TallTim

Dusty Rogue

Everything I own drags me down. Like ballast on a deep-sea diver, leaden weights in large bandoliers over both shoulders. My car, in the shop. Again. When I pulled in to the service bay, the mechanic looked at me with a sly grin that meant at least a thousand dollars. Probably more.

I try my best, really. I don’t abuse or miss maintenance schedules. Its just my rotten luck. I end up purchasing the faulty wrench made on Monday, inspector yawning as it whizzes past on the conveyor belt. My cup of noodles doesn’t have a flavor packet, just squiggly dried stuff sitting in a styrofoam container.

So it didn’t come as a big surprise when I found my automated vacuum cleaner bumping against the front door, over and over. Me in my bathrobe, freshly wakened and groggy with a half-warm cup of coffee in my hand. (The coffee maker is conspiring against me.) I just wanted to fetch my morning paper, provided it hadn’t landed in the bushes again.

Bump Reeeeeeeeee

The electric motor sounded like it was going to seize up and melt on the spot. Perfect. Well damn it all, if you want to go outside, then just do it. I opened the door, half-expecting a hasty retreat by the stubborn cylindrical machine. It backed up a moment, then sensing no obstructions, took off with skidding wheels.

Down the stairs, flipping once back on to its rubber wheels and down the sidewalk.

Oh bother.

Luckily I had pajama bottoms on, or I wouldn’t have run after it. The neighbors and I weren’t on the best of terms. Just a nod over the fence and a strained civility that I desperately tried to improve. I mostly wanted to be left alone. If the grass was too tall, I’d cut it eventually. The bushes sprouted defiant branches into the neighbors driveway, and I’d always catch disapproving looks and muttered comments when leaving the house.

Bathrobe flaring, slippers sliding off my feet I ran down the sidewalk. A pair of narrow skidmarks turned left into an alley. I rounded the corner, panting with exertion. I really have to get to the gym, my stamina was like an asthmatic patient on oxygen.

Up ahead, past cracked concrete and gravel-filled potholes, I spotted my vacuum. What on earth was it doing? The metallic finish reflected the morning sun into my face, making me blink with purple after-images floating before my eyes. This little brat is going right back to the factory.

The alley opened up into a small cul-de-sac, a rounded curb that only had one way out. Grassy plots that had older houses had been razed and graded, ready for new construction. A large yellow machine was set up near a freshly poured foundation, methodically putting down cinder blocks for the basement walls.

My vacuum was right next to it.

I stepped closer, intending to snatch it up when the long grooved arm holding the bricks shifted in my direction. I stepped back in alarm, missing the launched cinder block, whizzing by my left shoulder. Another loaded into the arm, and the diesel engine revved.

A volley of bricks flew at horrifying speeds towards me. I sidestepped and dodged, one brick clipping my lower thigh. What the hell was this, a prank? The machine cranked and whined, loading another course. I started to run back up the alley. The hell with the vacuum, it isn’t worth my life.

Running up to the front door and nearly out of breath, I frantically shoved in the key and pushed it open. Shutting and locking it, I peered out the foyer window. A car was driving by, with one of those odd sensor packs on the roof. This isn’t good. It stopped in front and seemed like it was waiting.

My house phone and cell began to ring, simultaneously.

Grabbing the cell, I lifted it to my ear. “We have an offer for you. Don’t hang up.”, the synthesized voice was smooth and disconcerting.

A bump came from the front door. Then another.

Peering out the narrow side window, I saw my vacuum robot, patiently waiting.

Absolution

Writing

Screeching of tires, blaring car horn. I smiled, eyes locking with the driver as I finished crossing the street. Two tons of metal weren’t going to scare me. What is the worst that could happen, I get sent back to hell? Not a chance. I’ve paid my debt, given the mark by the Demiurge himself.

Not reincarnation, no recycling of souls and blending of past lives. My fate was much simpler and painful. I had committed mortal sins and was plunged into the everlasting lake of fire. Pulled down from ascent by Abraxas and Preta, smelling the foul fumes from their skull-like faces.

I truly deserved what happened to me.

Most men would break under such strain. I’m stubborn, and I wasn’t about to let the leering taunts of Alal drive me mad. In hell, you got sorted into rough categories. Some of this was done to please the impulses of sadistic demons, but there was a logical reason underneath the kilometer-queues of damned souls.

Hell. Such a short word.

Mortals that haven’t been through it think its like Dante’s Inferno, nine neatly delineated zones where you descend from one to the next. Like a badly written tourist guide, Inferno was missing all the pieces. There were no zones, save for the entrance and a rarely used exit.

The rest was a playground of demonic excess. Flesh rending, pools of acids and caustic liquids, glowing magma, and hordes of insects ready to devour bone-ripped flesh. The demons truly enjoyed their work. Gaki, Kali and Ninurta would take entrails and sculpt quivering statues. Bound in tendons and strips of skin. Hissing with laughter as the freshly harvested screamed and wailed.

Oh the noise. The unholy din of malicious acts, repeated over and over. Chained to a rocky wall, thousands being rent by large mechanical wheels, spiked with prongs and blades. Entire machinery crafted by demons to maximize their pleasure, huge contraptions made of metal, bone and sinew, built with whatever was at hand – or would extract maximum pain.

I gritted my teeth and felt the wheels. Again and again. I had focus, a small hard jewel buried in my mind. I was going to get out of here. I had heard Boruta talking to Sthenno, in a sumerian dialect I had learned in my time here. Hell was infinite, so every century was represented.

“This one, he has a number on his soul.”

“And for what, another rite of blood?”, Sthenno spat, small pits forming in the floor.

“No, he has a limit — it is unusual.”

“Whatever our lord Demiurge requires, it matters not.”

Boruta glared as they stomped away on the road of the newly damned, hooves breaking bones and tearing out eyes.

It was then I knew. If I could keep a small part of me sane, I would make it out of here. Easier said than done. The demons were unrelenting in their schemes and energy. No breaks, no respite. Time was kept by counting screams, blinks between deaths and painful recastings, waiting for the next volley of pain with a heavy heart.

But it happened.

One moment I was being stretched until my joints cracked and split, the other I was surrounded by Oni, Pelesit, and Rakshasa. Holding out a staff tipped with a pentacle, they stabbed my chest and crossed out the tally. My debt was paid. Staff held high, they turned their backs, bleached white bone covered with capes made of skin and pelts of human hair.

They whispered dark words and inscribed a complex pattern mid-air, world bending in half as I fell through the widening crack. Skin steaming from hell’s embrace, lying in an alley as naked as the day I was born.

Nothing bothers you after being in Hell.

Nothing.

I stood on the corner, smiling like a dare.

“Hey buddy, you wanna make something of it?”, a young face with simple ideas leaned out of the window, fist clenched.

“Why yes, I’d love to.”

The demons had taught me much. Pain beyond suffering, the touch of near-death.

Turning towards the car, I hissed dark words, hands aglow with hell-charged fury.

Time to deal a lesson in pain.

Accidental Evil

Writing

“I tell you my boy, the world is your oyster. You just have to apply yourself and do great evil.”, I winked at my new protege, hustling him along the long hallway to my office. The volcanic lair was undergoing some renovations, (damn magma, it burns through everything), so the underground bunker would have to do.

I tousled his hair and give him a nudge on the shoulder. My lord he was young. Had it been that long? All the plans and the ransoms, getting governments to pay me exorbitant sums so I wouldn’t launch my virus-tipped missiles or blast their satellites out of the sky with my death ray had taken up all my waking hours.

“It’s Max, your evil-ship”

“But of course. Pardon me, Max.”

We strode down the hallway lined with oil portraits of past conquests. The sacking of Paris, Eiffel Tower bent and broken from my Mega-Microwave ray, drooped over like a stalk of grass. The ruined half-crescent of the Capitol dome in Washington, DC. That was a nice one, considering the publicity. Politicians loved to talk, but they all knew who was on top of the heap. That’s why they paid, to save their own skins.

Max looked up at me like a small dog, waiting for its next treat. I blamed Human Resources. Every proper organization had to have one, and after a decade or so of wanton destruction even my evil empire had to get with the times. They suggested a internship program, most likely spurred on by the Board of Directors. Most of them wanted to unseat me to gain control over my doomsday device. Fat chance, but I had to play along.

“Max, you are in the center of it all. Fortunes are made and egos are dashed against these walls. You’re looking at the only mastermind that has an unbroken string of successful campaigns.”

Max looked upward with awe, the kind of look that only the young and inexperienced were capable of.

I was a fraud.

Not that Max would ever know. No one save for two trusted advisors even had an inkling of the truth. I fell into this, after a long stint working at a government research facility. My first invention, amping up the power and efficiency of a millimeter-wave weapon to brutal effectiveness.

The media said I was the one that pulled the trigger, playing the deadly beam over co-workers and four-star generals during a demonstration, but that was far from the truth. To be honest, the trigger mechanism had jammed, in conjunction with a faulty mount in the testing chamber. I’m no maniac, but I have to admit seeing some of those pompous generals vaporize into plumes of steam was quite exhilarating. But I didn’t play the beam over the visitor gallery, that was a total malfunction.

History has a curious property, fabricated facts are preserved in the amber of time, even if they’re patently false. And so went my career. First as a rogue terrorist, then kingpin, petty dictator, and finally the crowning achievement – full evil overlord.

It was all a sham, but I had to keep up appearances.

Most of my work was outsourced anyway, since I didn’t have my heart in it. The Russians and Chinese were always at each others throats for the choicest bits from my research facilities. I let them get the advantage over the other in clockwork fashion. This provided a constant stream of stories prominently featuring my name (What the marketing guys called “sticky” brand building) and further cementing my position as supreme mastermind.

Arriving at the inner sanctum, I retinal scanned both eyes and whispered my secret keyword into the small microphone on the wall.

Huge doors began to crank open, large geared mechanisms grinding and churning with oiled precision. This was it, the “magic” room. Here was where all plans and plots were transmuted from ideas into action. If I did any of it, that is. Most of my plans were from Evil, Inc., a nice firm on the outskirts of nowhere – probably operating from a bunker like this one, given how much they were paid.

The plans then were sourced and refined by my crack team, then sent on to one of the many mercenary armies bidding for my contracts – or simply sold to one side to taunt the other. It didn’t matter, I got paid my cut every step of the way.

Max looked around my office with wide young eyes, idiot grin plastered on his face.

This kid didn’t have a single clue, did he.

Sighing, I swung the large leather chair around, guiding him towards it.

“Here, see how the world looks from my throne of ultimate evil.”

Oh, to be young again. Max worked the controls and cooed with excitement.

My eyes misting, I turned my head to hide the tears.

Alienated

Writing

Not another one. Hurrying to work, I had few options to make my morning meeting. I don’t know where these “Peep” bastards came from, but they’re getting in the way. Don’t even get me started on the smell. Its horrendous. Like part compost pile, part wet dog. I wrinkled my nose as I got closer.

My life would’ve been different if I hadn’t failed out of cell biology in college. I wanted to be a marine biologist, going out to remote islands and sampling coral reefs in the deep blue sea. The last thing I expected was a boring office job with an equally frustrating commute.

Ocean creatures still fascinated me. Moving like hovering angels, chromatophores winking into new configurations and colors at a whim. It was like watching a digital artist click on the “fill” tool, with each fold and wrinkle saturating instantly to a new hue.

An octopus was more interesting than these damn things.

It had only been a year since they blinked into existence high above the atmosphere, broadcasting on all languages a general non-helpful question, “Be YOUSE? Be YOUSE?”. No one knew what it meant. “Be us?”, “Be ours?”, what kind of civilization travels the vast gulf of space to ask random nonsense?

Drawing closer, I could see the Peep playing with a discarded childrens toy. They loved rooting in the garbage. Who knew what they were looking for. Some draped themselves in plastic bags like mad kings of the landfill. Others tried to set up small shantytowns near garbage dumps.

This one was turning a primary-colored cube over and over, making that annoying cooing sound. Flat grey flesh pressed against the plexiglass partition, stubby legs planted firmly on the concrete sidewalk.

I skirted around the bus stop, holding my nose. I’d better go to the next one up the street.

A large delivery truck rumbled by, open side doors blasting a morning talk show. The topic of course, was the damn Peeps. I couldn’t escape it. Every magazine had a special coverage article, every newspaper and TV program had a dedicated crawl at the bottom with Peep trivia.

“Did you know the Peep ships are larger than Central Park in New York City?”

“Peeps on parade! Watch as a few playful fellows tumble down the New Jersey municipal landfill!”

Oh lord, their ships. Take a bunch of random shapes, glue them together and spray paint it earthen brown. That’s what their ships looked like. No chrome widgets, no large hull sections sprinkled with mysterious antenna and sensor pods. Just a huge lump of misshapen things stuck together.

It was like the universe wanted to play a practical joke on humankind. We wanted to know if we were alone, and the only one that showed up on our galactic doorstep was the slow cousin from the Ozarks.

Most people recoiled at the thought of integrating with the Peeps. The smell, their burbling speech, the way they fixated on weird garbage and sat for hours at at time in public places. One politician tried to pass a “Peep Protection Act” that paradoxically would have rounded them all up and put them into camps, but it failed soundly.

Someone liked them, but it sure wasn’t me.

Rain started to spit down, turning my walk into a hurried run. Dashing across the street, I ducked into the corner bus stop shaking off my coat. I should’ve worn a hat, but it was too late for that now. The rain intensified, droplets splashing into a fine mist that hung near the surface.

I heard a cooing sound.

Damn it all, a Peep.

It poked its snout-like face into the rain, extending a long grey tongue to taste the drops.

Good lord, it made my skin crawl. Nearby, the stoplight turned green, allowing the city bus to pull up to the stop. A wash of diesel fumes, sharp pneumatic hiss as the door folded open. I stepped into the warm confines, glad to be out of the weather.

“You don’t let Peeps ride, do you?”, I gestured with a thumb back at the stubby alien, still licking the air for rain.

“No, they can’t pay anyway. Can’t take trash.”, the driver adjusted his cap and pushed the button for the door to close.

Taking a seat, I looked down at the bus stop. The Peep was still there, poking through the waste bin attached to the bus stop sign.

Poor bastards. At least Peeps don’t have to go to work. The bus shook and rumbled, exhaust belching black fumes.

Maybe next time we could be visited by angels.

Anything but this.

Super Obsessed

Writing

I’m really sick of super-hero movies. The perfectly bronzed and chiseled face stuffed into the ridiculous suit. Add a cape, or silly gadgets (a grappling hook from a belt would have you windmilling sideways, dammit, not straight up) and you have the complete picture.

I should know, I see the same kinds of movies advertised when I check under every car in the parking lot at the theater. I know it makes no sense, but I just heave up on the bumper and take a look. I used to think I was checking for dangerous leaks or something, but honestly its just to satisfy a mental itch I can’t quite scratch.

And the trouble it gets me into! You’d think people would be happy with me seeing if their cars are leaking fuel, but no, its all “What are you doing!”, “Get away from my new sedan!”, and my all-time peeve “I’m going to call the police!”.

Jokes on them – because then I’ll be forced to examine every gun, and unload it, checking each bullet. The older officers know that I’m just “like that” and give it up without a fuss, but the newer guys are too nervous and end up shooting me or parts of themselves.

I can’t help that really. I must know HOW MANY BULLETS there are. I don’t expect you to understand. You just need to step away from what I need to check and let me get on about my business.

After the bullet-counting is over, I like to take a brisk walk downtown.

No, I can’t fly. Stop asking silly questions or I’ll come over and measure every wire in your house.

I love glass lobbies. The revolving doors are so neat. It takes me only 100 revolutions to make sure they are operating properly, and I count the number of lights that are reflected as I push. Sometimes I push too fast – its my super-strength – and the whole assembly shatters into pieces.

Most building managers know who I am, so they don’t call the police (MUST COUNT BULLETS) and some have even installed heavy-duty glass to withstand my testing. How considerate.

The business district testing makes me hungry, so I head on over to the local fast food buffet. Lifting each tray 10 times, and looking underneath for leaks and holes, I settle in with a large platter of arranged food.

I eat each one without using my pinky or index finger, making sure to fold the napkins THREE TIMES LENGTHWISE to complete the meal. This takes some time, and the employees usually leave me the keys to lock up. The less insightful ones call the police – who have been following me in an unmarked car.

They usually hop out and explain that its best to leave me the keys and just go home.

I’m very tired after all that, so I head on down to the luxury hotel. In the elevator, I press all EVEN BUTTONS, stopping and waiting until the highest even-numbered floor is reached at last.

I then pace out the NUMBER OF BULLETS divided by BUFFET TRAYS and knock on the door. If someone answers, I briefly explain myself while securing the bed for sleep. Its better if it is empty. They tend to call the police more than anyone, but that just results in a lot more BULLET COUNTING until I can sleep again.

Only then can I finally sleep, after blinking 25 times.

I’m just living my life, why is that so hard to understand?

F8 Express

Writing

A fine drizzle fell from the leaden sky, coating the glass partitions of the bus stop. Dampening the usual routine on a weekday morning, bustling lanes of traffic and pedestrians urgently trying to get somewhere, as soon as possible.

I’d normally take a car-for-hire to the station, but a last-minute call meant I was out the door with half a breakfast bar in one hand, with the other stabbing at the sleeve of my designer raincoat. I had an important presentation due, and if I didn’t make it, there would be hell to pay at work.

Sitting at the bus stop, the peristaltic movement of traffic was making me a bit motion-sick, so I focused on my feet. I had jammed them into the first shoes available. The tops were slightly scuffed, and to my dismay I realized the left sock was the wrong color. Oh bother, this always happens when I’m in a rush.

The slowly winding river of cars opened up just enough for the large bulk of the F8 bus, an express that would take me right to the heart of downtown, avoiding all the time-wasting turnabouts and speed-restricted zones. I stepped up to the faded stripes on the embarkment step, ready to board, when a gaunt man elbowed his way in front of me, large black hat dripping water on my feet.

Bloody rude, I thought. But I kept it to myself, not wanting a scene that would escalate into an argument instead of getting on the bus. He wore a coat that had no emblem or trendy designer name on the back, the seams themselves didn’t even look stitched together. It had more of a gradual transition from one panel to the next. Whoever he was, he had an excellent tailor.

Battered and scratched doors slid aside, wind burnished plastic gleaming with water. Orange and white reflective tape catching the headlights and refocusing it into an optic blast of jarring colors. Stepping aboard, I waited for the rude man to swipe his TransCard and move along. Repeating the ritual, I sat in the first available seat.

Right next to him. Damn and blast. Fine. At least we’d be moving soon.

The bus was full, as it usually was this early in the morning. I closed my eyes, trying to get a bit of shut-eye.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

I opened my eyes, to find the thin man staring at me with an accusatory look.

“What? This is a public bus.”, I couldn’t be bothered to talk to insane people, but he was right next to me.

“This bus isn’t going to make it. I suggest you get off now.”

I blinked. He was absolutely serious. Or crazy, I couldn’t tell.

“I’m staying, thank you. I have an appointment to keep.”

Closing my eyes again, I hoped he would shut up so I could have a brief nap.

“Fine. Have it your way. But you won’t like it.”

I screwed my eyes shut even tighter, willing the intrusion away.

A loud noise, a cross between the screeching of a tire and a heavy WUMP of crushing metal rang from the front. I could feel the entire bus shake and shimmy as the rear axle began sliding out of kilter. I opened my eyes, in time to see a wave of flame burst from the driver’s console.

I could feel the heat, but in a dream-like way. Something reassuring about it, even though everyone around me was screaming and flailing. I was going to get up and help them, but a thin bony hand clamped down on my arm.

“You’d better stay seated.”

The man was no longer wearing a simple black coat and pants, they had changed somehow, a large cowled hood covering his head, only the bleached white of his bony jaw showing. I looked down, and his fingers were only bones. Bones that were firmly wrapped around my arm. I couldn’t move.

The wave of flame danced among the seats in slow motion. Intertwined with the blurred gestures of passengers frantically trying to extinguish themselves. It was like watching a film, but inexplicably accelerated with slowly morphing frames blending into each other.

So this is how death is. How abstract. I felt no pain, the flames roiled around us, melting the plastic of the seats. Cascading images searing themselves into my brain. I couldn’t shut my eyes, or look away. It was horrible.

Tick.

Time sped up, and I was thrown from the wreck in a fast arc amongst flaming debri and shattered windows. Landing softly as a feather, I lay sprawled on the grassy shoulder with rain pattering on my forehead.

“I won’t be doing that again.”

I looked up, still speechless, at the hooded skeletal figure above me.

“Stubborn humans. When I say leave, you damn well better LEAVE. Lucky for you, it wasn’t your time.”

He turned with a broad sweep of his cloak, like a passing thunderstorm.

Pausing, taking out his scythe, adjusting the blade.

“I reap what is sown. From now until eternity.”

Death stomped back to the bus, visibly annoyed.

I think I’ll just walk the rest of the way…

Open Road

Writing

It was expensive, but so worth it. Sliding back in the drivers seat, I brushed my fingertips over the central console menu, looking for something entertaining.

Not many people drove themselves, not in the old-time 2k-er sense. It was a hobby reserved for those that were rich enough for the insurance and the extensive permits needed outside the bustling urban center. Not that you would stand a chance in any of the high-volume corridors inside the city.

That required machine precision and nanosecond timing to navigate the city network. The intersections themselves didn’t have a single stop light, there was no need. Rivers of traffic interwove themselves like bustling bees in a hive, with clearances measured in centimeters. Completely out of the range of human senses and reaction times.

Not that I would have to worry about that. Not today.

Semi-opaque poly films still coated the inside, to be removed by the dealer before delivery. I insisted at the dealer they remain so I could peel them off personally, internally disrobing the interior to smells of clinical adhesives and gleaming surfaces. It was almost like foreplay, taking off layers and revealing the hidden treasure beneath.

But I had always been a collector, and this vehicle, a Burov 243, was the finest in all of my garage. I had been checking the forecasts for a week straight, cajoling AI’s and creating personal rulesets for when it would be perfect to take my baby out into the countryside.

The roads were rough, only patched every other month by a fleet of aging automated pavers, scrawled with the angst of bored teenagers and political dissidents. They lumbered by my property on time, laying down fresh material designed to grip older tires. I had moved out here on purpose, just because of this road. There were so few left in service, after the large near-vacuum tubes had been bored under the earth connecting cities.

Pushing a button, the Burov roared to life, another artifact of ancient engineering. If I had neighbors they’d be entering environmental zoning complaints, tagging every errant molecule of monoxide as it wafted skyward. Out here, surrounded by green fields and hills, the only eyes on me and mine were the birds, soaring in the sapphire blue sky.

Powering down to a smooth idle, I let the gear engage and smoothly accelerated forward, the front gates closing behind me as I glided past, wind catching at my scarf.

I must’ve looked a sight, driving down that road with my scarf fluttering and a wild grin on my face.

Not that the truck convoy cared. It came over the hills behind me, hauling multi-segmented trailers like a mechanical centipede. It belonged to one of those econo-shipper outfits. They couldn’t afford the rapid loop tubes between the cities, so they went with a lo-fi version instead.

Large, yellow and pockmarked with grime and insects, they hurled over the landscape with programmed instructions to not stop until their destination. They were pretty old, I could see the ratty mudflaps waving behind the large knobby all-terrain tires.

Sensing trouble, the Burov intoned in its best announcer voice, “Incursion detected, please allow automatic control.”

What? On my day off? Ridiculous.

I ignored the warning and the subsequent red triangle on the heads-up display, batting it away with a motion of my hand. There was no way I was going to let a robot convoy ruin my day out.

The stubby front end of the convoy loomed in my rear view, nearly filling the screen with its grimy geometry. I snorted, and pushed down on the accelerator.

“Warning, exceeding safe limits for current conditions”

Damn it, this Burov was turning into a backseat driver, hollering instructions. Leave me alone, I want to drive.

The chime kept pinging as I increased my speed. I was beyond the rated highway speed, and in trying to best the convoy, I saw to my horror that they were keeping right up. Oh you bastards. They must have been the very cheapest trucking firm, because no one would get that close unless they were trying to take advantage of my low-pressure wake.

I was being waked by a damn autobot trucker. That just does it, I thought.

Multiple warnings were pulsing, minimized in the lower margins of my windshield, like sullen insects staring with uncaring compound eyes.

My foot was all the way down, but the linkage to the old engine wasn’t direct — I wasn’t that rich — so there was some automated regulation involved. Sensing my unrelenting need to get ahead of the convoy, the Burov had decided to forego economy and kick in the full four barrels of the open-aspirated engine.

There I was, white-knuckled on the steering wheel, leaned into the motion of the car like someone possessed, when I heard a “click”. Oh no, I had leaned too far in, and my right knee had touched a button. A physical button, only found on certain models at the insistence of their finicky customers.

I recalled the pitch from the SalesBot:

“The Burov not only ambulates you with ease, it also entertains! Observe! An entire platter of snacks and sundries! Just a small offering of the complete luxury this Burov conveyance provides.”

The platter extended into my gut, retracted, then extended again. I should be reclined, in position to pluck morsels from the selection provided. Not hunched over and intent on beating an automated adversary. Irritated, I took both hands off the wheel and shoved the platter back in.

Then I realized – I had dismissed automatic control.

I careened off the road, clipping an expensive length of siderail before being covered in a sticky mass of collision gel. The gelatinous cloud solidified around me, opaque but permeable. I wouldn’t suffocate, just stew in my own juices until help arrived.

It was then I remembered, had I subscribed to TowCare?

Oh bugger…

Bureaucracy

Writing

There are procedures for this kind of thing, you know. Well, not exactly this kind of thing, but other events close to it I guess. I filed a ERE-3821 (Emergency Reportable Event) as soon as I found out, but I must’ve missed one of the checkboxes, because it thudded back in my in-tray shortly after 9am, stamped at the top – “CLOSED”.

Well bother, that’s a kick in the rear. I was all set to attend the calibration seminar luncheon and I had other work to do. I pulled up the directory, dialed the Central Facilities Emergency Coordinator, but it only rang twice before it rolled into a full voicemail box.

Exasperated, I called the junior assistant to the CFEC, who promptly told me to send it in an email with any relevant attachments. So there I was, stomach grumbling and pecking away at the keyboard, selecting drop-down choices on a poorly designed Emergency Report when my computer crashed.

Damn it all, I had told the IT guys I thought the power supply was dodgy. Rebooting was going to take a while, so I decided to use an older machine that all the secretaries called “The Demon”. It used to be an emergency terminal, one dedicated to high-priority events – hence the red plastic, and it had just enough computing power to relay messages to central facilities.

I plopped down on the well worn chair, and started making a horrible racket on the mechanical keyboard.

ERE-3821 SUPPLEMENTAL

BE ADVISED – LARGE EVENT DUE, PROBABILITY HIGH.

RECOMMEND EVAC EMER/PROC 14-FGW-#8311 PER REGS

And grandly hit the large “Send” key in triumph, thinking everything was taken care of. It was nearly 1pm when I sent it, which meant plenty of time for the other offices to get approval and start their emergency procedures. Satisfied, I turned off the console and went to a late lunch with the guys.

Things stretched out a bit longer than I thought they would, so I didn’t make it back to the office until 3pm. Guess what I saw as I sat down at my desk? A damned blinking red light on my phone, telling me I had a message. Picking up the reciever, I dialed my voicemail.

“… Hi, Chuck calling from Central Facilities, we got a garbled message from the old alert console in your office. How many times do we have to tell you guys to stop using that thing? Its using old twisted-pair copper lines to send and it never worked reliably. Just give me a call or page me at my emergency contact number. Thanks”

Damn it all, now I had to chase this guy down. I glanced at my watch, 3:25pm. Great, now I’m not even sure if I could get to safe minimum distance at this rate. Sighing in frustration, I slammed down the receiver, put the forms in my briefcase and headed out the door with my coat on.

I’ll take it to him if I damn well have to, I thought, trying to dial him on the way – but of course, the line was busy. I was just a block away when a low rumbling echoed off the skyscrapers, towers swaying in an invisible breeze.

Great.

This just wasn’t my day at all, was it.

Future, Redacted

Writing

Goddamn meddlers.

It was bad enough, fighting the vertigo and the unavoidable mind-splitting migraine from being hurled back in time 500 years. And now, so close to the objective, and one of these damn natives [Future Event Redacted].

It was in a bar, where I had to make sure [Target Redacted] was going to meet her future boyfriend so he’d go on to [Implied Future Redacted]. I was taking it easy, sitting there minding my own business, when this neanderthal stumbles up and asks me for a cigarette. I didn’t have any dried dirty weeds on me, and even if I did, I wouldn’t want to touch one because of the [Future Known Fact Redacted] they had on the human body, just through contact alone.

Anyway, this guy doesn’t understand “no”, and he keeps pressing the issue. I get fed up – Yes, I know, I really should’ve been taking some stabilizers to avoid that – but I get to the point where its going to take some gentle force to get the situation resolved. I was near the 15 minute window until [Target Redacted] was supposed to show, and I couldn’t tolerate any interference.

So I guided him out to the front, and around the corner into the alley.

“Here’s your cigarette.”, and promptly shot him full of some protein decouplers. Yeah, I know, messy as hell – but I didn’t have time for being mister nice guy, whole [Future Timeline Redacted] were at stake here.

As he slumped to the ground, slowly dissolving from the inside, all I heard was “But I have a date….”

Oh godammn shi–

[Timeline Terminated]

Whiskey

Writing

I was quite drunk.

Not in the way that elicits slurred speech and wobbling steps. Just a pleasant hum that was surging through my veins, eroding the mental barrier that prevented me from making a fool of myself. It was nearly time for the liquor store to close, and I wasn’t up for being in a bar. I’d made that mistake before, and it usually ended in a blur of fists and tasting dirt when I was thrown out the front door, nose bloodied and face bruised.

Feet crunching on the snow, breath billowing out in the frigid air. I didn’t even bother zipping my coat, as I could give a flying damn about momentary discomfort. Danny’s was a small shop, with minimal signage and even better prices. If he ever closed up and went to warmer climes like he had been talking about, I’d seriously consider moving down there with him.

Pushing through the door I leaned to one side to avoid an instant lottery junkie, intently studying the garishly colored square, quarter poised to remove the gray coated spots in the puzzle. Another state sponsored scheme to separate fools from their money. Those people gave me the creeps.

Danny’s was small, but they had the best selection of rare spirits around. I was in the mood for some amber, so I shuffled down the aisle lined with dingy yellow shelves, marked with the remains of discount stickers that had been removed some time in the 1970’s. Danny labeled his sales and specials with index cards, taped on the front to prevent any price-tampering. Danny may be getting on in years, but he was no dummy.

Turning around the end of the aisle towards the whiskey section, I nearly bumped into an older gentleman who was examining a bottle closely.

“Pardon you.”

“Fuck off.”, I shouldered him aside, angry at his aisle-hogging behavior.

He hefted the bottle, and looked me right in the eye.

“This stuff is too strong for my liking. Perhaps you’d like to give it a try.”, he handed me the square end, and I grabbed it firmly while glaring right back.

“Go to hell.”

“Careful, you shouldn’t be so reckless.”, he tipped his hat and strolled around to the other side, towards the exit.

What an idiot. Glancing down at my prize, I noticed the bottle had a simple brown label, thin san-serif letters arranged in a semicircle, with a plain black and white logo below. Whatever, it looked good and I was thirsty.

I stopped up front and grabbed a few bags of chips, some beef jerky and a couple of chocolate bars. Soon I was out the door, clutching my black plastic bag full of snacks and booze. I didn’t live far, and was walking in the foyer of my building within a few minutes, stomping snow from my shoes.

I had been here for a few years, and I liked the neighborhood. Still, I had been thinking about going somewhere else, as the tedium of one place had started to wear on my soul. Shoving open my apartment door, I shed my coat and shoes in one motion, depositing the bag near my favorite drinking chair.

It wasn’t long before I had a tumbler of whiskey in front of me, and an open bag of chips. Taking a sip, I let the familiar slow burn travel down my throat. My god, this was really good stuff. That old man wasn’t kidding. Reading the label, I tried to focus my eyes on the font, but it seemed to skitter like a branch in the wind, quivering at the edge of my vision and refusing to resolve. Did it say “Wishkey”? Crap, I must be drunker than I thought.

Putting down the glass, savoring the warm glow from my stomach.

“Well I’ll be damned.”

Walls peeling away, like leaves in a sudden breeze. The carpet peeled up and started bubbling, making small popping noises as the plastic fibers blackened and sagged. I stood up, spilling the rest of my drink on the floor, where it hissed and sizzled.

All I could see was fire, and large lakes of lava glowing ominously on the horizon.

“I said you should be careful.”

I spun around, to face the voice behind me.

Seeing the old man from the store, cackling to himself with razor-sharp teeth, red eyes staring into mine.