Bill and Jerry emerge from Shoe Circus companionably, churros in hand.
“Are they ever gonna come out with something that will make our computers moist and chewy like cake?” asks Jerry. “So we can just eat them while we’re working? If it’s yes, give me a signal. Adjust your shorts.”
Bill gives his butt a wiggle.
“I knew it,” Jerry exults.
They part ways, but the code phrase has been uttered: the nanites in Jerry’s churro twinkle to life and begin replication. He grins, feeling the old surge of transhuman uplift.
It’s time, once more, for them to save the world!
Emdash isn’t sure why she bothers holding the Not Good Enough for Qwerty meetings anymore. There was an underdog spirit at first–ra ra Unicode, proper typography is the key to etcetera–but now it’s a monthly bitch session and Interrobang hits on everybody.
“Autoconversion is an insult,” says Ellipsis for the third time. “Implying that I’m merely the sum of three full-stops–”
“We should make a resolution of censure!” says Curly.
“Motion noted,” sighs Emdash. “Those for?”
“You’ll never believe what she let me do after we got drunk at Poor Richard’s,” whispers Interrobang loudly.
Emdash, indeed, would not.
“It’s kind of amazing how many words sound like ‘Satan’ when you play them backwards,” says Ballard admiringly.
“You said that admiringly,” says Cote.
“Well, it’s a good hack!” says Ballard. “There aren’t enough rock bands out there that are actually into, y’know, the devil and backmasking and stuff, so clearly it went back and messed with the origins of modern English until it got something that would yield lots of good subliminal material.”
“That makes a disturbing amount of sense,” Cote admits.
“Shit yes,” says Ballard. “How else do you think we ended up with two hundred meanings for ‘do?'”
“We fight all the time!” says Brutus. “I don’t see what the big deal is if I want a divorce.”
“You are throwing her over for your cousin,” Caesar points out.
“We’re in ancient Rome!” says Brutus. “That’s probably cool here!”
“Yeah, but–just a second,” says Caesar, reaching into his toga.
beware the idea of march, says the message.
“I hate this predictive texting crap,” Caesar mutters. “What does that mean? The idea of match? The idea of Mark? Hey, you think this is about Mark maybe?”
Brutus just stares at Caesar’s Blackberry, hungry to have it for his own.
“Gather round, gentlemen and negotiable companions of Boxelder Falls,” crows Dr. Zierobinus, “to witness a demonstration of my Spectacular Travelling Psychiatry Show!”
“See here!” bustles the mayor. “There’s no peddling miracle cures in this township!”
“The notion of cures is outmoded!” says Dr. Zierobinus. “I peddle miracle ongoing treatment relationships in a therapeutic context.”
“I call it hogwash and pseudoscience and I won’t have it, no sir,” the mayor says.
“Do I detect a repressed hostility engendered by an inattentive guardian who worked in medicine?”
The mayor gapes. “Y-yes!”
“Psy… chiatry!” shouts Dr. Zierobinus.
“Ooh!” says everybody. “Clap clap clap.”
“So this ‘drawing’ is a population-control thing, right?” says Wheeler glumly, holding his mandatory winning ticket. “Slash ritual sacrifice? Point being they’re going to hit me with rocks.”
“No,” says Katerina, “you just get a red limo and a big bag of money.”
“But I’m a pariah,” Wheeler guesses. “Mark of Cain.”
“No, you should make lots of friends. You have a bag of money.”
“But how will I know if their friendship is genuine?”
“Spend all the money. See if they stick around.”
“Money can’t really make you happy!” Wheeler says.
“No?” says Katerina. “Can I have it, then?”
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
“I knew gene therapy was the answer,” exults Alexandrei. “The rats are ignoring the laced pellets entirely! We’ve done it, Susan. We’ve cured addiction!”
“And still no side effects?” she says, a little stunned.
“None!” says Alexandrei. “I mean, they do experience a serotonin surge, but that’s hardly a negative. I imagine they just feel excited for a while.”
“And it’s a one-time treatment, or…”
“Well, no,” he frowns. “The body rejects the foreign matter, so they need another dose every day or–”
“Will it,” says Susan slowly, “at least be cheaper than an eight-ball?”
Alexandrei bites his lip.
Twenty-One doesn’t go past Kenner Street. Sure, on the map the route appears to circle the block at Eighty-Second, but in fact it just stops a couple blocks away.
Not that there’s anyone in its seats by then to object.
It used to be the “bad part of town” was shorthand for the presence of poor or, specifically, black people. The idea seems quaint today. Twenty-One is a predator bus, no trifling machine: it disappears trucks and once ate a pack of thrashers. But each time it hauls up short at Eightieth, rattles, and executes a difficult turnabout.
“I’m having trouble nailing down your character,” Marcus prays.
Go on.
“I need you in the book; to leave You out of the world would be false, and blasphemous. But a character without flaws is of no service to a narrative. Can I depict You as flawed?”
Your depiction of Me, comes the dry answer, will be flawed by its very nature.
“But see what I’ve done just now!” says Marcus. “Assigning You a sense of humor.”
Yes. Humor is a defense: a reaction to injury.
“Have I injured You?” asks Marcus. “Can I?”
There is no answer that he perceives.