Saturday, June 30, 2012

The Secret Masters (Pt. 2)


The Secret Masters (Pt. 2)


for a full forty-five minutes. Finally, Eduardo brought his speech to an end and rang the small bell that sat on the podium three times. As a concealed door behind him slid open, his voice took on a more ominous tone.
“And now dear brothers, it is my most humble pleasure to introduce our esteemed leader, Grand Master Howard.”
With that Eduardo stepped down, bowing his head before the dark robed figure that now approached the podium. His cowl was pulled down low so I couldn't make out his features. In fact, the only part of his body that wasn't completely covered was his right hand. At first my gaze was drawn to the ornate ruby ring that adorned his finger but then I noticed that his skin had a distinctive green tint to it and that I was sure that small scales were visible along the creases of his knuckles.
“Good God, Wilkins,” I exclaimed in a whisper. “I always thought that those lizard people rumors were just a bunch of crackpot conspiracy theories.”
“What are you talking about?” Wilkins whispered back, agitated. Then he seemed to get what I was talking about and began to chuckle. “Oh, wait...You mean his hand. He has a skin condition. Lizard people. I'll have to tell him that, he'll get a kick out of it.”
“You don't have to tell him,” I had begun to say, but was soon interrupted by the Grand Master's voice. Though he wasn't, as I had momentarily believed, some sort of lizard man he did have a high, rasping voice that seemed to slide out of his mouth and slither into one's ear.
“Gentlemen, Lady,” he began, though I had no idea who among us was a woman. “We have some new blood joining us tonight. Let us now recognize Good Brother Ford and welcome him into our little club.”
He and several members of the Illuminati began to softly clap and look in my direction. I also noticed that more than a few seemed to be gazing at me with ill concealed suspicion. It would take some work, but I was sure I would win them over eventually. I feigned humbleness and murmured a ‘thank you’.
“Ford joins us not a moment too soon,” The Grand Master continued. “For we are beset with enemies both known...and unknown.”
A gasp was heard from a few of my esteemed brothers. And sister, I suppose.
“What makes you think someone moves against us, Grand Master?” Eduardo asked.
“On this very day, Susan Pilkins of Marlowe, South Dakota lost the Annual Bakers Dozen Bake Off Jamboree.”
Now everyone around me erupted into chaos. Wilkins was on his feet shouting oaths. Eduardo was demanding answers. I sat confounded.
“Remain calm,” The Grand Master said, holding out his arms and indicating that everyone should sit. “As we all know, Susan had the finest recipe for marionberry muffins known to man. The recipe has been passed down for centuries and is inscribed on our highest quality index card, ensconced in our most sacred of Rolodex holders. She had this competition in the palm of her hand. And yet, she was defeated.”
I turned to Wilkins. “Why do we care about some bake-off?”
“Don't you get it, Ford?” He said with a sneer. “Without a ribbon, a blue ribbon, from The Baker's Dozen Susan won't be qualified to enter the South Dakota Betty Crocker Bake-A-Thon.”
“So?”
Wilkins rolled his eyes. “If Susan doesn't win the Bake-A-Thon she can't enter the Midwest Bakeopalypse and without that....well, for the first time in our history we will not win our trophy in Bake Off Manipulation. It will be a disaster.”
I still had no idea what anyone was talking about.
“Worry not, Ford,” Schneider said from behind me. “We still have the Begonia Festival coming up. I'm sure we have that in the bag.”
“I also have news that does not bode well for the Begonia Festival,” The Grand Master intoned.
Schneider began to weep.  

Thursday, June 28, 2012

The Voyages Of The S.S. Amore (Pt. 4)



The Voyages Of The S.S. Amore (Pt. 4)


pouring another glass for Ed as well as himself. Sighing with contentment, Ben leaned back into the lounge chair and took in the view of the moonlit sea.
“This is the life, Ed,” Ben finally said, taking a sip of wine.
“That it is, my young friend,” Ed agreed and then pointed over at their ladies with his glass. “Looks like my Edna beat your new wife. You may have to trade her in.”
Ben chuckled and gazed at his wife as he she bent over to pick up the shuffleboard puck and return it to its stand. Her ass looked fantastic.
“Not a chance.”
“And what are you two deviants up to over here,” Edna joked as she sat heavily down next to her husband, who quickly gave her cheek an affectionate peck. “Think you could spare some of that hooch?”
“Finish mine, too much gives me heartburn,” Ed said. “I was just discussing with our new friends here that they should invest in some life insurance now that they're married. I mean everything looks great on your honeymoon, but life can change in a wink. Don't want to leave your partner in a lurch...”
“Oh, shut up Ed,” Edna grumbled. “We're on vacation and we agreed that you wouldn't try to sell anyone life insurance. I swear.”
“Are you two arguing again?” Diane said as she plopped down on Ben's lap, taking his wine from him and finishing it off. Smiling, he grabbed the bottle and refilled the glass.
“That's how it goes, honey,” Edna said, shaking her head. “One day, this one here will be talking poetry and love songs and the next, all business all the time. That's why I took up pilates. Trust me, I've been with this one fifty years tonight, so I know what I'm talking about.”
“You'll be dead inside long before that though,” Ed jokingly stage-whispered to Ben. Edna gave him a playful slap on the arm.
“It's so good to see a couple that's still together after so many years,” Diane sighed. “So many of our friends are already divorced. It's crazy.”
“You have to find a loving friend , not just a fuck buddy,” Edna stated, causing them all to break out into laughter. When it tapered off, Edna continued “Too many young people getting knocked up or just getting married so that they can have a party for themselves. Shameful. Ed and I love the same things, have the same hobbies, and we both enjoy just traveling the world and seeing what we can stir up.”
“Hear, hear,” Ben said, slurring a bit and raising the now empty wine bottle. “Oop! Looks like we need some more booze. How about it, Ed, think you can stand another bottle, or maybe you want some Metamucil?”
“Benjamin!” Diane cried out, shocked.
“You bring it on, sonny,” Ed smirked, giving the young man a challenging glare. “I'll drink you under the table. We'll let the women-folk drag us back to our cabins.”
Ben chuckled and slid out from underneath his newlywed wife. Weaving a bit he made his way to door that led off the balcony and into the fake Irish pub inside, he chucked the empty wine bottle over the railing and into the sea.
“Two points, straight into the water,” He said as he stepped into the quiet pub and walked right into the unyielding claws of Murdertron, the robot built for murder!  

Tuesday, June 26, 2012

Fantastic Voyage....In A Zombie! (Pt. 2)


Fantastic Voyage....In A Zombie! (Pt. 2)

as Vilinsky carefully piloted the craft down the slightly pulsing artery.
“I'm close to the wound, I think,” he said, wiping sweat from his upper lip. “I wish Reynolds was here to drive this thing, I'm only supposed to be watching the engines.”
“I wish Reynolds hadn't bitten our test subject,” Feinerman muttered next to him. “McClosky, have you been able to pick up a transmission from the micron cameras that we put in Shriver's eyes?”
“Yes, Doctor,” McClosky answered, swiveling her laptop in his direction. Feinerman watched through Shriver's eyes as he bandaged up the wound on his arm. “I'm also picking up data from the sensors we injected as well. His white blood cell count is through the roof and he's starting to run a fever.”
“Here they come,” Vilinsky said, pointing out the port observation window. Spiked, white balls rushed past the craft amongst the tumbling red blood cells, surging ahead to face whatever infection was developing as a result of Reynolds' bite. “What the hell is that?”
The three of them watched as a white cell launched itself at what looked to be a black, thorn-covered snake. The jet black rope coiled itself around the cell, its thorns digging in as it constricted and elongated around it, sawing it in half with remarkable speed. The snake-thing shot itself at another white cell as the remnants of the first was rapidly consumed by a different snake. The crew of the Protean II watched in horror as hundreds of other inky black ropes began to surge around them, attacking and consuming red and white cells alike in with an almost bloodthirsty zeal.
“Oh my God!,” came Dominick's shout from the back of the vessel. He came running into the control room, panting with exertion. “You guys won't believe this!”
“Be quiet, you ape!” Feinerman shouted.
“Fuck off!” Dominick retorted. “I wasn't talking to you anyway. Woman Doctor...”
“My name's...,” McClosky began to say, turning towards the large man.
“Doesn't matter, you won't believe what I found back in that weird room with the round bed.”
“We're having a situation here, Dom.”
“A shitload of porn. I mean, piles of filth. Magazines, reel-to-reel films, even some real dirty cassette tapes. There's like a whole porn closet back there.”
Everyone stopped and looked over at Dr. Feinerman, who had suddenly stiffened. Slowly, he turned and faced his three companions. Removing his glasses and wiping them with a handkerchief he let out a long sigh.
“We built the Protean II in the early seventies. They say that the sixties was the decade of love, but what they didn't understand was that that was simply the world having one last explosion of mundane sexuality before we transcended into a bold new form of lovemaking. My fellow scientists and I were pioneers in the realm of human sexuality and sensuality. We developed the Protean to be the ultimate form of human sexual expression!
“How you could you go back to normal, one-on-one sex, when you could make sweet love to another while a group of people made love within your very bloodstream? Or perhaps, when climax was reached and you flooded your partner with ejaculate, you could also be transferring those passionately copulating individuals...”
“Enough Doctor,” McClosky said loudly, waving her hands in disgust. “We get the picture.”
“I don't,” Dominick said excitedly. “Keep going. This is hot.”
“Wasn't this a government-funded project, Doctor?” Vilinsky asked.
“Well, yes,” Feinerman answered apprehensively. “But we were faced with overwhelming...”
Dominick let out a sharp bark of a laugh. “You spent millions of taxpayer dollars to build a shaggin' wagon. You are my new hero, Doc. Up top.”
Reluctantly, Feinerman slapped five. He was just about to explain himself more when the Protean II was savagely rocked, knocking all of them to the deck.
Vilinsky clambered back into the pilot seat and began to check his sensors. The rest looked out of the observation portals with mounting horror.
The long, thorny snakes had completely surrounded the vessel, forming an almost complete wall around them. After defeating and consuming the red and white blood cells the snakes had joined together and wormed their way up the the artery, mercilessly sawing into the tissue wall and spreading through the rest of Captain Shriver's arm. Small sparks of what looked like electricity occasionally arced along the tips of the thorn protuberances.
“That is not sexy,” Dominick stated.  

Saturday, June 23, 2012

Big Bertha



Big Bertha


It was on a night just like this, when the screaming wind kicked up the sand and turned it into a blinding, stinging maelstrom and the coyote's howls took on a note that would turn a brave man's bladder into jelly, that Big Bertha came rolling. Spit out of Hell like a sin-encrusted loogie, Bertha hunted the highways of the desert in search of the negligent hitchhiker who had brought her so low, even though that poor soul had met her end on the same night the big rig plummeted off Dead Man's Ridge all those years ago. With revenge an impossibility, Bertha took out her eternal anger on the hapless and unwary, the foolish and unlucky.
But on this night, a night when dread sailed on the grit-choked wind and malice stained the moonlit black top, Bertha shot out of the abyss with another goal in mind. Tonight the hitchhikers and vagrants were safe. There would be no demon wails of death or spectral infernos of rage. No station wagons would be driven off the road and into Mammon's grasping claws on this accursed eve. Tonight, the old eighteen wheeler from Hell had a different purpose.
Tonight, Big Bertha came a'rolling for love.

Thursday, June 21, 2012

Space War (pt. 3)




Space War (pt. 3)

missiles streaking two hundred and fifty thousand kilometers to the port side of the Ambivalent.
“Anderon, how many salvos have been launched?” asked Reddick as he stepped onto the bridge, barely stifling a yawn. Yeoman Sanderson stood by the electrolift doors holding a steaming mug of coffee for the Captain. Reddick took the drink with a nod of thanks and made his way over to his command chair.
“Fourteen, Sir.” Anderon replied. “Engagement has lasted for just over thirty six hours now.”
“Engineering?”
“I've looked over everything,” M'Gambe said, fixing Miller with a knowing stare. “Very thoroughly. There isn't an inch of those engines that I haven't paid...very close attention to. They should be humming along all day, feeling good.”
“Okaay. Thanks M'Gambe, that's good work.”
“Yes it was.”
“Miller, any word from our friends out there?”
Miller sat staring at M'Gambe, her finger absently caressing her work station. Reddick could see the red Incoming Message light on her console blinking.
“Miller?” Reddick repeated. He raised his voice.“Lieutenant Miller?
“Oh! Yes, Captain,” Miller jumped, her face turning crimson. “We received a communique package an hour ago, I waited until you arrived before opening it.”
“Very well, pop it open and put it up on screen.”
“Sir,” said a deep voice off to the Reddick's right. Stepping out from behind his shadowed corner, Chief Security Officer Dorn loomed over the captain. “We should inspect the message for possible malware before opening it. If it is infected our entire computer system could be compro...”
“'Blah, blah, malware!'” Reddick whined, flapping his hand open and closed like a nagging mouth. ' "'Blah, blah compromised!' That's you, Debbie Downer. The Philoxians are, like, cat-people or something. They shit in boxes. I'm serious. Entire decks of their ships are litter boxes. I doubt they're going to be writing sophisticated virus programs.”
“Sir, it will only take five minutes.”
“Miller! Open it!”
Miller had walked over to M'Gambe's station and was currently whispering something into his ear. M'Gambe seemed to like what he was hearing.
“Damn, baby,” he purred. “You are one kinky little...”
“Miller!”
“Sorry, Captain,” Miller hopped back over to her station and punched a sequence of buttons.
Immediately the lights on the bridge went dark and the familiar thrumming of the engines ground down to nothing. Reddick felt his stomach lurch and watched as his coffee began to float out of its cup. The artificial gravity had cut out. Dorn floated past him, his massive arms crossed and a look of disappointment on his scarred face.
“That would be the malware,” he said flatly.
Reddick watched as his bridge crew struggled to remain at their stations while the ship’s various alarms began to blare all at once.
“Stupid cat-people.”

Tuesday, June 19, 2012

Space War (pt. 2)


Space War (pt. 2)

drone's engines burning as it hurtled off into space.
“Helmsman!” Reddick shouted at Anderon, who was seated less than two feet away from him.  

"How close to the enemy do you plan on getting?”
“I...I only thought that if we were a bit...” Anderon stuttered.
“They're almost within a million kilometers of us! Any closer and they'd smell your breath.”
“I'm backing off, Sir,” Anderon grumbled. “I thought if we were closer we might actually hit them.”
“Starsky! Launch another salvo on my mark,” Riddick barked. He sat back and watched as the anxious ensign nervously waited for his order, his finger hovering above the flashing red button. “Not that we have too worry too much, Anderon's breath should be affecting their systems any second now.”
The rest of the bridge crew snickered.
“It isn't that bad, Sir.”
“Bullshit! Have you ever smelled it? It's God awful.”
“I have a dental problem, as a matter of fact. It's bacterial.”
“Gross.”
“Who's your dentist?” M'Gambe asked, his voice rolling across the bridge like a deep flowing river. “I see a guy on Starbase 96 and he's the bomb.”
“I have a guy I've been seeing on Transport Hub 49,” Anderon answered apprehensively.
“49? That shit hole?” Reddick cried out. “I'm surprised you have any teeth left. What kind of dental insurance do you have, anyway?”
“I'm not an officer, Sir,” Anderon whined. “My plan doesn't cover non-emergency treatment and my bacterial problem....”
“Ewww,” Miller said.
“My bacterial problem!” Anderon shouted. “Only affects my breath. It isn't considered a medical necessity to have it fixed and I can't afford to have it taken care of on my own.”
“You should enter the officer training program,” M'Gambe offered. “It doesn't matter if you pass or not, but while you're training you get full coverage. Enter the program, get your funky breath fixed, quit. Easy breezy.”
“That's a great idea, M'Gambe,” Anderon said with more than a little wonder in his voice. “That would save me....”
“Mark!” Reddick shouted.
Starsky slammed his hand down on the button, launching another salvo of atomic-laden warheads at the incoming enemy vessel.  

Sunday, June 17, 2012

Space War (Pt. 1)


Space War (Pt. 1)


where the Ambivalent hung suspended above its swirling, storm-wracked atmosphere.
“Sir, we've just detected what looks like a Philoxian vessel entering the system,” Lt. Anderon announced. “They're really coming in fast!”
“How long until they reach us?” Reddick asked, swiveling around in his command chair. While the Lieutenant checked his calculations, Reddick absently scratched at his beard.
“They're moving at maximum speed, Sir,” Anderon said. “That should bring them to us in...five days by my calculations.”
“Do you think I should shave the beard?” Reddick asked no one in particular. Many of the bridge crew stopped and seemed to consider the query.
“I heard some of the girls in accounting talk about the beard, Sir,” Chief Communications Officer Miller responded, setting her crossword puzzle down. “They said it made you look dignified.”
“Dignified like, 'Hey, look at that sexy, dignified Captain over there.' or was it more like 'My Grandpa is so dignified, just like Captain Reddick. Isn't that cute?'”
“Sexy? I think.”
“I'd definitely say 'Sexy' Captain,” Anderon replied enthusiastically.
“Quit kissing my ass, Anderon,” Reddick said sharply. Letting out a sigh and pushing a button on his command chair that would summon a yeoman, Reddick leaned back in his chair. “Five days, eh? I need some coffee.”

Five days later the bridge crew of the Ambivalent reported to their stations. Reddick ran his hand over his hairless chin.
“Now it feels like my face is too round,” Reddick complained. “What does accounting have to say about the clean shaven look.”
“I was down there on Tuesday and they weren't talking about you,” Miller said apprehensively. She quickly brightened and shot a flirtatious grin over to the Chief Engineer. “They did talk about the new kimono M'Gambe's been wearing while off duty though.”
“A kimono?” Reddick spun and looked incredulously at his engineer. M'Gambe simply flashed his brilliant smile and gave the captain a thumbs up. “Who the hell walks around in a kimono?”
“Apparently a ladies man, Captain,” M'Gambe said smoothly, shooting an equally seductive look at Miller and giving her a wink.
“The Philoxian's are firing missiles Captain!” Anderon shouted.
“How long until they reach us?”
“Two hours, forty minutes.”
“Starsky, launch interception drones and a salvo of our own missiles.”
“Aye, Captain.”
Reddick stood and stalked up to the view screen that dominated the front of the bridge. Focusing on the small dot of light that was the Philoxian vessel, whose missiles were even now streaking toward them, Reddick raised his fist and glowered.
“Kimonos.”



(part two)

Friday, June 15, 2012

Snakes and Sepulchers



Snakes and Sepulchers


a wave of dark, bristling energy obliterating the top of Barrow Hill.
After five decades of work, Grinmak the Dread Lich had finally completed his work.
Surveying the countryside with his one remaining organic eye, he was pleased with what he saw. Rolling pastoral hills, babbling streams, and lush trees. In the distance he could faintly make out some long abandoned standing stones that must have been erected to praise some long dead god. All in all, a serene, peaceful blanket to cover the maggot riddled hellscape that he had painstakingly carved out below. A rasping chuckle began to vibrate up his long dead vocal cords and by the time it escaped out of his creaking jaws it had turned into a full blown horrific cackle.
His other eye, a shining sapphire from which a faint bluish smoke emitted, saw what would be hidden from mundane mortal eyes. A thick lattice work of spells had been erected over the valley below where Grinmak now loomed. Once the last incantation had been uttered only the Eye Of Harron had the capability to discern the true nature of the landscape. From this day forth no power on this plane of existence would be able to scry into, teleport within, or even dig a hole in what would now be referred to as the Valley of Tears without Grinmak’s personal blessing.
“Mourther! Attend me,” Grinmak hissed.
A shambling form worked its way up over the lip of the blasted crater that Grinmak's last spell had caused. From the looks of it Mourther had lost yet another limb, this time his right arm, but Grinmak would construct another once they were safely down in his lab again. Otherwise the Lich was pleased that his manservant had not died a fifth time. Resurrection was a tedious business.
“Yes, Lord,” came Mourther's perpetually flat voice. Even when he was alive he had sounded like that.
“When I've used the Key Of Passage to return myself to my lair I want you to disguise yourself, go to the nearest town, and arrange to have this valley renamed. It's only fitting that the area above my abode have a proper name.”
“I thought you wanted your lair to be a secret, Lord?”
“I do, I do. It's just I can't go around telling my contemporaries that I dwell beneath the Valley Of Clear Blue Skies And Frolicking Bunnies now can I? You will do this thing.”
“Yes, Lord.”
Yes indeed. For beneath the Valley Of Tears lay the greatest treasure of them all. It was not the library that would be the envy of every scholar on the planet. It wasn't the mountains of gems and coins that Grinmak had assembled over the centuries. It wasn't the magical baubles or devastating weapons. It wasn't even the slave race that Grinmak had brought into existence to do his bidding and worship him. No, the greatest treasure of all was the contents of a simple clay cup that sat in a humble cupboard filled with a hundred similar cups.
A simple cup that held Grinmak's eternal soul.
It was because of this wondrous, priceless phylactery that Grinmak had even constructed the labyrinthine dungeon that sprawled above it. And what a dungeon it was. He had never considered dungeon-craft to be much of an art form before, but his decades spent shaping one had changed his mind. It was among the more terrestrial levels filled with spiked pits, trapped doors, ravenously random monsters, and such things that he had found true inspirations.
One entire level constructed of only barbed chains.
An entire village, complete with peaceful human villagers and grazing animals, that would lull any invader into a false sense of security that would eventually lead to an ensorcelled belief that he or she had been living there all along and that it was truly home.
Fiery lakes filled with acid shooting sharks.
A level that would shrink any invaders down to an inch and then set common insects against them.
Those were but a few of Grinmak's many devious inventions. His phylactery was safe, his soul secure. Now he could continue the experiments and researches that had led him to pursue the path of undeath in the first place. It was time to begin poking at the spokes that held the universe together again.
Being its creator, Grinmak had of course devised a way past all of those cunning traps. Turning to his manservant, who seemed to have just noticed that his arm was missing, the Dread Lich extended a bejeweled, skeletal hand.
“Mourther! The Key Of Passage that I gave you all those years ago to keep safe, give it to me now.”
“You told me to keep it safe, Lord,” Mourther said as if Grinmak had forgotten his wits.
“I know what I said, Mourther,” the lich growled. “Now your charge is complete. Hand me the key.”
“But I kept it safe, Lord.”
Grinmak began to clench his open hand into a fist.
“You told me to keep it safe,” Mourther explained. “I noticed that you still had that cupboard. From when you were a child. You used to hide in it when your lord father was in the grips of one of his rages. I used to come get you when he left the grounds. I gave you hot cocoa. You always drank it while still in the cupboard. What better hiding place for something precious.”
“You put my key in that cupboard didn't you, Mourther?”
“I kept it safe, Lord”
Grinmak cast his eyes back over his surroundings. To one, everything was simple and peaceful. To the other, a complex, unbreakable wall of deadly enchantments that cut him off from laboratory, his library, and worst of all his very soul.
“Shit.”

Thursday, June 14, 2012

Operation Timeslip


Operation Timeslip


veiny with a girth roughly the size of a can of Campbell's soup.
Otherwise I would say that nothing else about my physique is especially remarkable, despite what some “over-embellishing” journalists may have you believe. To say I have the frame of an Olympic swimmer is rather inaccurate since the ocean liner I was aboard was hijacked by members of The Cult Of Dagon at the time I was supposed to compete in that most august of competitions and I was unable to prove my worth. My skin is often too tan, mostly from my exposure to the unyielding elements of the Middle Eastern deserts where I routinely hone my archaeological skills, though it tends to settle to a more golden cast when I've been in more temperate climates for a time. Another side effect the merciless sun has had upon me is to lighten my normally auburn hair into a more blond color, not dissimilar in hue to a freshly mined ingot of that most valuable of metals.
So it was upon this modest body of mine that the eyes of these distant future Earth's primitive inhabitants fell and I remember feeling quite a shock of surprise to realize that they had mistook me for a god. My first thought was to of course refute the assumptions of these poor, albeit noble, descendants of ours and prove that I was indeed all too mortal but then the full weight of my dire situation settled once again upon my shoulders. If I was to return myself and my equally displaced companions to our own native position within the stream of time I would need these uneducated brutes on our side to provide assistance with a myriad of tasks; such as constructing suitable domiciles, helping us discern potable food and water from poisonous, and ultimately to build siege engines so that we could storm the Nazi encampment in which the time conveyance they used to kidnap us was housed.
As you will see during these interviews these natives were an invaluable asset. I can also say with all honesty that, though my hand was the one that guided them, these strange and wondrous creatures were the true heroes of this little jaunt of mine and their ultimate sacrifice leaves me humbled to this day.

Charles Foster (mechanic) It was pretty obvious that we had stumbled upon some cannibals and that Ol’ Bird Chest, that’s what we called Dr. Gunn, was on the menu. He seemed to think they worshipped him, but it was pretty obvious they was fattening him up. Since they wasn’t coming after us immediately though we convinced Loretta -Loretta Sanchez-, to maybe figure out

Tuesday, June 12, 2012

Fantastic Voyage....In A Zombie!


Fantastic Voyage....In A Zombie!


excitedly punching the transmission button.
“Dude! I am inside you!”
“What?” came Shriver's bewildered voice from the tinny speaker set next to the microphone. “Dom? How...What the hell, man?”
“And this is totally gay, cause that uptight doctor guy said we got injected straight into your ass! This is awesome.”
“Get away from there, you clown!” Dr. Feinerman yelled as he stormed into the cockpit. Pushing Dominick out of the way Feinerman snatched the microphone from its cradle. “This is a travesty Captain Shriver. How did this belligerent...ape...gain access to the module?”
“I told you, I fell asleep on one of those couches back there,” Dominick said as he slouched into one of the command chairs and started examining the complex array of dials and switches that lay in front of him. One button in particular caught his eye and he began to reach for it. “It isn't Mack's fault. He didn't even know I was here. Hey!”
Feinerman had slapped Dominick's hand away from the switchboard and glared at him.
“Do you want to sever your friend’s femoral artery? If so, please go ahead and push the shiny red button marked LASER.”
“Don't do that, Dom,” said Shriver. A shrill alarm began to sound faintly through the speaker. “Look Doc, I'm sorry. I had no idea Dom would was even on the compound. Is the rest of the team okay?”
“Yes, the team is intact. Even with your fat friend breathing like a winded ox, we should have enough oxygen in the module to last the duration of the mission. If not, we'll have to stop off in the lungs. Otherwise I suspect the mission will continue unhindered.”
“Who the hell built this thing anyway?” Dom asked, tapping what looked like a lava lamp that was set into the wall. “Is this a lava lamp?”
“Yes, that's a lava lamp,” Feinerman muttered, embarrassed. “The Protean II was built in the early seventies, shortly before miniaturization research was mothballed. The designers foresaw a future where people could vacation within other people for a short time. Despite its rather psychedelic touches, though, the II does have significant improvements over Protean I, which was little more than a submarine really. In fact, the retractable spider legs alone...”
“Hold on!,” Dominick shouted, raising his hand. “You have a magic ray gun that can shrink shit and all you could think to do is turn people into Disneyland? How can smart people be so stupid?”
Feinerman sighed.
“Once the government realized that miniaturization would essentially reinvent every aspect of our society, from travel to medical science to...what-have-you, they got scared and put an end to the research. The 'Disneyland' idea was a last ditch effort to postpone the ending of the project. It didn't work.”
“When they told me that they needed a test pilot to act as a guinea pig for the project I volunteered,” Shriver said, his voice competing with the now louder sounding alarm. “This research could change the world, Dom. I wanted to be a part of it.”
“Captain Shriver?” Feinerman leaned onto the command console. Behind him the two other members the research team entered the compartment. “Why am I hearing an alarm? Is Reynolds still with you?”
“No, he went to go see what the fuss was. The alarm seems to be coming from the east wing. I just saw him go in...Wait a sec.”
“Did he say the east wing?” Dr. McClosky asked, a note of worry in her voice. “That's where that weirdo Ambler is working on that old super-soldier program from the fifties.”
“Hey, I see Reynolds,” came Shriver's voice. “He's coming out into the courtyard now. He's limping though. He doesn't look too good. I'm going to go down and see if he needs help.”
“You should stay in the lab, Captain,” Feinerman said anxiously.
“I'll just be a minute. Reynolds can hook me back up to the monitors when we get back. You guys just keep swimming along my bloodstream and taking your tests.”
“Bloodstream?” Dominick asked with a whine. “I thought we were in your colon.”

Saturday, June 9, 2012

The Voyages Of The S.S. Amore (pt.3)

Part I
Part II


The Voyages Of The S.S. Amore (pt.3)
by
J.R. Fogle

almost getting knocked to the ground by two running gothy looking punk kids in the process.
Eventually Gavin made it back to his cabin, though certain parts of his journey seemed a bit of a blur. Leaning his head against the cool metal of the door he gathered his thoughts and desperately tried to will himself back to sobriety. Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to have given himself that much liquid courage for the task that lay ahead of him. But from the looks of the largish wine stain on the floor in front of door, he wasn’t the only one who tied one on. Taking a deep breath, he turned the handle on the door and stepped inside.
Susan was facing away from him on the cabin’s narrow bed. She didn't even turn in his direction when he stepped into the room. Instead she sat hunched over with her head almost down by her lap. Her shoulders were hitching a bit and she was making that (rather disgusting sounding) slurping sob that she always made when she was truly upset and crying.
“Hello my love,” He said as he sat down on the opposite side of the bed from her, his body turned so he was half facing her. She stiffened a bit as he sat and then went back to making that sucking, snotty sounding noise. Gavin felt his stomach turn a bit at the sound, but he took a hard swallow and continued.
“Susan, I am so sorry for how I acted at that Finnegan's place. It was boorish of me to flirt back with that waitress, it's just that....well, I can't help myself sometimes. You can't understand what it's like to be an internationally recognized cricket player. Being famous has always gone to my head a bit and it's difficult not to react to some people's positive energy with some energy of my own. But it was inappropriate and I apologize.
“That said though, there are some things you should know,” he continued, looking warily over at where she sat. From the sounds of it she had gone from sobbing to grinding her teeth. Not a good sign considering what he was about to reveal. “The day you agreed to be my bride was the proudest of my life. Landing you was my greatest accomplishment, even greater than when I [insert prestigious cricket award here]. But that pride was tinged with more than a little guilt.
“You see, Susan,” he stammered. “I may not have been as faithful as I should have been whilst travelling. Being famous has certain drawbacks. Groupies are a big one and we all know that cricket really brings out the fire in some women. It's like spending all day being handed cake after sweet, delicious cake. Eventually even the Pope would take a bite.
“But those are in the past. The reason I bring this up at all is so that our marriage can start on a bed of honesty and not one of animal lust and deception. Also because you may have caught an STD or two from me.”
Gavin paused and waited for Susan to erupt in her typical fashion. Instead she let out extremely loud and horrific fart. Gagging slightly and resisting the urge to berate her for such inconsiderate behavior, mostly because he was in the middle of telling her about his various infectious diseases, he soldiered on.
“There are the herpes, of course. Though I would inform you that almost every member of the human race has herpes of one form or another. Babies come fresh out of the womb riddled with herpes. The chlamydia is treatable. The gonorrhea can be a bit tricky, I once got an infection in the back of my throat. Ha ha! I have no idea how that got there.”
Susan didn't say a word, just went back to hunching and gnashing and slobbering. Gavin began to get annoyed.
“I say Susan, are you even listening?” he reached over and shook her shoulder. Her head snapped around and bit hard onto the side of his hand. Gavin yelled as she tore a chunk of flesh from out of him, blood coursed down his arm and splattered onto the sheets.
“What the hell?” he reeled back away from Susan and sat hard on the floor cradling his wounded hand. “That's my bowling hand!”
Susan stood and slowly turned. Where it wasn’t smeared with glistening blood, her face was ashen gray. The muscles around the jaw were slack. The expression in her eyes was a curious mixture of dullness and rage. And hunger. She dropped some poor sod's forearm, which she had been busy eating while Gavin poured his heart out to her, and began to crawl across the bed.
“What kind of VD is that?” he asked, bewildered.
The undead thing that was once Susan lunged.

Thursday, June 7, 2012

All Part Of A Complete Balanced...Murder



All Part Of A Complete Balanced...Murder


“Well I think they're g-r-r-r-...”
“Shut it, Tiger!” The Leprechaun shouted. “I'm not talkin' aboot how appropriate choclit' chip cookies are fer breakfist'! I'm talkin' aboot murder!”
The Leprechaun slammed his fist down on the table, upsetting several half filled bowls of cereal and spilling milk over many of the comically cringing mascots. The White Rabbit burst into tears and fled the room. He hadn't been the same since coming back from his recent stint in rehab and the sugar-berries in The Capt'n's bowl had been distracting him all morning.
“So...Vhat exactly do you zhink is going on?” The Count asked as he tried awkwardly to sip a glass of orange juice. Pulpy liquid dribbled down his fangs and onto his brown suit coat and cape.
“Arr! Do ye tink it may be anodder' case like dem Cinnamon Toast fella's?” The Capt'n inquired. The rest of the mascots exchanged uneasy glances. This wasn't the first time The Capt'n had broached a subject most felt was best left alone. “I mean, one day we got three happy-go-lucky baker's dancin' n' bakin' n' carryin' on' and the next, jus' one fat baker n' a whole lotta lookin' th' other way. Ya doan' need ta be a pirate captain ta know when somethin' fishy be goin' on.”
“Aye, Capt'n,” The Leprechaun nodded slowly. “That's exactly what I'm on about. Let's look at th' order of events, shall we?
“First we got th' good ol' days. Cookie Cop chases Cookie Robber when he tries a bit o' cereal stealin', each of us here have bin on both sides a that situation at one time'r another.” A few of the mascots nodded to each other in agreement. “Then th' Robber gets hisself a little doggy. Next thing ya' know, no more Robber. Then the doggy turns inta' HIM and suddenly, all quiet like, no more Cop. Na' yoo tell me somethin' ain't up wit dat!”
The Leprechaun looked around the table and noticed that each of them found somewhere else to be looking when his gaze fell on them. The undead blueberry was suddenly very busy carving his apple into a makeshift pipe. The swirly eyed Cookoo Bird was captivated by a spoon. Even the normally nonchalant Golden Bear seemed to become interested in some spot on the ceiling. Only the Capt’n would meet his eyes and having that blood thirsty bastard on his side only made The Leprechaun more nervous.
“So it's gonna be like dat is it?” The Leprechaun stated with dismay. “Well I have to say I never thought I'd live ta see th' day when...”
The door to the chamber slammed open as if it had been kicked. Each of the mascots jumped at the sound and stared at The Wolf as he strode inside. He gave each of them a sneering smile as he made his way to the table and sat down. He looked at The Leprechaun last and reached over the table for a slice of buttered toast.
“Good day to you all,” The Wolf said as he crunched into the toasted bread, exposing each of his sharp teeth in the process. His eyes never left The Leprechaun. “Whatever are you all talking about?”
Reaching into his bag of charms and gripping them tightly, The Leprechaun prayed they had just a little more luck left in them.  

Tuesday, June 5, 2012

Neighborhood Watch


Neighborhood Watch
A Detective Duo Novel
By
R.C. Whitte

where it sat in the middle of the ragweed-invested, overgrown lawn.
“Crying shame, this,” Smith said, tipping back his fedora and shaking his head. “This is a Lawnbuster 40K. Or at least it used to be.”
Jones hunkered down over the mower and removed his sunglasses, eyes squinting as they took in every detail around him. He reached into his pocket and removed a pair of thin rubber gloves. After squeezing his hands into them, he reached under the engine mount and ran his fingers along the pitted metal. They came away blackened with oil and old gasoline.
“You got some kind of a soft spot for the Lawnbuster series, Smith?” Jones asked. He'd been with his partner for over ten years and never once heard him express an opinion one way or another when it came to name brand lawn care machinery.
“You bet I do, Jones,” replied Smith, his eyes going misty as he recalled the past. “My old man used to have one. Every Sunday, if the weather permitted, he'd be out there on our back lawn going back and forth, back and forth, til that lawn was so well mowed you could golf on it.
“But he had a respect for his mower. It didn't look like this poor, luckless piece of scrap. That mower lasted from the time I was in short pants to when I was given a badge after graduating from The Academy.”
“Was that before your old man died in his sleep with a contented smile on his face?” Jones asked with apprehension. His partner was still a bit sore over his father's timely death.
“Yeah,” he whispered. “He was so proud that he was able to make it to my graduation after living his lifelong dream of conducting the Philadelphia Philharmonic.”
Smith stood in the middle of the slowly dying lawn, the sun behind his head casting a forlorn shadow over Jones and the ailing mower.
“So, uh, what makes you think this old girl is in such dire straits, huh?” Jones asked nervously, trying to snap his longtime partner and friend out of his moderate funk. “She doesn't look so bad to me, just a little dirty is all.”
“Rookie mistake, just like always,” Smith said, a smile cracking his grizzled visage. The “rookie joke” had been going strong since they had first been partnered together, made all the more humorous by the fact that Smith only had three years on the force over Jones. “First off, look at this here.”
Smith got down so that he was level with Jones. Snapping gloves onto his own hands, Smith pointed to a long greyish cord that ran from the small engine to a gear shift bolted near the top of the long metal handle.
“See this thick wire here?” Smith queried. “This is the throttle cord. In a perfect world, which we both know this ain't, this throttle cord would be shiny and flexible. Its color as black as a Protestant's soul. Instead you got this sad thing. Cracked. Dry. This cord has been left baking in the unforgiving sun for weeks at a time. Hell, I'd even say months if you put me on the stand and made me swear on the good book.”
“What do these markings mean?” Jones asked, standing up and pointing at the symbols on the gear shift.
“Oh yeah,” Smith had that look again. “See this picture here, that's a turtle. It slowed the throttle down in case you got lazy, like the son of a bitch who owns this property, and let the grass get too long. Or if it was damp after a cool summer rain. That way you could ease your way into it and slowly chop those long blades of green down without causing the blades to jam up, which would cease the engine and make it stall.
“But this other picture, this was for the pros. This is a hare, or a rabbit as most folk know it, and that was for the speed demon sonsaguns like my old man. You slapped this gear shift right up to the hare picture and then you hauled ass over that lawn.”
“Sounds like a dream come true.”
“You know it, partner. What say we mosey on up to this house and pay a visit to our would-be