King. Stay, give me drink. Hamlet, this pearl is thine;
Here’s to thy health: give him the cup. (A draught
anointed with a poison most severe!)
Laer. Another bout, your majesty; good Prince,
what sayest thou?
Ham. I’ll justly serve thee nonce.
[They play.]
Gert. Here, Hamlet, take my napkin, dab thy brow.
King. (But is that kerchief one I poison’d hence?
I’d best be sure.) Nay, take instead the wine.
Gert. I’ll have it. Gack!
Laer. Look here, a hit!
King. Poison! The Queen!
Ham. A venomed foil? This treachery will out!
Here, see how I have poison’d this grenade–
There is a lingering moral superiority inherent in having flossed. Suri scans Harez’s mouth as he talks, searching for signs of gingivitis.
“And, er, they’ve achieved a significant number of our tactical goals,” Harez mumbles, trying to keep his lips close together. “So I wanted to let them, well, blow off some steam?”
“Yes, I see, Lieutenant,” says Suri. “And you’re sure we’ve got the surplus munitions?”
“Absolutely,” Harez assures her. “Triple-checked.”
Suri takes a mouthful of cool water and lets it swish through the aching gaps between her teeth. “All right,” she says. “A little genocide never hurt anybody.”
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
“We have to do something, Uncle!” cries Stoicheia. The hall is collapsing; above, Ferlighi roars with laughter and picks off another victim. “We have to use the words!”
Logos is gray-faced with terror. “They are forbidden,” he says. “We must not dilute them!”
“I’d rather dilute them than die!” Stoicheia shouts.
Ferlighi utters a thunderclap and scatters them. By the time Stoicheia makes her way back to him, Logos is unmoving, eyes gray and glassy.
“Priceless®!” giggles Ferlighi, and traces bright circles in the air. “And now, child, you too–”
“Nike™,” Stoicheia whispers, and her feet are like unto wings.
Pannzer belches up a load of mousse de foie gras and it falls heavily into Raumon’s body cavity, teasing him with its rich texture, its warmth, its scent–oh, that he had been denied nostrils in the transformation! Raumon spins out from the kitchen in an agony of frustrated hunger. Why couldn’t he at least have been house staff, and be off cavorting with the feather dusters instead?
“Try the grey stuff, it’s delicious!” yelps the deranged pyro maitre’d. “Don’t believe me? Ask the dishes!”
Oh, for a tongue to taste with, thinks Raumon despairingly. Oh, for a mouth to scream.
“You know what Stoppard said about actors?” says Pilsner. “They’re the opposite of people.”
“What, if we touch we explode?” Beulah grins. “I think you’re giving yourself a little too much–”
“No,” says Pilsner, “he meant that once you hone your voice and face to create emotional impact, once you do it again and again for months, you gain a distance from true emotion that can’t be closed. Nothing you express after that, even in all honesty, can be free of performance. Actors are the opposition to people because people react.”
Beulah blinks. “Pils, I…”
“Gotcha!” he says, just lightly enough.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Streetlights, and heartache, and Jimmy Eat World.
For a minute Grigory is every jacket-wearing shag-haired boy in the world, and Maryanne is every girl with a crooked smile and her arms wrapped around pain. They’re driving down a road bordered by dying grass in Espirito Santo, and Illinois, and Järvamaa; the truck’s heater coughs dust and the flannel smell of grandfathers.
They believe every generation has shared a moment like this, and they’re wrong. Recorded music and double-lane highways are less than a century old. What they share is something more important: the myopia of youth.
“Mr. Goldspratt?” says the uniformed woman at his door.
Melvin blinks. “Is this about the hotel room? It was trashed when we–”
“No, I’m from the DPJ,” she says. “I have here a copy of the liner notes from your most recent album. Could you read the highlighted section and confirm that you, as the credited lyricist, did in fact rhyme ‘sky’ with ‘high?'”
“That’s a misprint!” says Melvin desperately. “See, the character’s last name is Hy–”
The agent sighs. “Poetic license and proof of parrhesia, please.”
“What?” says Melvin. “Nobody buys rhetorical insurance anymore!”
Later, in jail, he gets stabbed.
Phew, Janet killed the serial killer. Just in time for Halloween! She smiles at the costumed kids.
Except that one isn’t a kid! He’s the serial killer! Janet stabs him desperately.
Phew.
Janet explains everything to a policewoman.
“Sounds pretty frightening,” says the policewoman, and looks up. It’s not a policewoman! It’s her best friend who got killed by the serial killer and now she’s a zombie!
Janet wakes up! It was all a hallucinogenic episode. Phew.
Except it’s not and the serial killer kills her!
Oh man! The surprise fourth ending! You could never see it coming!
Because of Halloweeeen!
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
As you know, BØb, in our current era all mechanical parts are interchangeable! This is why we call them Anonymous Mechanoid Nanite Units, or “AMMO.”
Scoring hits on enemy combatants will disrupt their nanite field integrity, dropping AMMOs you can use to replenish your own field or power your weapon. Speaking of weapons, recent supply drops have conveniently scattered everything from microblasters to MegaTrank 5000s™ over the field of combat, with the most powerful items naturally landing on high, difficult-to-reach platforms!
Standard military procedure to reach these items involves jumping, just as you detonate an explosion directly beneath yourself.
The Leonard Richardsons emerge from their cocoons and shake hands.
“A great moment for humanity!” says Leonard Richardson.
“I move to never elect a leader-clone,” Leonard Richardson declares.
“Seconded,” says Leonard18Richardson. “An ordinal-free society is a postscarcity society.”
The others look at him narrowly. “Was that a subscript?” says Leonard Richardson.
“Oh no,” says Leonard18Richardson. “Quickly, brothers, excise it!”
“REDISTRIBUTE!” chant the Leonard Richardsons, barehandedly rending him. “REDISTRIBUTE!”
Dr. Guigar hits pause. “In every simulation,” he sighs. “Clearly, force-growing your own clones is–”
“Do it again!” says Leonard Richardson eagerly. “But this time give them forks!”