
With a "SNAP" down they went,
into the slimy dark.
And felt a tingling on their skin,
digestion pure and stark--
The oysters screamed in terror,
his last word was a "bark."
The Carpenter smiled broadly,
"A meal fit for a king!"
His killer whale was gracious,
And asked if he would sing.
"Coo coo! oh I lose the words.
What next shall I bring?"
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Dumb Things
I should clarify that last quote...
Penning a few words here is not a dumb thing, even if it is a dumb person writing. A lot of other stuff I do is certainly dumb, and that is the stuff I like to do faster so I can have more time to write stuff here and do other stuff that is not dumb.
In fact, I feel sort of obligated to scribble some thoughts to discuss the regular dumb things. Acknowledging them and trying to understand what compels me to engage in them somehow makes them less dumb.
If they are truly dumb, maybe they are only of value if they are recognized for their futility and used as an example of what not to do. After all, the most awful movie has incredible value as an example of what not film.
Maybe the first 35 years of our lives are that dumb period where we'll one day look back and remember why we don't do dumb things any more. I hope that's the case.
Thought I had something else to say. Hm. Well, back to doing dumb things.
Penning a few words here is not a dumb thing, even if it is a dumb person writing. A lot of other stuff I do is certainly dumb, and that is the stuff I like to do faster so I can have more time to write stuff here and do other stuff that is not dumb.
In fact, I feel sort of obligated to scribble some thoughts to discuss the regular dumb things. Acknowledging them and trying to understand what compels me to engage in them somehow makes them less dumb.
If they are truly dumb, maybe they are only of value if they are recognized for their futility and used as an example of what not to do. After all, the most awful movie has incredible value as an example of what not film.
Maybe the first 35 years of our lives are that dumb period where we'll one day look back and remember why we don't do dumb things any more. I hope that's the case.
Thought I had something else to say. Hm. Well, back to doing dumb things.
Saturday, June 14, 2008
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Pwned! Everything!
Once Sam had found the final piece he stood back and looked at the giant jigsaw puzzle in awe. The years he spent acquiring the pieces did not disappoint, and came together in a glorious display. But, the final picture was so unexpected he put down his hot dog in amazement. What does one do with all the money, power, and influence in the world anyway? I didn't really care for all of it...
The years of struggling to earn a piece of the pie, and it was so simple all along. Why hadn't anyone else thought of this, he thought, admiring the delicate brush strokes. "Pwned! Everything! How shall I use it?" he thought...
First, I will make myself rich, he thought. Rich people can afford all of the things that happy people seem to have.
Second, I will make myself famous. Famous people seem to be the envy of everyone. So they must be happy.
Finally, I will be powerful. People will listen to me and do anything I say.
"Mr. Puzzle, now that you have been solved, we shall be great friends."
Using the information acquired on the puzzle, Sam began his quest. He looked at the puzzle and became rich, purchasing a giant mansion on the coast. Then, he consulted the puzzle again and became famous, and the envy of all who envied. Then, he became powerful, and people listened to him and did what he said. All he had ever dreamed of, he now had.
He sat on his balcony overlooking his zebra herd. He had the butler bring him another glass of dubbel. He spoke with the prime minister of England. He pondered the simple years he spent piecing together the puzzle and all of the agony and frustration. Those were the most difficult years of his life, and yet, he somehow cherished them. Looking through the bubbles in his ornate glass he wondered whether he would go back if he had the chance. He wondered if he had really acquired all the happiness he truly desired...
"Hell yas, lemon grass" he said out loud. "Butler, I'll take one more dubbel."
The years of struggling to earn a piece of the pie, and it was so simple all along. Why hadn't anyone else thought of this, he thought, admiring the delicate brush strokes. "Pwned! Everything! How shall I use it?" he thought...
First, I will make myself rich, he thought. Rich people can afford all of the things that happy people seem to have.
Second, I will make myself famous. Famous people seem to be the envy of everyone. So they must be happy.
Finally, I will be powerful. People will listen to me and do anything I say.
"Mr. Puzzle, now that you have been solved, we shall be great friends."
Using the information acquired on the puzzle, Sam began his quest. He looked at the puzzle and became rich, purchasing a giant mansion on the coast. Then, he consulted the puzzle again and became famous, and the envy of all who envied. Then, he became powerful, and people listened to him and did what he said. All he had ever dreamed of, he now had.
He sat on his balcony overlooking his zebra herd. He had the butler bring him another glass of dubbel. He spoke with the prime minister of England. He pondered the simple years he spent piecing together the puzzle and all of the agony and frustration. Those were the most difficult years of his life, and yet, he somehow cherished them. Looking through the bubbles in his ornate glass he wondered whether he would go back if he had the chance. He wondered if he had really acquired all the happiness he truly desired...
"Hell yas, lemon grass" he said out loud. "Butler, I'll take one more dubbel."
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
The Union
We call it "The Union" because it is anything but. It's fitting simply because vulnerability to the irony vindicates your membership.
Here's the thing...people sign up for a group and that's when problems start. Sign up for the labor union and you pay dues, earn less money, and then work more to make up for it. They raise dues, you work harder and the cycle continues. You pay to work more.
Here are some general things we found...Relinquish your time, money, or love to any third party and its name will stay the same, but its actions evolve. Over time you are busy and lose touch with its actions, but remember its name. So, you are partially accountable for its actions even though you have no idea what the hell it actually does. You inevitability allow it to do to things on your behalf that you do not approve of. That is how folks become "Numbers," and assumptions are made about how these Numbers care to exist.
I personally prefer the Numbers to live in a way that makes my life more convenient, especially if it makes no difference to them. The person who knows this runs for office and starts messing with anything the Numbers don't seem to care about. This cycle continues and the group, whatever it is, continues to grow and change according to what it can get away with.
We decided that doesn't make much sense and put our thinking caps on, and thought of The Union...The Union is basically an anti-union. By joining you promise not to take accountability for other's mistakes or credit for their accomplishments...that's all. If a group you are a part of starts to violate this simple rule, you drop out.
You prove that you are a member of the union not by carrying a card or paying a membership fee, but by living by this rule. If you believe this stuff, that you want to enjoy the fruits of your labor and no one else's, proving it works is easy. Just say you are a member of The Union, and people will trust you, that's all. Other folks have done the hard part, and proven The Union works. So, now you get to benefit...that's how it works down here anyway.
The best thing about The Union? People enjoy what they do because they are rewarded for it fairly. The worst thing about The Union? Beer is still not free.
Here's the thing...people sign up for a group and that's when problems start. Sign up for the labor union and you pay dues, earn less money, and then work more to make up for it. They raise dues, you work harder and the cycle continues. You pay to work more.
Here are some general things we found...Relinquish your time, money, or love to any third party and its name will stay the same, but its actions evolve. Over time you are busy and lose touch with its actions, but remember its name. So, you are partially accountable for its actions even though you have no idea what the hell it actually does. You inevitability allow it to do to things on your behalf that you do not approve of. That is how folks become "Numbers," and assumptions are made about how these Numbers care to exist.
I personally prefer the Numbers to live in a way that makes my life more convenient, especially if it makes no difference to them. The person who knows this runs for office and starts messing with anything the Numbers don't seem to care about. This cycle continues and the group, whatever it is, continues to grow and change according to what it can get away with.
We decided that doesn't make much sense and put our thinking caps on, and thought of The Union...The Union is basically an anti-union. By joining you promise not to take accountability for other's mistakes or credit for their accomplishments...that's all. If a group you are a part of starts to violate this simple rule, you drop out.
You prove that you are a member of the union not by carrying a card or paying a membership fee, but by living by this rule. If you believe this stuff, that you want to enjoy the fruits of your labor and no one else's, proving it works is easy. Just say you are a member of The Union, and people will trust you, that's all. Other folks have done the hard part, and proven The Union works. So, now you get to benefit...that's how it works down here anyway.
The best thing about The Union? People enjoy what they do because they are rewarded for it fairly. The worst thing about The Union? Beer is still not free.
Salt or Pepper
"Please pass the salt," he said, looking up from the morning paper.
She passed him the pepper.
He thought about it and wondered...did I say pepper? I would have bet my life that I just said salt. He looked at her inquisitively. She looked back and smiled.
"What is it, son."
He lifted the pepper and shook it onto his eggs.
"Nothing, mom." She must be losing it, he thought. She got up to grab some juice...
"I didn't know you liked pepper on your eggs."
"Oh, well, you know how I'm always trying new things," he lied...sparing her the embarrassment. She nodded and poured a glass for herself.
This wasn't like her. He wondered...maybe she intended to pass him the pepper. Maybe she just wanted to know if I thought she was going crazy.
Or, was she testing me to see if I thought I was going crazy! Was my mom really capable of setting me up like that?
He thought about it...hmm. Mom's getting old, but she has always been quick as a whip. I looked for anything different in her behavior, and I think she noticed. Had she realized she passed the pepper in error, or was she waiting to hear me tell her the truth? She would do this sort of thing. Damn her.
She knows what a ruthless world it is, and has always tried to prepare me for it in various ways. I hope she knows I am not crazy. Wait a minute. I am not crazy, and I do know that...
"Mom, I lied. I did ask for the salt."
"That's my boy, now pass me the pepper."
He looked and noticed the salt was sitting next to her plate. She never used salt.
She passed him the pepper.
He thought about it and wondered...did I say pepper? I would have bet my life that I just said salt. He looked at her inquisitively. She looked back and smiled.
"What is it, son."
He lifted the pepper and shook it onto his eggs.
"Nothing, mom." She must be losing it, he thought. She got up to grab some juice...
"I didn't know you liked pepper on your eggs."
"Oh, well, you know how I'm always trying new things," he lied...sparing her the embarrassment. She nodded and poured a glass for herself.
This wasn't like her. He wondered...maybe she intended to pass him the pepper. Maybe she just wanted to know if I thought she was going crazy.
Or, was she testing me to see if I thought I was going crazy! Was my mom really capable of setting me up like that?
He thought about it...hmm. Mom's getting old, but she has always been quick as a whip. I looked for anything different in her behavior, and I think she noticed. Had she realized she passed the pepper in error, or was she waiting to hear me tell her the truth? She would do this sort of thing. Damn her.
She knows what a ruthless world it is, and has always tried to prepare me for it in various ways. I hope she knows I am not crazy. Wait a minute. I am not crazy, and I do know that...
"Mom, I lied. I did ask for the salt."
"That's my boy, now pass me the pepper."
He looked and noticed the salt was sitting next to her plate. She never used salt.
Friday, June 6, 2008
fyi
A bit of my soul died this morning when I discovered my work would be garnished with a cover I find completely unacceptable. It puts me in a state of shock and confusion, but mostly, it reminds me who really owns me.
Well, they can't really own me, but they can own the heartless, pedantic work I scrawl for them. It is not me speaking...it is a dying, pathetic coward who lacks the spine to douse the stack of books with gas and set it aflame. Hopefully no one will judge this one by its cover.
To be clear. I have absolutely no problem with whatever anyone else puts on the cover of their books. I enjoy a good laugh as much as the next guy. I feel like I've been dressed in a land shark outfit, that's all.
Well, they can't really own me, but they can own the heartless, pedantic work I scrawl for them. It is not me speaking...it is a dying, pathetic coward who lacks the spine to douse the stack of books with gas and set it aflame. Hopefully no one will judge this one by its cover.
To be clear. I have absolutely no problem with whatever anyone else puts on the cover of their books. I enjoy a good laugh as much as the next guy. I feel like I've been dressed in a land shark outfit, that's all.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
The Button
Just to be clear, we put a big red button in the middle of town square. We called it "The Button." Oh sure, anyone is free to press the button at any time, but people generally keep their distance.
You see, if anyone touches the button a three billion megaton device will detonate, which will end all intelligent life replacing it with a few radiation-resistant species such as the resilient cockroach. Soon our humble community would start to resemble yours up there in the overworld, but I digress.
Pressing the button means mutually assured destruction. That means that the presser of the button will be killed instantly, as well as every other human being. This is a concept few in our community are capable of misunderstanding.
Of course, to approach the button, you need to hop through a short obstacle course and complete a series of sudoku puzzles, which are trivial in difficulty. These small tests ensure that anyone who actually approaches the button has the intelligence and mental awareness to understand the importance of not pressing it. In this place anyone with a brain has the power to destroy massive numbers of people anonymously anyway, so we thought we'd just bring it out in the open. It's sort of a statement about our society here in the underground. It reminds each of us of our own importance.
I know this all sounds a bit reckless, but it works rather well. It basically allows us avoid the whole mess that comes along with a complicated judicial system. Everyone knows that virtually everyone else could press the button if they wanted to. It keeps us honest.
We have one rule...don't be evil. Don't do anything that makes another desire to press the button. If someone you know is depressed, you should probably see what's the matter before they decide they are going to snuff it and take the world along with them. But, this hasn't been much of a problem. For some reason, the responsibility that comes along with the power to easily slaughter humanity puts things in perspective for people. It sort of asks us to take responsibility for each other.
In fact, seldom do we even consider the possibility that anyone would actually press the button. We are far too busy enjoying our relatively tranquil life down here. Things are pretty good for some reason.
I will admit that is is always important to ask ourselves...when I make this business deal, will anyone be driven to the point they want to press the button? If so, maybe I shouldn't be doing it.
Down here you can do pretty much anything you want. Just remember, there might be someone ready to snap and press the button. If you are mowing your lawn at 10 pm, you might be that guy. Just think...if you were about to snap, and someone was mowing their lawn at 10 pm, could you lose it enough to want to press the button? Just a thought experiment. Just don't press the button, and don't persuade another that it is reasonable to press the button. But enough of all the negatives...persuading people not to press the button is also a fun passtime, even if the button didn't exist.
There are many things one can do to help assure that no one would even consider pressing the button. In fact, there is a large section of stuff you can do that works toward not even requiring a button to exist at all. For example, you can have a job if you want one. Down here a lot of people decide not to work, but if you have a skill, and want to contribute to something, a job can't hurt...it's not for me, but I can see why people do it. I spend most of my time drinking beer, playing asshole, and not pressing the button. It's a full-time job itself.
So, anyway, that concludes your tour of the button. There is it. Go press it if you like.
You see, if anyone touches the button a three billion megaton device will detonate, which will end all intelligent life replacing it with a few radiation-resistant species such as the resilient cockroach. Soon our humble community would start to resemble yours up there in the overworld, but I digress.
Pressing the button means mutually assured destruction. That means that the presser of the button will be killed instantly, as well as every other human being. This is a concept few in our community are capable of misunderstanding.
Of course, to approach the button, you need to hop through a short obstacle course and complete a series of sudoku puzzles, which are trivial in difficulty. These small tests ensure that anyone who actually approaches the button has the intelligence and mental awareness to understand the importance of not pressing it. In this place anyone with a brain has the power to destroy massive numbers of people anonymously anyway, so we thought we'd just bring it out in the open. It's sort of a statement about our society here in the underground. It reminds each of us of our own importance.
I know this all sounds a bit reckless, but it works rather well. It basically allows us avoid the whole mess that comes along with a complicated judicial system. Everyone knows that virtually everyone else could press the button if they wanted to. It keeps us honest.
We have one rule...don't be evil. Don't do anything that makes another desire to press the button. If someone you know is depressed, you should probably see what's the matter before they decide they are going to snuff it and take the world along with them. But, this hasn't been much of a problem. For some reason, the responsibility that comes along with the power to easily slaughter humanity puts things in perspective for people. It sort of asks us to take responsibility for each other.
In fact, seldom do we even consider the possibility that anyone would actually press the button. We are far too busy enjoying our relatively tranquil life down here. Things are pretty good for some reason.
I will admit that is is always important to ask ourselves...when I make this business deal, will anyone be driven to the point they want to press the button? If so, maybe I shouldn't be doing it.
Down here you can do pretty much anything you want. Just remember, there might be someone ready to snap and press the button. If you are mowing your lawn at 10 pm, you might be that guy. Just think...if you were about to snap, and someone was mowing their lawn at 10 pm, could you lose it enough to want to press the button? Just a thought experiment. Just don't press the button, and don't persuade another that it is reasonable to press the button. But enough of all the negatives...persuading people not to press the button is also a fun passtime, even if the button didn't exist.
There are many things one can do to help assure that no one would even consider pressing the button. In fact, there is a large section of stuff you can do that works toward not even requiring a button to exist at all. For example, you can have a job if you want one. Down here a lot of people decide not to work, but if you have a skill, and want to contribute to something, a job can't hurt...it's not for me, but I can see why people do it. I spend most of my time drinking beer, playing asshole, and not pressing the button. It's a full-time job itself.
So, anyway, that concludes your tour of the button. There is it. Go press it if you like.
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
The Caboose
The engine roared toward the mountain pass at a blazing speed. It had never ascended this particular section of track, but it was ready. Where many other engines had failed, he would succeed. It was the last ascent before retirement, and he had a large pension waiting for him on the other side. His close friends cheered him from the top. He wasn't worried, and didn't really think about the rewards or the many other engines that were watching from either side, expecting him to fail. His only thoughts were those that could help him to the top of this hill, and nothing else mattered. He knew he was prepared.
He chugged and thundered forward at full power without doubt. There was a calm concentration about this engine, as if the challenge was trivial. The boiler was stoked and from its chimney spewed a totally environmentally irresponsible amount of soot high into the crisp mountain air. He was actually sympathetic to the cause of controlling climate change, but knew that getting over that hill was all that mattered in this particular instance. He knew his reputation would suffer for his social irresponsibility, but he knew he must ignore the discouragement. Anything that distracted him from his goal was a direct adversary. If he didn't make it, he would be taken apart piece by piece in an excruciating disassembly process. He would become toasters or something.
He barreled through the mob of protesters who screamed "death train!" and lobbed globes, which bounced off his grate and shattered his windshield. His wheels decapitated several hundred Cabbage Patch Kids, which had been carefully placed on the track. Their heads popped off and flew into the sign-waving crowd with unexpected velocity, causing the droves to scatter. He did not flinch, but continued to accelerate up the gentle grade, becoming steeper by the moment. His sides were caked in mud and grime, and he now smelled of organic fish guts. He was not perturbed or spiteful, but gratified at his endurance. He had so often proved capable of what he previously believed impossible that his confidence was high. As the mob grew smaller in his rear view mirror, he took slight pleasure in his small victory. He was now filthy and smelly, but had not been derailed.
In order to lighten the load he had left all of his possessions behind. His fine wooden seats and interior decorations were scrapped. Even the paint and trim on the exterior was stripped. He sparred nothing to ensure the train was as light as possible. He towed only one posession...it was the only thing he cared for at all, and just couldn't bear to leave it behind. He could not abandon his beloved caboose. It was bright red and stunningly beautiful. It had been a part of his train his whole life, his faithful companion, and he would take it to the grave if he had to. Many said it would be his demise, but he considered it part of himself and could not give serious thought to departing from it.
The grade became steep and the fire burned white hot, turning the metal surrounding the boiler red. It became increasingly painful and took every bit of his energy to forge ahead. The tree huggers had managed to fall ancient redwoods over the tracks in a desperate attempt to stop him, but he managed to crash through them. He was aware he had no help from anyone, and indeed every influence he had ever encountered begged for his failure...asked him to give up. He looked back at his caboose, which was still there, a constant reminder of his purpose. If he did not have that, he knew the trek was impossible. Its weight was severe, and it became increasingly heavy, but without it he was nothing...a pile of toasters. It pressed him toward the ridge, which was now visible.
The strain extended to every inch of steel surrounding him, and his anger became intense. He had never doubted his ability, but now had to face reality. There was a possibility that he would not make it. His stubbornness had always prevented him from asking for help or accepting charity of any kind, but he knew he was facing destruction. He turned around and asked a favor...
"You are a beautiful caboose, and I am sorry that I have to ask, but could you please push your oak cabinet over the side. It is rather heavy, and I believe there is a chance we may not make it otherwise."
The caboose was shocked. Being asked to push the oak cabinet overboard was an impossibility. That oak cabinet was the prized possession of the caboose, and nothing could possibly part the two.
The train began to labor intensely, and the progress slowed. The ridge was only a mile up the track and plainly visible, but the grade continued to climb.
"Please, by beloved caboose, toss the damn thing. It's just a cabinet."
"You can make it. I know you can. You have always made it, and I cannot throw away my cabinet any sooner than you can throw away me."
Clink.
The latch behind the locomotive released and the caboose began to drift behind.
He watched in sadness as the lovely, bright red ornament sailed down the hill with increasing velocity.
As he thundered over the ridge, he looked back one last time and in the distance saw the caboose smash into a fallen redwood and splinter into millions of tiny pieces. A festival of environmental activists congregated around the wreckage, tearing apart what was left of the caboose's frame with enormous chain saws and bulldozers in a frenzy of maniacal bliss.
His engine friends congratulated him as he chugged to a stop, and helped clean off the fish guts and repair the windshield. They even offered to help restore his paint job. Seeing the sadness and bewilderment in his eyes, they consoled him...
"We're so sorry for your loss. Do you think you'll be okay? That was a beautiful caboose..."
"No, it wasn't, it was nothing but a cabinet all these years. Still, it bothers me tremendously. If I hadn't chosen to ascend the mountain I might never have known..."
He chugged and thundered forward at full power without doubt. There was a calm concentration about this engine, as if the challenge was trivial. The boiler was stoked and from its chimney spewed a totally environmentally irresponsible amount of soot high into the crisp mountain air. He was actually sympathetic to the cause of controlling climate change, but knew that getting over that hill was all that mattered in this particular instance. He knew his reputation would suffer for his social irresponsibility, but he knew he must ignore the discouragement. Anything that distracted him from his goal was a direct adversary. If he didn't make it, he would be taken apart piece by piece in an excruciating disassembly process. He would become toasters or something.
He barreled through the mob of protesters who screamed "death train!" and lobbed globes, which bounced off his grate and shattered his windshield. His wheels decapitated several hundred Cabbage Patch Kids, which had been carefully placed on the track. Their heads popped off and flew into the sign-waving crowd with unexpected velocity, causing the droves to scatter. He did not flinch, but continued to accelerate up the gentle grade, becoming steeper by the moment. His sides were caked in mud and grime, and he now smelled of organic fish guts. He was not perturbed or spiteful, but gratified at his endurance. He had so often proved capable of what he previously believed impossible that his confidence was high. As the mob grew smaller in his rear view mirror, he took slight pleasure in his small victory. He was now filthy and smelly, but had not been derailed.
In order to lighten the load he had left all of his possessions behind. His fine wooden seats and interior decorations were scrapped. Even the paint and trim on the exterior was stripped. He sparred nothing to ensure the train was as light as possible. He towed only one posession...it was the only thing he cared for at all, and just couldn't bear to leave it behind. He could not abandon his beloved caboose. It was bright red and stunningly beautiful. It had been a part of his train his whole life, his faithful companion, and he would take it to the grave if he had to. Many said it would be his demise, but he considered it part of himself and could not give serious thought to departing from it.
The grade became steep and the fire burned white hot, turning the metal surrounding the boiler red. It became increasingly painful and took every bit of his energy to forge ahead. The tree huggers had managed to fall ancient redwoods over the tracks in a desperate attempt to stop him, but he managed to crash through them. He was aware he had no help from anyone, and indeed every influence he had ever encountered begged for his failure...asked him to give up. He looked back at his caboose, which was still there, a constant reminder of his purpose. If he did not have that, he knew the trek was impossible. Its weight was severe, and it became increasingly heavy, but without it he was nothing...a pile of toasters. It pressed him toward the ridge, which was now visible.
The strain extended to every inch of steel surrounding him, and his anger became intense. He had never doubted his ability, but now had to face reality. There was a possibility that he would not make it. His stubbornness had always prevented him from asking for help or accepting charity of any kind, but he knew he was facing destruction. He turned around and asked a favor...
"You are a beautiful caboose, and I am sorry that I have to ask, but could you please push your oak cabinet over the side. It is rather heavy, and I believe there is a chance we may not make it otherwise."
The caboose was shocked. Being asked to push the oak cabinet overboard was an impossibility. That oak cabinet was the prized possession of the caboose, and nothing could possibly part the two.
The train began to labor intensely, and the progress slowed. The ridge was only a mile up the track and plainly visible, but the grade continued to climb.
"Please, by beloved caboose, toss the damn thing. It's just a cabinet."
"You can make it. I know you can. You have always made it, and I cannot throw away my cabinet any sooner than you can throw away me."
Clink.
The latch behind the locomotive released and the caboose began to drift behind.
He watched in sadness as the lovely, bright red ornament sailed down the hill with increasing velocity.
As he thundered over the ridge, he looked back one last time and in the distance saw the caboose smash into a fallen redwood and splinter into millions of tiny pieces. A festival of environmental activists congregated around the wreckage, tearing apart what was left of the caboose's frame with enormous chain saws and bulldozers in a frenzy of maniacal bliss.
His engine friends congratulated him as he chugged to a stop, and helped clean off the fish guts and repair the windshield. They even offered to help restore his paint job. Seeing the sadness and bewilderment in his eyes, they consoled him...
"We're so sorry for your loss. Do you think you'll be okay? That was a beautiful caboose..."
"No, it wasn't, it was nothing but a cabinet all these years. Still, it bothers me tremendously. If I hadn't chosen to ascend the mountain I might never have known..."
Thoughts of the day
- The sign still says 15 miles after all these years.
- If you have a valid case to confirm or deny chaos or creation (regarding the origins of the universe), please also explain why you haven't told the folks at CERN. They are dying to know...(crazy stuff - we all might get sucked into a black hole.)
- I haven't thought of 3 yet.
Monday, June 2, 2008
Jules II
The screeching from his high-powered surgical saw suddenly dampened to a light ringing, which he held to niente. The room was silent other than the patter of droplets against his shoes, which fell with regularity from the scarlet blade. Each breath became a fog in front of their masks through the light from the single lamp above them.
He set the instrument on its tray and tugged at the spherical cross section until it popped off, revealing the twisty, pink, shriveled kielbasa that was his nemesis. He handed off the lid like a finished bowl of vegetarian chili and placed his hands on the shoulders in front of him.
He leaned forward, close enough to smell the slight saline character of the living tissue. "Damn you for doing this to me!" he screamed to the shock of the surgical nurse beside him. She jumped, dropping the bony capstone, which rolled across the room and hit the wall before twirling on the floor, spinning like a coin.
"This is all your fault!!!" He screamed.
"Oh, I'm so sorry Dr. Abrams. So very sorry..."
"I'm not talking to you. And call me Jules outside the OR."
"Yes Dr. Abrams" she squeaked.
He heard nothing but the rustle of the scope's harness as he wrapped it around his head. Through the single extruding viewfinder he scrutinized its contour, wrapped in vessels. They resembled little red tentacles. He poked and prodded the familiar flesh, and looked at Shelly with inquisitive anger in his eye, as if staring down Lucifer himself.
"It looks normal, but it is not."
He turned back and resumed his inspection, holding out his hand. He was delighted with its appearance, finding his most precious organ attractive indeed.
"This one is different, and I must find out why. Scalpel"
His first incision was shallow, and along the back side. Nothing at first. Relief. He paused, squinted, and approached the subject, tearing in deeper. The entirety of the surface turned green and then blue. He removed the blade, stood back, and the color reverted to normal.
"That was unexpected." He considered terminating the experiment, but curiosity overwhelmed him. No doctor could pass up this unique medical opportunity. This was, to his knowledge, the first conscious, self-administered procedure of its kind.
He continued his carving, running the blade deep into the flesh. Orange, bright green, magenta...with each millimeter psychedelic images captivated him further. Floating streamers and pulsating stars filled his field of view. He looked beside him and Shelly had morphed into a praying mantis. Twisting the instrument sideways, she became a gorilla, a meat cleaver, then a lingerie model. He stopped twisting.
"Sir Shanahan, is that you?"
"Occipital lobe, probably not the best place to start," he thought.
Recognizing the implausibility of the situation, he pondered the possible explanations. There were no mind-altering drugs recently, and no episodes of insanity. Lucid dream? It was likely.
He recognized the opportunity, and knew the precise locations of the nucleus accumbens. He decided not to beat around the bush and marveled at his brilliant decision to specialize in Neuroscience.
"Suction!" Shelly's elegant hand lifted the small vacuum to evacuate the blood, which had pooled around the perimeter of the swelling organ. She looked up at him over the spattering, slurping machine. He admired her... and decided to offer her a lesson in neural surgery.
He handed her the probe and guided her hand as it pierced the membrane and sunk deep into the ball of tissue.
"Are you sure about this?" Shelly asked.
"Absolutely."
He felt tingling, then relaxation as he adjusted her hand in slight variations. Then he felt a rush cascade through him and his eyes fell back into his head. He let go of her hand and fell back into a chair behind him.
"Are you okay?" she asked.
"Yes, quite okay. Let's continue the experiment."
"Okay, but I don't like this..."
He instructed her to move the probe in precise increments. Higher, then lower, left, then right. She followed his instructions perfectly. He crawled to the table and began taking notes.
"1 cm, floating"
"2 cm, sinking"
"3 cm, extreme...ar..."
His writing became incoherent scribbles and he erupted into hysterical laughter, then began crying.
"Left. I said left damnit!"
Jules began rolling on the floor.
"Are you sure you want me to keep doing this?! I'm not doing this. Something's..."
"S-Shelly...Shhhellly. For science, you must continue...I need you to push a bit more"
"No, there is something wrong with this."
"Don't stop damnit!"
She had penetrated his prefrontal cortex, and knew his decision making and social skills had been compromised. Jules had always been a gentleman, and this was a side of him she hadn't seen before. Jules' language became rather unrefined indeed as Shelly continued to follow his instructions.
"Pointy the mr. probe left my sweet and remember the twisty this time."
"Yes Dr. Abrams"
"IT'S JULES BITCH! You've won the stuffed bunny. You must feed it carrots and lettuce."
"Excuse me?"
She became increasingly agitated, he noticed.
"Jules, now is not the best time to get on my bad side."
"For science, bitch, do the twisty thing."
As she twisted, the intoxicating bliss snapped to excruciating pain. It shot through his spine like a bolt of lightning.
"What the hell are you doing!?"
She twisted more and Jules began shaking violently, screeching in agony.
He stood, walked to the other side of the room, and began bashing his head against the drywall.
"Oops, sorry..."
He climbed on the counter and lied down, reaching for something in the cupboard.
"This is my dream damnit! What the hell is happening!"
"Welcome to my world, Jules, things are going to be...different."
She dug deep to make fine adjustments. Jules withdrew and unwrapped a syringe and drew fluid from a container stowed in a drawer. He held the needle in front of him, pushed the plunger slightly, and watched in terror as the tiny stream of liquid flew from its tip.
"What the hell are you doing Shelly!?"
"For science, Jules."
He gained just enough control of his voice to release a shrill scream as the needle sunk with precision directly into a vain in his forearm. His thumb pushed slowly on the plunger as tears streamed down his face. The last thing he saw before he blacked out was Shelly's hand over her mouth.
===========
"Jules! Are you alright?"
He was on top of the kitchen counter, drenched in a cold sweat, clutching a turkey baster.
"Back to bed, honey."
He laid down in his bed and closed his eyes...
If he could just get hold of that probe...
He set the instrument on its tray and tugged at the spherical cross section until it popped off, revealing the twisty, pink, shriveled kielbasa that was his nemesis. He handed off the lid like a finished bowl of vegetarian chili and placed his hands on the shoulders in front of him.
He leaned forward, close enough to smell the slight saline character of the living tissue. "Damn you for doing this to me!" he screamed to the shock of the surgical nurse beside him. She jumped, dropping the bony capstone, which rolled across the room and hit the wall before twirling on the floor, spinning like a coin.
"This is all your fault!!!" He screamed.
"Oh, I'm so sorry Dr. Abrams. So very sorry..."
"I'm not talking to you. And call me Jules outside the OR."
"Yes Dr. Abrams" she squeaked.
He heard nothing but the rustle of the scope's harness as he wrapped it around his head. Through the single extruding viewfinder he scrutinized its contour, wrapped in vessels. They resembled little red tentacles. He poked and prodded the familiar flesh, and looked at Shelly with inquisitive anger in his eye, as if staring down Lucifer himself.
"It looks normal, but it is not."
He turned back and resumed his inspection, holding out his hand. He was delighted with its appearance, finding his most precious organ attractive indeed.
"This one is different, and I must find out why. Scalpel"
His first incision was shallow, and along the back side. Nothing at first. Relief. He paused, squinted, and approached the subject, tearing in deeper. The entirety of the surface turned green and then blue. He removed the blade, stood back, and the color reverted to normal.
"That was unexpected." He considered terminating the experiment, but curiosity overwhelmed him. No doctor could pass up this unique medical opportunity. This was, to his knowledge, the first conscious, self-administered procedure of its kind.
He continued his carving, running the blade deep into the flesh. Orange, bright green, magenta...with each millimeter psychedelic images captivated him further. Floating streamers and pulsating stars filled his field of view. He looked beside him and Shelly had morphed into a praying mantis. Twisting the instrument sideways, she became a gorilla, a meat cleaver, then a lingerie model. He stopped twisting.
"Sir Shanahan, is that you?"
"Occipital lobe, probably not the best place to start," he thought.
Recognizing the implausibility of the situation, he pondered the possible explanations. There were no mind-altering drugs recently, and no episodes of insanity. Lucid dream? It was likely.
He recognized the opportunity, and knew the precise locations of the nucleus accumbens. He decided not to beat around the bush and marveled at his brilliant decision to specialize in Neuroscience.
"Suction!" Shelly's elegant hand lifted the small vacuum to evacuate the blood, which had pooled around the perimeter of the swelling organ. She looked up at him over the spattering, slurping machine. He admired her... and decided to offer her a lesson in neural surgery.
He handed her the probe and guided her hand as it pierced the membrane and sunk deep into the ball of tissue.
"Are you sure about this?" Shelly asked.
"Absolutely."
He felt tingling, then relaxation as he adjusted her hand in slight variations. Then he felt a rush cascade through him and his eyes fell back into his head. He let go of her hand and fell back into a chair behind him.
"Are you okay?" she asked.
"Yes, quite okay. Let's continue the experiment."
"Okay, but I don't like this..."
He instructed her to move the probe in precise increments. Higher, then lower, left, then right. She followed his instructions perfectly. He crawled to the table and began taking notes.
"1 cm, floating"
"2 cm, sinking"
"3 cm, extreme...ar..."
His writing became incoherent scribbles and he erupted into hysterical laughter, then began crying.
"Left. I said left damnit!"
Jules began rolling on the floor.
"Are you sure you want me to keep doing this?! I'm not doing this. Something's..."
"S-Shelly...Shhhellly. For science, you must continue...I need you to push a bit more"
"No, there is something wrong with this."
"Don't stop damnit!"
She had penetrated his prefrontal cortex, and knew his decision making and social skills had been compromised. Jules had always been a gentleman, and this was a side of him she hadn't seen before. Jules' language became rather unrefined indeed as Shelly continued to follow his instructions.
"Pointy the mr. probe left my sweet and remember the twisty this time."
"Yes Dr. Abrams"
"IT'S JULES BITCH! You've won the stuffed bunny. You must feed it carrots and lettuce."
"Excuse me?"
She became increasingly agitated, he noticed.
"Jules, now is not the best time to get on my bad side."
"For science, bitch, do the twisty thing."
As she twisted, the intoxicating bliss snapped to excruciating pain. It shot through his spine like a bolt of lightning.
"What the hell are you doing!?"
She twisted more and Jules began shaking violently, screeching in agony.
He stood, walked to the other side of the room, and began bashing his head against the drywall.
"Oops, sorry..."
He climbed on the counter and lied down, reaching for something in the cupboard.
"This is my dream damnit! What the hell is happening!"
"Welcome to my world, Jules, things are going to be...different."
She dug deep to make fine adjustments. Jules withdrew and unwrapped a syringe and drew fluid from a container stowed in a drawer. He held the needle in front of him, pushed the plunger slightly, and watched in terror as the tiny stream of liquid flew from its tip.
"What the hell are you doing Shelly!?"
"For science, Jules."
He gained just enough control of his voice to release a shrill scream as the needle sunk with precision directly into a vain in his forearm. His thumb pushed slowly on the plunger as tears streamed down his face. The last thing he saw before he blacked out was Shelly's hand over her mouth.
===========
"Jules! Are you alright?"
He was on top of the kitchen counter, drenched in a cold sweat, clutching a turkey baster.
"Back to bed, honey."
He laid down in his bed and closed his eyes...
If he could just get hold of that probe...
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