The Mallard God Complex (Chapter 1)

The Mallard God Complex

            I watch lazily from the street as all my belongings fly out the window of my third story, one bedroom piece of shit apartment. Up there, just above the street lamps, I can hear the verbal assault that accompanies a breaking heart. If only I had my keys, there might have been something to do about this.   CRASH!  I step to the side as my computer screen falls onto the pavement beside me. It’s a little sad to watch everything I have worked for slowly disappear out the window, but that’s love . . . I guess . . .

1. Beginning at the Beginning

            The first night I met Sheryl was over three months ago; three long, nasty, wild months. How it began is still somewhat of a mystery to me as I don’t really recall introducing myself, although she swears I did. Alcohol can have a sort of paralytic effect on the brain, freezing judgment, as well as shattering the crystals of memory. That night is a haze for me. The only memory that remains clear is of me, pissing in the bathroom, and staring intently at a painting of a mallard.

            The painting hung right above the one toilet (an odd place for a painting), so that the mallard was staring directly at me while I pissed. It might’ve been a heron, but for ease of the story, let’s call it a mallard. I’m only fifty percent sure it was a duck, but it really doesn’t matter. OK, sixty percent sure it was a duck. Whatever the hell it was, it stared directly at me while I was taking a piss. There was something eerie about it.

            The background was a nondescript swamp that could have been anywhere. The reeds in front and the mallard were all painted in vivid colors, almost photo quality (it might’ve been a photo), but the background was blurry. Lazy artists, they can’t even be bothered to do  the background of a stupid painting! What is it supposed to be anyway? It looks nothing like a duck; which might have been because it was indeed a heron, but again, I really can’t be all that sure.

            “What the hell are you supposed to be?!” I yelled accusatorily at the painting. I waited, and pissed, hoping for a response. The mallard continued to stare at me and I felt a chill creep slowly up my spine. It felt as though the mallard was actually looking back at me. There were real eyes behind the painting. “Sneak up on me while I piss do you?!” I reached a hand forward and poked viciously at what I was now sure were eyeholes in the painting.

            My finger broke through the painting and left a hole where before there had been canvas. At the back of the painting was solid wood. I stubbed my finger and swore some more, spilling piss on my shoes. Overall the night was going pretty well for me. As I zipped up I stared at the substantially creepier version of the painting. It now sported a dark socket for one of the bird’s eyes. I laughed to myself and then stumbled out of the bathroom and into the warm conversation of the pub.

            The mallard in it of itself is not important, but what is important is that some time that night, I met Sheryl. After the mallard painting everything else is pretty much a blank canvas. I could have gone to an underground fight-club, won the match, and gotten into an argument about Syrian foreign policy with a particularly shanky bum, and I wouldn’t have known it. For those who are unclear, the verb shanky signifies someone who is more than likely to shank someone else. Those who are still unclear, read a prison book.

            What is important to this story is what she claims happened. Fast-forward to one month later, we’re in a relationship, and things have passed into the stage in which I am forced to interact with her friends. That particular night I was sitting in the middle of an uncomfortably crowded booth. I had been talked into an awkward double-date (is there another kind?) with her two friends Steve and Lailie (I’ve always hated that name). I was between Lailie and Sheryl, listening uncomfortably as they gloated back and forth about their respective boyfriends, while Steve and I sat in silence. It was the typical double date in which two overly zealous and competitive friends attempted to show how each of them had managed to best the other in the sticky game of trapping a mate.

            I think that dating can often be like trying to fight for your life in the web of love, in which there are constantly other flies trying to attract the spider to eat them next. All of the flies are very excited to have the spider come to them, until they realize what it intends to do. In the simile it is clear that the spider wants to eat them.  In life, the mate’s intentions may not be as clear, but the result is ultimately the same. Someone is getting eaten at the end of the night.

            People are always appalled and shocked when they hear about the mating habits of the praying mantis, but metaphorically, we’re all in the same boat.  I can hear my Beatles records crashing down on the street, no doubt as a result of a similar statement. But that is beside the point. I loved my records dearly; but my love for them doesn’t really apply to how I met Sheryl, or why I stayed with her.   In fact, things we had in common, or shared interests for that matter, never really played a factor.  

            “So, how did you and Michael meet?” The question hangs in the air like a loaded revolver, pointed right at my head. I have two options: Tell her how we really met (shot in the head), or sit in silence and wait for Sheryl to tell the story (live to fight another day). With options like those, who really needs to choose? Sheryl gave me a quick sideways look, letting me know that if I ever wanted to get laid again  it would be better if I said nothing and agreed with whatever bullshit tale she concocted.

            “You see I was alone in a bar, all by myself.” That sentence, albeit redundant, was in fact true. She was there alone that night, but I can assure you the rest of it is fabrication. I don’t remember any of it, but never in my life have I had a romantic bone in my body, and alcohol did not act as a surgical tool to implant one that night. I’ve been told that when I’m drunk I’m really more of an asshole than anything else.

            “Michael came up to me and asked to by me a drink. I accepted, we hit it off, and before I knew it he was whisking me through the streets by moonlight. By the end of the night he had bought me a rose from a street vendor and I had fallen in love.” I nearly gagged at the falsity of the swooning coming from across the table.

            While I can’t remember much of what happened, I can remember where I woke up, and it wasn’t my apartment. Something tells me that rather than waiting for the first date, we went back to her place, did the deed, and then I was stuck. Checkmate for the spider once again, better luck next time I suppose. The moonlight story was better suited to polite company than the truth. My truths are often hard and lewd, which often makes conversations more beneficial for everyone involved when I lie and dull the edges my diatribes. Real truth, the hardest truth, is something I save for those late nights at my laptop, window open, bottle in hand.

            The truth about my predicament at the moment was that I had become stuck. Once at the point of double dating, it is infinitely harder to break away from a coupling without some sort of blowback. I sat there quietly for the rest of the evening as they debated which of the two silent men at their sides was the most thoughtful and caring. As I sat, it dawned on me; the question that would drive me into the street with all of my belongings raining down beside me. It was the seed of my freedom.

            The seed was a simple thought: What the fuck am I doing here? Not meaning ‘here’ as in the relationship, nor in the restaurant; or even necessarily what I was doing existing at that moment, but a vague sense of ‘what the fuck?’ regarding my general life. I looked at the faded red cushions beneath me and wondered why the restaurant owner had picked that color. Was it because the color red had been demonstrated in age demographics of 18-45 to increase appetite? Was it because of the association with family and love? Or was it a more sinister notion that red caused more fights for the disgruntled old man behind the register to watch?

            Deep in the cushions I felt something. It definitely wasn’t anger, but it certainly wasn’t being at peace with the world either. I felt like this every time I had sat in a similar situation; stuck with a girl I really didn’t give a shit about, and following her blindly wherever she told me to go. I didn’t feel a sense of wasted time, but I did yearn for the freedom of the open road. I wanted to be alone, I wanted to abolish her reign of tyranny, I wanted to slap myself in the face and wake up.

            “Check please.” Dinner was over; I had sat there silently for what appeared to have been three hours. The clock read eleven PM. The next morning I had work. Work in those days was hell, as I’m sure it will always be in some way. I don’t much like working; it takes away from the finer things in life such as: Loving, music, and drugs. I shouldn’t include drugs in there as there are perhaps children who will read this someday and I don’t want to turn them into opiate induced speed addicts, but god damn is that marijuana a good time.

            Sheryl was shocked by the abruptness, but she settled on being done with dinner, presumably because she had won. After three hours of spacing out I could see the defeated look of one who knows they have lost that one fight they most wanted to win. A little dramatic yes, but it was all these women ever did. When they weren’t fighting over whose boyfriend was sweeter, they were working dead end jobs in second tier retail stores, selling garments to customers who wanted nothing more than to not buy garments.  Their lives were small, consumed by an industry of larceny, and I didn’t have an ounce of shit to give about it.

            It may seem like I held a deep level of contempt for the woman I was allegedly in love with, and, well that’s true. But the other, uglier truth was that she gave me sex, and no one on this green earth can say that sex is not a powerful motivator. Sex has brought down kingdoms, led to crucifixions, and toppled even the mightiest leaders. Unfortunately as males we find ourselves so preoccupied with sticking ourselves into other humans that we often ignore the less base instincts of logic and reason. Hence the pissing contests between rival nations trying to show how they can stick it to another  better if given the opportunity.  It’s a bit sad really.

            Anyway, that night I felt much like one of those warring nation figureheads.  Though I wasn’t really in a pissing contest with anyone, I was dealing with an irate madman making unreasonable demands. I’m talking of course about Sheryl. She is of course a mad woman, but something about the latter term doesn’t have the same ring to it. I assure you the former isn’t sexist, but merely a literary preference based on enunciation, pronunciation, and masturbation.  I guess Freud was right.

            “What do you think you were doing?!” She says as soon as we get into the alleyway, out of earshot from the other couple. The goodbyes had been perfectly pleasant, but like the citizens of Pompeii I felt a rumbling beneath my feet as the end neared.  At that moment, I marveled at how being in relationships makes us experts at defusing very specific bombs. It is important to know when it is going to go off, and what exactly needs to be done to stop it. As she stood there yelling at me in the alleyway, I calmly analyzed the situation.

            Young female, mid-twenties, very aggravated.  Spittle flying from the left corner of mouth to the pavement.  Frothing  not due to rabies, but one can never truly be sure, best to stay away from the mouth until further examination is conducted. Hands are clenched in a display of anger and intimidation. They are small fists. Getting hit by them will probably not hurt as much as if they were larger. Well at least there is that.  Overall threat assessment - level six. Diffuse with the usual.

            The usual consisted of a very sappy apology as well as a bullshit excuse.  This was no exception to the level six rule. “I’m so sorry honey; I just didn’t know what else to do. I just love you so much, and couldn’t bear not having a few moments alone with you tonight before I had to go to bed.”

            Fist clenching has ceased, as well as tension in the arms. Eyes are brimming over with tears. That’s a good sign; mission accomplished everyone, wonderful job. Let’s all go out for drinks to celebrate! She begins to cry and then hugs me. Her sobs are so violent that someone in the street might have thought I was beating her. That would have been a truly awkward situation. To avoid this image I gently pat her back in a very clearly non-threatening manner. Through choked sobs I can hear her talking about how sweet I am and how sorry she is that she overreacted. Once again the bomb is diffused and I get to live another day.

The Robbery: A Tale Inspired by Asimov Magazine's Restrictive Guidelines

The Robbery

By, Ashton Macaulay

5:20PM Friday

     “Put the goods in the bag! We’re running out of time.” I yelled to my partners. The vault hung open, perfectly exposed. The riches inside were ripe for the taking. “We’ve got fifteen seconds until we’re all going back to the kennel.” We had all been there before; the big house was a scary place, not one I wanted to go back to. Hundreds of us crammed in like animals, I could still here the screaming. I knew I should’ve recruited better than these two. Never could stick to a timetable.

The two of them were certainly not the best for the job. Jimmy, the peg leg, so aptly named as one of his legs was missing, may have looked slow, but could run just as well without it. Problem was he had a bit of a problem with ‘The Stuff’. Didn’t really have a street name for it, but one sniff was enough to take him off his ass for hours at a time. He had to be carefully watched during these delicate operations or his habit threatened to blow the whole thing.

     

    Snuffles was a strange one. It was a name that he had picked up somewhere right out of the orphanage. It fit him well. The guy constantly sounded like he had a cold, couldn’t stop sniffing. His problem wasn’t so much drugs, as it was attention to detail. He would get hung up on the tiny pieces of a bigger operation and it tended to slow him down.

Unfortunately for me they were my only options. Most of the others in the neighborhood had gone legit, obeying orders, working for a broken system. They were content to shuck and jive for the occasional pat on the head. Not me, I wasn’t going to be a part of that hierarchy. The heist was going to take me above all of that.

     “We just have a few more bags in here!”

     “There’s no time! Get what you have now and let’s go!” It had never been about the endgame for me. One or two bags would have been enough to make it worth it. Breaking into the biggest vault of them all and stealing what they didn’t want me to have would have been enough. Of course, when it comes to splitting shares, it’s never that easy. People get greedy, and the heist just keeps getting bigger.

     “Alright, alright, get the last bag Jimmy, we’re out of here.” It was too late. We had spent too much time at the vault and now from far away I could hear the authorities coming. They were coming fast too. It was not in their nature to show mercy to common criminals like us. We had to move, and we had to move fast.

     “Oh no man, we’re done for. Game over!” Snuffles was both a coward, and had watched one too many movies. He didn’t do well under pressure. Each minute that passed I regretted my choice in accomplices even more.

     “Shut up and get the bags. We’re out of here.” I could see them rounding the corner, charging toward us. Their guns were out, there was no time left. We had an out, but it required time. Stashed just on the other side of the vault was a toxic gas, nothing deadly, but enough to distract The Authorities while we made our escape.  

     “We’ve got five seconds, get the gas! Move it!” Jimmy and Snuffles were running now, both had two bags each, clenched tight in their grip. I picked up a bag and ran after them. Shots rang out. I continued running, nothing was going to keep me from the prize. Too long had I labored on this plan for it to go south now, there was no way out other than the gas. It was either that, or back to the kennel.

     To my right there was a thump as Snuffles hit the ground hard. He screamed, writhing in pain. Just the sound of it made my hairs stand on end. I might have been able to save him, but nothing else mattered in that moment. There was no choice but to keep running. If I stopped moving then I would fall as well. I picked up one of his bags and continued forward.

     “Wait! You can’t just leave me here! We were partners remember?” Jimmy looked at him for a second, looked at me, and followed suit. He may have mouthed the word ‘sorry’, but I can’t be sure. The whole thing is so blurry. “You can’t do this! You’ll never take me alive!” His last sentence is cut short as another shot rings out. There was silence, followed by the pounding of boots running after us.

     “Come on Jimmy, forget him! He’s gone.” Jimmy picked up the pace. In no time we were behind the vault and I was scrambling to pull out the escape plan. My arms were trembling. Unable to move them I turned around and pulled the package out with my legs. My kicking was frantic. I may not have liked Jimmy, but I didn’t wish any harm on him either. Death always takes its toll, whether we want it to or not.

     “Boss?”

     “Open the package and let’s get the hell out of here.” Jimmy slices open the package. The smell makes my hair ruffle. “Let’s go!” The side of the vault rings as a shot hits it inches from my head. The guard had rounded the corner. There was a moment where I stared at him and he stared right back. In our eyes there was mutual hatred. The strength was overpowering, moving almost, but it did not last long.

     He leveled his gun again. His blonde hair moved slightly in the breeze revealing cold, blue eyes. That man was a killer, we both knew it. In that instant I took a chance, dodged left, and ran as fast as I could away from him. The ping came to my right, barely missing me. Jimmy and I were around the corner, bags gripped tight. From behind I could hear the guard reeling at the smell, and shortly after, vomiting.

     We ran until our legs grew sore and we could carry the bags no more. When we stopped we were in back of an apartment complex, hidden in the alleyway. The authorities had long since stopped their pursuit. We were free. “Did we do it boss? Are they gone?”

     “Yes, I think so. Let us see what our hard work has bought us.” I reached down and tore open one of the bags. From inside spilled the sweetest thing I have ever smelled. Apples, old takeout boxes, empty coffee cups, and cans of aged tuna fell onto the ground before us. The score was great, it was everything I had ever dreamed of. “A moment of silence for our fallen companion before we feast on this bounty.”

     Jimmy bowed his head and lowers his tail in a sign of somber solidarity. I did the same and we sat for a moment. Emotions ran wild within me. The greatest score I could have ever dreamed of was over. There was nothing to do but enjoy, and yet, I felt empty. I still feel it to this day. Late at night I howl with the memory, but in the end there was nothing to do about it. “Dig in Jimmy. 9 lives don’t last like they used to…”

5:20PM Friday (The Perspective of The Authorities)

     “God Damnit! Your cats are in the dumpster again! They’re spilling trash all over the sidewalk. Take care of it Rick!” The woman was old, crotchety, and waving a broom in front of her.

     “Alright Mrs. Kenway I’ll get them out. Sorry.” Rick walked back into his house and grabbed a spray bottle filled with water and lemon juice. They said cats would be easier than having a dog…

     Rick stepped out into the street and saw the dumpster at the end of the cul de sac. Inside, three cats were rolling around in garbage, trying to pull the bags out. “Hey! Get away from there!” He ran toward them, shooting water furiously. He was fast, but the cats were faster. They were grabbing the bags in their mouths and making a break for it.

     “Oh no you don’t.” Rick had experience with these particular cats. They were always tipping over garbage cans and causing general unrest. For a while the other cats had followed suit, but for the most part they had grown out of the bad behavior. There were only three that continued to misbehave. Rick was ten feet from the dumpster. Two of the cats were his: Jimmy and Snuffles. Jimmy was a wild card, but could usually be reined in with catnip. Snuffles was slow, and wouldn’t be too hard to take down.  

     Snuffles slowed down as he ran out of the dumpster, recognizing Rick and the spray bottle in his hand. Rick leveled the bottle and fired. He hit him on the first try. Wretched meowing erupted from the street, and he sprayed him again to stop it. The other two rounded the dumpster, trying to escape. “Get back here!”

     Rick came around the dumpster and saw the two cats, bags in mouths pawing at a cardboard box behind the dumpster. He shot haphazardly and missed. Once again he leveled the spray bottle, but for a moment locked eyes with the unknown tabby. They were intense, giving him pause about his actions. Come on man. For Christ’s sake, it’s a cat… He squeezed to fire and the box before him tore open. Inside was a five week old halibut that had been decomposing, forgotten beneath the dumpster. The smell was unbelievably horrid.

     “Oh God.” He squeezed the bottle but missed and hit the dumpster. Rick fell to his knees and vomited all across the warm pavement. Shame was all around him, swirling. By the time his eyes had stopped watering the cats were long gone, and so was the garbage. Morose at his lack of cat parenting ability Rick grabbed Snuffles and tromped back to his house.

End

Afterword:

     I would like to state that I wrote this purely because Asimov magazine said they would not accept any stories about talking cats. Well I wrote it anyway!!

The Spoon

The Spoon

     I can recall my long days sitting at the office, The humming of the pneumatic tubes, shooting in all directions around me, trying desperately to find their place as I firmly sat in mine. Papers would whistle past my head at speeds beyond my wildest imagination, but for the most part I was content to sit at my desk and read stacks of papers. In these papers were numbers of great importance. The accounts for the entire western division of Poly-Corp resided between their carefully manicured, carbon-copy pages.

     Every day was the same routine. I would walk in at approximately 8:07 AM, twenty-three minutes before my shift started, but a full seven minutes later than being a half hour early. It was the perfect time so as not to appear too eager, but just eager enough. I would walk over to the grey filing cabinet to my right and pull a large red lever. From above a tube would open and drop a fresh stack of papers into the first row of filing cabinets. The noise was horrendous, but I didn’t mind it so much.

     The room itself looked a tad like the layer of an evil scientist. Nothing all that exciting went on in there, but it looked as though it might. Every corner was filled with a series of clear, twisting tubes which delivered mail to rooms around the office. Carefully nestled in the middle of them was a drop slot. This was where my mail came. After pulling the big lever I would walk to the tube, check for mail, and usually find a small white card.

     On this day it read: Thanks Pete for whatever it is you do down there. Keep up the mediocrity! –Sincerely, The Management.

     Gingerly, I would pick up the note, grab a red pushpin from the right drawer of my desk, and stick the note to the wall. After the first year I had filled all of the cracks on one wall with tiny white notecards. No one came in to see them, but if they had, I can only imagine that they would have been impressed. Some said: You are adequate. or, Today is Wednesday. Beauty was to be found everywhere in that office. Each corner was full of wonderful surprises for the passerby.

     The file machine wooshed and clanked like a giant metal beast from the corner. “Oh hush now, it’s only a thousand leaflets, nothing to worry about.” I said to the machine. It might have looked odd that I was talking to myself, but only the tiny black camera in the far right corner of the room would have seen it. I gave it a smile and a knowing wink, and continued to talk to the machines around me. “Alright boys, another long day ahead of us! Who’s ready to balance some budgets and cook some books.” The angry filing machine belched a cloud of black smoke, signaling that it was finished receiving the day’s load of papers.

     When the clock struck 8:25AM it was time for coffee. In a small, brown cupboard sandwiched between two wastepaper bins was an equally small, pristine, white coffee cup. After heaving the stack of papers from the filing cabinets to my desk I grabbed the cup and walked out into the hallway. The walls were a sort of drab grey that reminded me of cold, Russian soup. Why the soup had to be Russian I really haven’t a clue, but the point was that they were drab, and for the most part when I picture borscht that’s what I think of.

     The break room was and is approximately twenty five and a half steps from my office. I have counted these steps often as I have had quite some time to do so. The sound that squishes up from the both hard and soft carpet is a fond memory that still brings muted excitement to my tired heart. The door to the break room was brown oak, or imitation oak, and glorious to the point of envy. I opened the door with a gold handle that was almost certainly not gold and entered the break room.

     That morning there was two other people in line for coffee. The machine took notoriously long to finish, but usually spat out its contents by around 8:27AM.  “Morning.” Sniveled Pierre, a crotchety old caricature of an old French stereotype. His mind had never managed to leave the late 1940s though his body had continued to travel unabated through the waves of time. Where his spine might have once been close to straight there was the beginning of a dowagers hump. That morning he wore a tattered black coat over a soiled, black and white stripe T-Shirt. “Is this coffee going to be ready sometime within the next century?! If I do not have it soon my bowels will seize and rust, only to leave behind the frayed shell of a man who can no longer excrete their contents, and breathes only to become closer to that old friend the God of death.”

     He grimaces at the thought of his own statement, revealing a set of teeth more crooked than the streets of San Francisco. “Really Pierre, is that necessary?”

     “I’m sorry that I haven’t yet resigned myself to a system which neither provides nor contemplates my basic human rights!” He pointed his finger at the little black bulb on the ceiling and began to curse wildly in French, his accent dripping like maple syrup from a tree. 

     “Ooh, I wish you wouldn’t do that Pierre.” Said the mousy man in front of him. His name was Jim. He had been there for even longer than me. All I can say about him is that he was unassuming, his shirts never fit quite right, and the hair atop his head more clearly resembled a shrubbery than it had any right to.

     “Shut up and make the coffee pig! I know my rights.” I stayed out of the fight, not wanting to interrupt my schedule. It was 8:26 in the morning. We were seconds away from the coffee coming out of the machine when BAM! The door burst open and two men in grey suits with dark glasses burst through the door. Each wore a large earpiece with a plethora of blinking lights on it.

     “Get away from me!” Yelled Pierre, dropping his coffee mug and backing against the counter, baring his teeth like a cornered animal. The two men nodded unemotionally to each other and grabbed one of Pierre’s arms each. They dragged him into the hallway. Neither Jim nor I said a word. When they had taken Pierre out I moved a step closer to the coffee machine, taking his place in line.

     His fault for not waiting. From the hallway there was a quick gunshot and then the coffee was done.

     “Ah, yes, finally. Here you go Pete, made it a little stronger this morning. Busy day ahead eh?”

     “Those files aren’t going to organize themselves!” We laughed for approximately ten point five seconds, quickly poured the black liquid into our cups and shuffled back into the hallway. As I stepped into the hallway I noticed two things. One, I had no spoon for my coffee to stir in the powdered milk packets back at my office, and Two, Pierre was lying dead on the floor. Luckily for me, clutched in his hand was a most marginal spoon. I reached down, plucked it up, and continued on my way.

     There was a spot of red on the spoon and I cleaned it off with the handkerchief I kept in my pocket at all times. It was pure white like the cup I held in my hand, only afterward it became an off pink. I shoved it back into my pocket and walked back into the office.

     The powdered milk fell into my drink, clumping around the top. The spoon served nicely to mix it in and made for quite a pleasant taste. As I sipped my coffee I looked up to one of my white notes which said Business as usual.

Written By,

Ashton Macaulay

It's About the Environment? And Caffeine.

A Story of Caffeine and Other Things, but Mostly Caffeine

There was a time, long, long ago. It was a time of minotaurs. For those who are unfamiliar, minotaurs are the insane half human half bull-monster breed of thing that terrorize bad children in the labyrinth and riff on sweet guitar solos with David Bowie. It was a time of peace, and war, but mostly war. I mean the world was ruled by minotaurs, and if I’ve learned anything about them from the mythos of the ancient Greeks it is that they have a penchant for violence, as well as goring things.

It was a simpler time. Minotaurs could be minotaurs and men could be, well, minotaur food, or objects for minotaur amusement. It was the fifth of February, a cold day, colder than a witch’s teat as she stands bare-breasted into the wind atop the great mountain calling forth the new day. The minotaurs had just finished a day of reveling and goring the lesser human beings who inhabited the lowlands below them. Jack, a rather feisty and ripped minotaur was pouring a large goblet of wine for his bros when out of breath a rather thick minotaur burst into his party totally killing the mood.

“Dude, you’re totally killing the mood!” Said Jack sloshing wine over the two minowhores (minotaur whores, not known for being gentle, let’s just say that Elliot Grey would have liked them) sitting at his feet. He had very clearly been about to score and this lesser peasant was cock blocking in a most major way.

“I’m so sorry bro, but something terrible is happening.” Jack set down his wine cup on the table that he had made of human clavicle bones and then promptly punched it toward the peasant, spraying him with wine and shame, but at the same time providing a small moment of interest to an otherwise dull and meaningless life. Yes in that moment, though wine covered his face for the first time he felt truly alive, as if someone had noticed him, someone cared what he had to say, and someone would finally know that his real name was Jennifer.

Jack of course cared for none of that, and merely wanted to spray wine over something. “Speak nerd, or I shall challenge you to a duel with my massive horns which I have just finished sharpening with a stone made with the bones of the pointiest orphans in the land!”

“Have you not noticed how cold it is? Even the witch has covered up today. When I awoke for the morning call  there were no sagging breasts ravaged by time to be found, only a modestly dressed hag, heralding that yet another day was going to begin.”

“You speak like a nerd, and thus I find it hard to listen, but your sentence also spoke of boobs, and so I will allow you one more chance to continue.” Jack sat back in his chair and called to his servant for a snack. Listening to the problems of others always made him hungry. A rather small minotaur rushed out of the room and returned quickly with a fresh-faced ginger orphan in his paws. Jack scooped him up, holding him as though he were his own child, and then promptly bit him in half. The orphan’s screams were loud enough that the walls of the citadel threatened to crack with their glory.

For a moment after there was only the sound of blood dripping from Jack’s jaws onto the gold plated floor beneath him. The minowhores licked it up greedily, wanting nothing more than to forever feed on the purest of blood that only the profoundly emotionally crippled can produce.

Now is my chance to speak. He is sated and will be in a good mood. There is never a better time for him to receive my message. I will forever be heralded as the savior of the minotaur race. They will know me. I AM JENNIFER! “The climate we minotaurs have come to know as normal is shifting. Soon there will be nothing left of the world we inhabit but a frozen wasteland. There will be no more bare-breasted witches, only the bear breasts of great white polar bears coming to usurp our throne and defile our women! It all stems from the unsustainable harvesting of orphans. By killing herds of their parents we are creating a cycle of fear and pain, which ordinarily would be a good thing, but the issue is that fearful beasts produce a great deal of methane.”

“What is this methane?”

“Well, it’s farts.”

“Proceed.”

"If these humans continue to produce such high levels of gas then I fear the climate will spiral out of control within the next calendar year. We must find a more sustainable way to harvest food or we will have no orphans next year. They do not survive the winters well as it is, and if it continues to grow colder we will lose the plumpest before month’s end. Imagine a world where the only orphans we have to eat are scrawny and full of bone. I have prepared a detailed plan of action for how we can reverse this effect, save our climate, and preserve our way of life at the same time!”

“Nerd, you bore me. Destiny, bring me my discussion stick.” One of the minowhores slunk off to a corner and returned moments later with a large axe. Its four blades glinted in the cold evening light and their thirst was evident, there was nothing that would stop them from tasting sweet nerd flesh, they were demons from hell, long since dead, nothing better to do than prey on the living and reap the misery that can only be sown by the wail of thousands of widows crying out in unison: WHY GOD?! WHY WOULD YOU TAKE HIM FROM US?! While their lovers lay dead in the sands of time, bleeding into an every hungry universe in which nothing is fair and everything is unbalanced, just like the galactic whores intended for us all to bow down in servitude, weeping sweet tears of servitude like the true lap dogs of a defiantly apathetic run only by their own avarice and drive to procreate.

“Wait!”

“Sorry nerd, I’m going to smash your face.” Jack heaved the mighty axe and split the nerd in two. Blood flew in all directions, exciting the minowhores and Jack. With that they had a cannibalistic orgy which can only be described as gratuitous, but tasteful.

Night dawned on the minotaur town and all was good, for that evening. Over the course of the coming months the climate continued to change and just as the nerd had predicted there was soon nothing left to eat. After three long winters there was only Jack and a handful of minowhores left.

“Destiny, the end is near.” He said cradling her face in his palms. “Bring me the ceremonial hand grenade.” They did as he asked, and the final four minotaurs huddled together for the warm fires of eternal sleep. “In the words of the immortal Mileytaur: And we can’t stop, and we won’t stop, for we are the ones who rule the night.” He pulled the pin, blowing them all to oblivion. The world froze, and about 300 years later humans became the dominant species.

Fin

4:2 Deadliest Catch: Dead Edition

4:2 Deadliest Catch: Dead Edition

We have so far talked about the company of death, and how they deal with the many gruesome chores that come with end of life on a daily basis. This section focuses on a small group in charge of handling oversight. Somewhere in between heaven and hell (Don’t get on me about geography, if you want that shit go read an atlas! See: Atlas Too (Coming soon if someone buys this…)) there lies an ocean. When Death Co. misses a soul, this is where it goes. Picture it sort of like the wake up scene from the matrix… Bodies are spewed out strange futuristic tubes into an ocean that looks unpleasant and slimy.

The people who work this area are different from traditional crab fishermen in two ways:

This is seaweed. Why is it pictured here?

1.  Instead of crabs there are smelly dead people swimming around the ocean, confused and pissed off about being dropped into smelly water.

2.  The crew of these ships is made up entirely by scumbags who have died at sea, and while this includes crab fishermen, it also includes such disenfranchised groups as drunken old pirates, and old, white, rapey, boat owners…

Now, as always, I know exactly what you’re thinking: “But good sir how does one fish for the dead in a sea that is purely fiction, and has no logical reason for being where it is?” Well the answer is of course with a massive magnetic hook. The magnetic aspect doesn’t really do much aside from pre-looting the corpses, but the giant hook does exactly what you think it would do, impaling bodies and such…

The ships, which appear mostly to be an amalgamation of various pirate ships, yachts, rubber duckies, and crabbing vessels sail these seas for eternity, as a form of penance for their crew(Similar to Davey Jones in the second Pirates of the Caribbean movie, but rather than being able to dice their years of servitude away, they can pay in fingers).

With the crew being made up entirely of scumbaggy ocean-farers, it is understandably quite a raucous bunch. For this reason this is the department with the highest number of complaints. Fortunately all of these are handed down to the pirate lord Steve Irwin, whom I might add is the only exception to the asshole rule.

Steve Irwin rules over these seas with a mighty stingray barb, keeping all of the rowdy crews in line, and is quite handy with his massive magnetic hook.

Through this process, decaying bodies are fished out of a stinking ocean of rot and decay, and then not so gently escorted into the afterlife. The lesson to be learned here is: Don’t die on a busy day…

Avian Companions and Mexican Food

Spring 2011: It is a sunny day, a breeze blows, and malice hangs in the air...

Our story begins with me eating lunch, minding my own business, and attempting to enjoy one of the beautiful days that are so rare in Bellingham. I had gone to the Mexican food stand that operated by the Viking Union. The burrito on my plate was enormous, delicious looking, and piping hot. All in all, the day looked promising.

As I pulled the plastic fork from its wrapping I spotted something moving very quickly moving off to my left. Out of nowhere a massive bird of prey(Seagull) swooped down right by my face and made it's perch opposite me. As he landed I saw evil in his eyes. He looked at me hungrily, but I knew well that I was not to be his prey. Lazily, his beady eyes drifted towards the lump of glorious perfection that was my burrito.

"No." I said to him in an attempt to convey confidence and dominance. In response he ruffled his feathers and picked under his wing with his beak. Thinking that he might have been about to pull a piece I ducked quickly beneath the table. When I rose back up to look, he was a foot closer to the burrito, and had taken a threatening posture: wings folded at the sides, large beady eyes locked on me, and beak slightly upturned.

"That is my burrito! You stay away!" The seagull was unaffected by my shouts, and so I decided to take a more tactical approach. I waved my hands around like a madman at the seagull and shooed him away. He flew away and it seemed that I would be able to eat my burrito in peace. Once again I could feel the warmth of the sun and the lust for the burrito rising inside of me.

Sadly, it was not to be. Only four bites later I looked up to find a familiar foe staring back at me. Steve (by this point I had named him) stared at me hungry as ever, and slowly inched towards the burrito. It was clear that force would do nothing to deter his clumsy advances. It was time to try advanced reasoning. Perhaps we could meet in the middle.

"How about I give you a bite, and then you go away?" Steve quorked a response that I did not understand, but took as consent to the agreement. If I could have translated it, I'm guessing it actually said: I will take all of the burrito and feast upon it over your corpse, filthy human. 

I threw a piece of the burrito to him, and he gulped it down, like some kind of animal. It was disgusting to watch, there was no savoring, only brute force, and none of the respect that a truly delicious burrito deserves. "That's all you get, now shoo!" He did not move, instead he pecked at the table, all the while quorking for more.

There was only one option. I took a deep breath and prepared to shotgun what was left (About half the burrito). For those not familiar with the concept of shotgunning it is where one eats all the food at once... As I shotgunned, Steve stared in horror, quorking and watching as his precious burrito disappeared into my gullet.

Thirty seconds later, it was over. The battle had been won, and Steve skulked off angrily to another table in search of food. The lesson here is never feed a seagull.... They're heartless bitches...

Chapter 4: Death and All Things Dying (4-4:1)

The following is yet another excerpt from my encyclopedia, and also the main focus of a short novel I will be writing in November. So enjoy or die?

4: Death

Death is an interesting concept, and is not discussed in great detail often enough. The traditional image of death is that of a lone rider on a pale horse coming to collect the souls of the living, but the truth is actually far more mundane. Death is overseen by a series of political organizations and various elderly deities.

While death is no longer a single person, it is true that in the past he used to be. It is this man who owes me a great deal of money over a game of fighting boars from over two Christmases ago!  But I digress; he was a short man with more fingers than teeth, and a greasy crop of black hair that hung down to his waste. Really a disgusting man, and the last that I would ever want to see before dying.

Luckily for me and the rest of the population, we don’t have to deal with such nonsense anymore and there is an institution for carrying out such archaic rituals, including ferrying souls to the underworld (See Deadliest Catch: Dead Edition 4:2) and taking them from the bodies in the first place(See Death Co. 4:1).

 

4:1 Death Co.

Nowadays the concept of death has become too massive for one pale rider, or slightly chubby ambler to handle. The fact is that death has become a business, and with the world’s population skyrocketing, business has been booming.  It is these reasons that led to a restructuring of the traditional notion of death in the late 1940’s.

1947: Enter the Death Corporation. With the increasing population of the world, the burden of billions of corpses began to be too much for one man. In a meeting with the big man upstairs the previous death even threatened to quit, which would have mucked up the afterlife in a severe fashion. It was then that a brilliant idea was proposed.

The way it works is quite simple, when a lawyer or a business shark dies, they are given a choice. They are taken up to a sublevel of purgatory and are told they have two options: They can either be ripped apart by goat people in various horrifying ways (Usually decided as the result of an oversized game show wheel, acquired on a routine earth raid (See: The Goat Raiders, and Their Treasures)), or they can serve a term of one-thousand years working for the company.

The workers of Death Co. find themselves in one of three departments:

The Department of  Paperwork: tedious little buggers, they make sure every aspect of a death goes exactly as it is supposed to, and then afterward file the mountains of paperwork that come afterward.  Usually we find dead bankers and stock brokers, who were otherwise dick-ish in life, and whose dickbaggery can serve a higher purpose in the afterlife.  

The Department of Acquisition: These are the glory hounds, or what we would traditionally think of as death. They work quickly and efficiently in collecting the souls of recently deceased humans, and also work in the orchestration of the individual deaths. Their methods are often brutal and unkind, but sanctioned by the department. Any unsanctioned killings, or “unnecessary brutality” is grounds for review, which almost always ends in termination, after which the perpetrator is ravaged by angry goat people…

The Department of Complaints: This is by far the worst of the three. It is strikingly similar to what we find in the mortal world at the DMV (See: The DMV 7:2). Here we find endless lines of the dead, waiting their turn to complain about how they have been taken before their time, and that they deserve another chance at life. The lines can often span thousands of years, and the dead remain in the state that they were when they left earth, leading to a stench that is far more overwhelming than any inner city gutter that I have ever encountered.  It is worth noting that this department has the highest dropout rate.

It is also worth noting that there have only been two successful cases in the department of complaints: The first being Freddy Mercury, who was later reincarnated as Susan Boyle, and the second of course was Heath Ledger, who of course now resides inside Mark Hamill’s left arm.

The Death Corporation has three basic rules:

1.       Dropouts will be dropped out. When a worker opts out of the program, the floor beneath them opens up and they are literally dropped out of the office and straight into the goat ridden inferno of hell. Another interesting fact is that as they fall they are berated by hundreds of aggravated cherubs.

2.       If you are found incompetent at a ruling, you will be ejected.  Similar to the first rule, only in this version, the offending party is shot out of a cannon into the mouth of a T-rex who is on fire. While I have never seen it myself, I have been told that the experience is quite breathtaking, and also incredibly painful.

3. Don’t stick yo’ nose where it don’ belon’ aigh’? This was written by a cantankerous old Cajun rule master, who had spent his life as a crocodile dentist (See: 8:1 Crocodile Dentistry). He died shortly after making the rule, and thus its true meaning has been subject to many different interpretations. While some take it to mean no sleeping with co-workers (Which is gross, because they are also dead…) others have taken it more seriously to mean: Don’t meddle with the human world. For more information see 4:3 You done stuck yo’ nose in da wron’ place!

With these rules and regulations in mind, we can now move on to the other more interesting aspects of death, and the workers who surround it.