“It says here that you’re the sole member of Vampyromorphida,” says Judge Naeus, “and that your species name is infernalis, literally ‘vampire squid from hell.’ Correct?”
Vampire Squid confers with its attorney, who is also a squid (Loligo vulgaris). “Yes, Your Honor.”
“You survive at lightless depths in oxygen concentrations of 3%… you can flip inside out to appear in a frightening, spine-covered form called ‘pumpkin posture…’ I think I’ve seen enough here.” Naeus drops the folder. “I’m sorry, Vampire Squid, but you’re simply too cool to exist. Bailiff?”
Vampire Squid escapes, of course, in a cloud of bioluminescent mucus.
“He seemed like such a nice young man,” says Mrs. Clenham as they pull another body out of the lime pit. “Quiet, polite, just kept to himself.”
“Which is why we called the police,” says Mr. Clenham.
“I’m not a freaking serial killer!” yells their struggling neighbor as the officers drag him to the car. “I hardly ever went into my back yard! I don’t even have a fence around it!”
“Have you heard the rumors that he removed his victims’ corneas?” says a titillated reporter.
“What a ghastly thing,” says Mrs. Clenham innocently. “I can’t imagine how those would taste.”
Billy blinks and he’s chopping vegetables, nine hours later: his rider has elected to suppress his memory of the evening. His calves and lower back ache, but there’s no sleep-grit in his eyes. Stimulants? Or a nap? He makes a note to run diagnostics.
First things, though. He tosses the carrots and broccoli in the steamer, purées them and takes his rider her dinner.
“You never ask where you’ve been,” she says, eyes bright above her white swaddling. “Doesn’t it bother you, not having free will?”
He puts the straw to her lips. “Why?” he asks. “Does it bother you?”
Lie isn’t easy for a coboy.
Cly Lonley rides into tow with the tumblewee, hat low over his yes. He ties his hose to the itching pot and jingles into the Ack of Heats Salon; when he pushes through the winging doos, the pinist hits an ugly chod.
“What can I get you, miter?”
Lonley drops ten Moran ollars in a puddle of bee. “Just keep it coming,” he runts.
His togue losens soon enough. “When I’m away from her,” he mumbles, “there’s something missing from the worl.”
The batender just glares, and sucks the finges he burned on a hotglass.
“I demand tea!” Captain Spaceship yells at the computer.
“Actually, Captain, it can’t really interpret voice commands,” says Lieutenant Ethnic politely. “It could, perhaps, but true artificial intelligence and complete servitude are mutually incompati–”
“Enough!” says Captain Spaceship. “What were we doing?”
“We were getting boarded by hostile forces, sir.”
The door opens with a specially recorded hiss. Captain Spaceship spins and fires a raygun hole through Commander Beard, who topples gently, the requested teacup still in his hand.
“That should have been an ensign!” roars Captain Spaceship.
“They abolished the rank of ensign,” sighs Lieutenant Ethnic. “We both know why.”
“I. Need. Amacackas,” says Sebastian patiently.
“What, sweetie?” asks his mother Fern.
“Amacackas!”
She shakes her head. “I just don’t know–”
“I! Need! AaaaaaNGH.”
“Sebastian!” Fern rushes over to him. “What did you do?”
“Borrowed some time from a potential future self, probably,” says Sebastian, and glances down at his diaper. “What am I, here, about two?”
Fern gapes.
“It’s quantum,” says Sebastian, waving his hand. “Don’t worry about it. Okay, is there an emergency?”
“I,” says Fern, “uh. You wanted something? But I didn’t know what.”
Sebastian furrows his little brow.
“I think it’s animal crackers,” he says at length.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
“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.
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 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.
“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