Private Eye!
“What will you say on the stand tomorrow, Dow Jones?” says the DA, pouring two shots. “Did the accused break the law or not?”
“Of course he did,” says Dow Jones, knocking them back.
“So the true perpetrator is–”
“The existence of too many laws!” growls Dow Jones.
The DA thinks hard about that. “Hmm,” he says. “Fewer laws would make my job a lot easier!”
“See how you’re acting out of rational self-interest? So would everyone else!”
“You’re right, Dow Jones,” says the DA firmly. “Case closed!”
All in a day’s work for Dow Jones–Private Eye!
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Sydney gets new eyes in an operation but it turns out they’re Mexican ghost eyes.
“Oh crap!” says Sydney. “Now my eyes are haunted!”
“My hand was haunted!” says this guy who is definitely not named what you think he is named. “That’s why I chopped it off.”
“‘If thine eye offendeth thee, pluck it out,'” quotes Sydney thoughtfully. “I wonder how modern movies and ancient literature, perhaps even the phenomenon of martyrdom, relate to our latent fears of the neurophysiological imbalance that underlies body integrity identity disorder (BIID)?”
“Then I put a chainsaw on the stump!” says the other guy.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
“Agnes is going to the library to pretend to study,” Agnes tells her phone. It processes this, and then, as she’s walking through the RFID sentinels, purrs something new from the feed.
“No phones, please,” says the librarian in the wheelchair, like Agnes needs the extra guilt. She covertly wakes it again (muted) once she’s around the corner.
Hector is in the library, her phone says, because there’s too much drama in his room.
Agnes peeks down through the lightwell to confirm this. “Oh no, phone!” she whispers. “That means Jason–”
Amelia and Jason ended their relationship, it hiccups.
“:(,” Agnes sighs.
Friday, December 12, 2008
They’ve figured out that they can get away with having six girls a night out in the wings; any more and the dorm monitors get suspicious. Their ring is chalk and their gloves filched leather. Proserpina does Mondays and Wednesdays, Radiane Mondays and Tuesdays, and on Saturday mornings you can come in to spar.
The novelty wears off soon, and takes most of the girls with it. A core group possessed of a curious intensity remains. They’re learning how to take a punch; they’re learning how to answer. They are not strong, but they know what to do with their hands.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
The leggings Mariette wears to work on Wednesday are regrettable, and by noon she’s taking full advantage of that fact.
“I just want to go back in time and wear my skinny jeans instead,” she frets.
“DUDE THIS IS NOT WHAT YOU ARE REALLY SUPPOSED TO USE YOUR WISHES FOR,” says her genie uneasily.
“Nope!” she slaps the table. “I’ve decided. I wish I’d worn the jeans this morning–under the black cotton skirt!”
Flash, bang!
Mariette is pleased. Her coworkers in the break room toss their lunch things in the garbage (they sort of hate that Mariette gets a genie).
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Out on the Salt Sea, the Princess Leaves smacks bolts aside with her father’s sword, but they hit the deck of the yacht and leap immediately to flame. Dog Shouting dangles from the deck of a skiff while the hideous mouth of the Garbage Killer snaps blindly toward her. Rotten Gamble and Dragalong try to haul her up, when over their shoulders she spies a man wearing blue armor and a demon’s mask.
“Splitting Scar!” snarls Dog Shouting.
He raises his crossbow.
“Splitting Scar?” gasps Blow the Skin, “Splitting Scar? Where?” and knocks a pile of convenient fireworks into the flames.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
“You’re half-starved, you poor thing,” soothes Troy.
The mass of protoplasm shivers.
“They kept us apart for so long,” he says, “and they wouldn’t listen when I told them what to feed you. I’m sorry. I’d understand if you didn’t want to follow me anywhere again.”
Tentative pseudopods pulse questingly toward him.
“But I lied and I pretended and I got back in here, baby. And I’m not coming out alone.”
The blob surges forward, lumpy and asymmetrical, but rippling with hunger and life.
“Good girl,” says Troy, “eat up,” and tosses it a jelly bean that tastes like revenge.
The Knights of Cayenne wear thick mustaches, but only, you understand, as a preventative measure against the sneezing. They also carry canteens of sour cream.
Savarin would of course have difficulty with the first part. She’s sure she can overcome it, though, by means of a scarf or shaved-down corks or just force of will. She peppers her hair every day before scimitar practice. So what if the others think she has lice?
Let them sneer and mutter. To be a Knight of Cayenne is to face the flames, she knows, and to have the strength not to wipe your eyes.
Thursday, December 4, 2008