WROTE STUFF!!!
So, I kinda revised the last bit of the SERGE, MIKE, AND MOON TURK story/novel that I was working on.
Please to reread, with the new second half. I just wrote it and haven't reread/edited any of it, so please excuse me if it smells like I just pulled it outta my ass.
Cause I did.
You remember, it was the part that started with this:
I woke up next to a dead dog this morning. I pray to God I wasn’t the one who killed it, on account of it seems to have been fucked to death. It’s probably a warning from the landlord that I’m three months behind on my rent. Little does he know that he’s just fed me for the next six meals, bare minimum.
My ass itches, which means I have to go to court today. My wife is suing to up the alimony I pay her. She claims that since she’s joined the Cult of the Sexless God, her monetary situation is going to degrade, both because people will discriminate against her and because she won’t be able to have a relationship with another human being ever again.
I’m calling my lawyer in for this case. It’s not because I need him, just because I want him there when I pull down my ex’s pants to see if she’s really got that SafEpoxy Seal over her yet. My lawyer, he’s got a little camera instead of a left eye. If that woman still has the Temporary Temptation Tarpaulin over her, I’m in the clear. If not, well, I can make a few bucks selling the pix on the Webernet. SG cultists never pose nude and, of course, that that makes some men want them even more. I know there’s a fetish for everything, but a person you can’t stick it in - or let them stick it in you, the men no longer having penises - and who’ve been brainwashed to clamp down their teeth on anything that isn’t actual food…well, that there’s not my kinda fucked-up.
The Emperor turns 77 today, which means free and beautiful sex on every channel tonight. The ceremonies will also be projected onto every available wall over two stories tall. Everywhere tonight, people getting off on him getting off on people getting off. Orgasms all around! If I go out on the street after dark, I’ll find somebody looking for a partner for the big event. I don’t want a partner, though. I want a goddamned job.
The court put a little chip in my head twenty-six months ago that killed my only marketable skills: my years of training as a ninja assassin. Now I’m lucky if I can squat to shit without throwing a disc. The one time the court actually busts me, it’s for something I didn’t do. Figures.
Somebody knocks on my door like they mean it. I don’t bother to put on a shirt. Or pants. I take a look through the peephole and see two men in bright blue suits, wearing those weird Blue Blocker sunglasses. They’re both smiling wide enough for me to count their teeth.
“Mr. Clifton?” says the one in front, who’s about a head shorter than me and two shorter than his buddy.
“Unless you’ve brought me free booze or loose women, then no.”
He gives me a weird little look, keeps smiling as he presses a button on his lapel that says “Kiss me, you’re Irish” and suddenly I smell smoke. I whip my head around for a bit, to see if anything’s on fire, before I realize that it’s me. The back on my head is smoldering and suddenly it hurts like a dozen wasps just stung my brain.
“FUCK!”
“Mr. Clifton?”
I look through the little fisheye lens, to see if they’re flashing federal badges or something, and it hits me; I realize I know exactly how to strike my peephole to send the metal rim through the tall guy’s skull, and where and how hard to kick my shitty door to break through and fracture the little guy’s pelvis.
He just burned out the anti-ninja device. I do a little jig on my creaky floor in celebration. It doesn’t make a sound.
“Now, then. May we come in?”
“Mister, you can have my precious anal virginity. Door’s unlocked, lemme get us some beers,” I offered as they came in.
“I’m afraid we can’t accept beer right now, Mr. Clifton,” said the taller man, in an almost terrifying tenor. “We’re on duty.”
“Cops, huh? I can make coffee…”
“No, I’m afraid you can’t. And we’re not policemen. Not in any capacity that you would recognize, that is.”
“Go back. What are you afraid I can’t?”
“Make coffee,” offered the short fellow, with a touch of pity in his voice.
“Why, pray tell, can’t I make coffee?”
“The chip that we just incapacitated,” he continued, “was very delicately inserted into your brain, but it’s not intended to be removed. As such, they don’t make the task very easy. As you’ve just experienced, we have discovered a way to burn out the chip…but it tends to destroy a tiny bit of the surrounding brain as it goes.”
“The part that’s responsible for me being able to make coffee?”
“Just the part that makes you able to make good coffee,” corrected the tall fellow.
“Balls,” said I, and both men winced ever so slightly when I did. Interesting. That means Cult of the Sexless God, both of them. Nobody without my training would have noticed their reactions, but when you’ve been trained to split bees in half with a plastic knife from fifty yards, this isn’t that hard. I wonder if my wife sent them.
“So what brings you gentlemen here,” I ask, heading into my kitchen. I hear the easy slide of handguns from their holsters, but I pretend not to notice.
“Mr. Clifton,” says the tenor, politely, “we’re going to ask that you stay out of the kitchen.”
I turn around and feign surprise at the guns they have leveled at me. Cheap, crappy guns, but I’m sure the bullets are in fine working order.
“Whoa…why are you guys pointing those at me?”
“Mr. Clifton,” offers the short fellow, “kitchens are dangerous for people without the skills of someone such as you. I’m certain that somebody of your prodigious abilities would be able to level no small amount of carnage on two humble men such as ourselves.”
“May I have a seat on the couch?”
“No, Sir. Steel springs.”
“Wait, you think I could tear a steel spring out of a davenport and kill you both with it before you could shoot me?” I laughed.
“Shall I just say that we’re not anxious to find out?” said Mr. Tall.
“So, what’s the deal here? What do I owe you for the unasked-for-but-certainly-not-unwelcome brain surgery?”
“Nothing yet, Sir. The Empty Abbot will be speaking to you soon, however.”
“So you are acolytes of The Sexless God. But you’re here to help me, not to shoot me because of my wife?”
“Sir, your wife is going to cancel your court appearance within the hour. Now that she has been fully indoctrinated, she understands how foolish she has been, and how her cruelty to you was ultimately the work of the Demiurge. She also asked that you forgive her for enjoying sex with you.”
“Uh, tell her thanks, I guess. So…if that’s it, are you going to go now?”
“No, Sir, not if you can help it,” Tommy Tenor smiled.
“Beg pardon,” I asked, justifiably confused.
“We were sent to repair your brain - again, sorry about the coffee - and deliver a message from your wife and from the Empty Abbot. We have done so. Now we’re going to try to kill you. If we succeed, you weren’t what The Cult wanted anyway.”
“Whoa. And, uh…if I do kill you?”
“The Eunuch Superior blessed our souls and our lack of genitals this morning. We die in service to our religion, and are assured eternal life and smooth skin in heaven. We are prepared.”
As Mr. Tall spoke, I watched Mr. Short. His finger caressed the side of the trigger, so as I fell to my side, I decided that I needed to start with him. I snagged an ashtray as I tipped, and threw it like a Frisbee towards the barrel of his gun. A muzzle flash and the glass ashtray exploded in midair, disrupting the trajectory of the bullet just enough that it grazed my cheek instead of doing that thing to my head where my brains come out the back.
I kicked my coffee table into the air, destroying any clear shot at me that either one may have had, and jammed my hand under the couch for something that would actually help. As Mr. Tall punched the table aside - strong bastard - I found a Pilot Precise ballpoint pen, and threw it down Mr. Short’s gun barrel.
The resulting explosion - and summary destruction of his hand - gave me just enough time to execute my first Weighted Toad Thrust-Punch in over two years. My legs flexed tight under me, sending me flying towards Mr. Tall with enough power to break his sternum and puncture his heart with two different ribs. Mr. Short was picking up Mr. Tall’s pistol, which had fallen to the floor as I realized I was, indeed, a bit rusty: my hand was stuck in Mr. Tall’s chest.
I spun my new shield between myself and Mr. Short, allowing me a few moments to think as he pumped his blissfully deceased partner full of lead. I wrenched my right hand free, and as Mr. Tall sank between us, I heard the pistol’s hammer fall.
“Haven’t done this in a while,” I mumbled as I thrust my left fist forward and punched the bullet with my middle finger’s titanium knuckle. The shock traveled up my arm and stunned me for a moment, but feeling his own hot bullet bounce lightly off his forehead stunned Mr. Short a little bit more. I took the opportunity to grab a handful of his face and smash it backwards through my front door.
Everything went quiet for a moment, and I realized that the television was having a moment of silence for the Emperor’s father, dead for a good thirty years. I went into the kitchen to wash my hands.
“You pay for da door!” I heard the super shout from down the hall.
All I could do was stare at my brand new bag of Colombian organic beans and get a little misty…
benjamin sTone
CURRENT MUSIC: The soundtrack to HERO
LAST BOOK I READ A PAGE OF: Harry Potter 6, screw you
CURRENT MOVIE: Finishing THE ANARCHISTS
NEXT MOVIE: MEMENTO MORI
Please to reread, with the new second half. I just wrote it and haven't reread/edited any of it, so please excuse me if it smells like I just pulled it outta my ass.
Cause I did.
You remember, it was the part that started with this:
I woke up next to a dead dog this morning. I pray to God I wasn’t the one who killed it, on account of it seems to have been fucked to death. It’s probably a warning from the landlord that I’m three months behind on my rent. Little does he know that he’s just fed me for the next six meals, bare minimum.
My ass itches, which means I have to go to court today. My wife is suing to up the alimony I pay her. She claims that since she’s joined the Cult of the Sexless God, her monetary situation is going to degrade, both because people will discriminate against her and because she won’t be able to have a relationship with another human being ever again.
I’m calling my lawyer in for this case. It’s not because I need him, just because I want him there when I pull down my ex’s pants to see if she’s really got that SafEpoxy Seal over her yet. My lawyer, he’s got a little camera instead of a left eye. If that woman still has the Temporary Temptation Tarpaulin over her, I’m in the clear. If not, well, I can make a few bucks selling the pix on the Webernet. SG cultists never pose nude and, of course, that that makes some men want them even more. I know there’s a fetish for everything, but a person you can’t stick it in - or let them stick it in you, the men no longer having penises - and who’ve been brainwashed to clamp down their teeth on anything that isn’t actual food…well, that there’s not my kinda fucked-up.
The Emperor turns 77 today, which means free and beautiful sex on every channel tonight. The ceremonies will also be projected onto every available wall over two stories tall. Everywhere tonight, people getting off on him getting off on people getting off. Orgasms all around! If I go out on the street after dark, I’ll find somebody looking for a partner for the big event. I don’t want a partner, though. I want a goddamned job.
The court put a little chip in my head twenty-six months ago that killed my only marketable skills: my years of training as a ninja assassin. Now I’m lucky if I can squat to shit without throwing a disc. The one time the court actually busts me, it’s for something I didn’t do. Figures.
Somebody knocks on my door like they mean it. I don’t bother to put on a shirt. Or pants. I take a look through the peephole and see two men in bright blue suits, wearing those weird Blue Blocker sunglasses. They’re both smiling wide enough for me to count their teeth.
“Mr. Clifton?” says the one in front, who’s about a head shorter than me and two shorter than his buddy.
“Unless you’ve brought me free booze or loose women, then no.”
He gives me a weird little look, keeps smiling as he presses a button on his lapel that says “Kiss me, you’re Irish” and suddenly I smell smoke. I whip my head around for a bit, to see if anything’s on fire, before I realize that it’s me. The back on my head is smoldering and suddenly it hurts like a dozen wasps just stung my brain.
“FUCK!”
“Mr. Clifton?”
I look through the little fisheye lens, to see if they’re flashing federal badges or something, and it hits me; I realize I know exactly how to strike my peephole to send the metal rim through the tall guy’s skull, and where and how hard to kick my shitty door to break through and fracture the little guy’s pelvis.
He just burned out the anti-ninja device. I do a little jig on my creaky floor in celebration. It doesn’t make a sound.
“Now, then. May we come in?”
“Mister, you can have my precious anal virginity. Door’s unlocked, lemme get us some beers,” I offered as they came in.
“I’m afraid we can’t accept beer right now, Mr. Clifton,” said the taller man, in an almost terrifying tenor. “We’re on duty.”
“Cops, huh? I can make coffee…”
“No, I’m afraid you can’t. And we’re not policemen. Not in any capacity that you would recognize, that is.”
“Go back. What are you afraid I can’t?”
“Make coffee,” offered the short fellow, with a touch of pity in his voice.
“Why, pray tell, can’t I make coffee?”
“The chip that we just incapacitated,” he continued, “was very delicately inserted into your brain, but it’s not intended to be removed. As such, they don’t make the task very easy. As you’ve just experienced, we have discovered a way to burn out the chip…but it tends to destroy a tiny bit of the surrounding brain as it goes.”
“The part that’s responsible for me being able to make coffee?”
“Just the part that makes you able to make good coffee,” corrected the tall fellow.
“Balls,” said I, and both men winced ever so slightly when I did. Interesting. That means Cult of the Sexless God, both of them. Nobody without my training would have noticed their reactions, but when you’ve been trained to split bees in half with a plastic knife from fifty yards, this isn’t that hard. I wonder if my wife sent them.
“So what brings you gentlemen here,” I ask, heading into my kitchen. I hear the easy slide of handguns from their holsters, but I pretend not to notice.
“Mr. Clifton,” says the tenor, politely, “we’re going to ask that you stay out of the kitchen.”
I turn around and feign surprise at the guns they have leveled at me. Cheap, crappy guns, but I’m sure the bullets are in fine working order.
“Whoa…why are you guys pointing those at me?”
“Mr. Clifton,” offers the short fellow, “kitchens are dangerous for people without the skills of someone such as you. I’m certain that somebody of your prodigious abilities would be able to level no small amount of carnage on two humble men such as ourselves.”
“May I have a seat on the couch?”
“No, Sir. Steel springs.”
“Wait, you think I could tear a steel spring out of a davenport and kill you both with it before you could shoot me?” I laughed.
“Shall I just say that we’re not anxious to find out?” said Mr. Tall.
“So, what’s the deal here? What do I owe you for the unasked-for-but-certainly-not-unwelcome brain surgery?”
“Nothing yet, Sir. The Empty Abbot will be speaking to you soon, however.”
“So you are acolytes of The Sexless God. But you’re here to help me, not to shoot me because of my wife?”
“Sir, your wife is going to cancel your court appearance within the hour. Now that she has been fully indoctrinated, she understands how foolish she has been, and how her cruelty to you was ultimately the work of the Demiurge. She also asked that you forgive her for enjoying sex with you.”
“Uh, tell her thanks, I guess. So…if that’s it, are you going to go now?”
“No, Sir, not if you can help it,” Tommy Tenor smiled.
“Beg pardon,” I asked, justifiably confused.
“We were sent to repair your brain - again, sorry about the coffee - and deliver a message from your wife and from the Empty Abbot. We have done so. Now we’re going to try to kill you. If we succeed, you weren’t what The Cult wanted anyway.”
“Whoa. And, uh…if I do kill you?”
“The Eunuch Superior blessed our souls and our lack of genitals this morning. We die in service to our religion, and are assured eternal life and smooth skin in heaven. We are prepared.”
As Mr. Tall spoke, I watched Mr. Short. His finger caressed the side of the trigger, so as I fell to my side, I decided that I needed to start with him. I snagged an ashtray as I tipped, and threw it like a Frisbee towards the barrel of his gun. A muzzle flash and the glass ashtray exploded in midair, disrupting the trajectory of the bullet just enough that it grazed my cheek instead of doing that thing to my head where my brains come out the back.
I kicked my coffee table into the air, destroying any clear shot at me that either one may have had, and jammed my hand under the couch for something that would actually help. As Mr. Tall punched the table aside - strong bastard - I found a Pilot Precise ballpoint pen, and threw it down Mr. Short’s gun barrel.
The resulting explosion - and summary destruction of his hand - gave me just enough time to execute my first Weighted Toad Thrust-Punch in over two years. My legs flexed tight under me, sending me flying towards Mr. Tall with enough power to break his sternum and puncture his heart with two different ribs. Mr. Short was picking up Mr. Tall’s pistol, which had fallen to the floor as I realized I was, indeed, a bit rusty: my hand was stuck in Mr. Tall’s chest.
I spun my new shield between myself and Mr. Short, allowing me a few moments to think as he pumped his blissfully deceased partner full of lead. I wrenched my right hand free, and as Mr. Tall sank between us, I heard the pistol’s hammer fall.
“Haven’t done this in a while,” I mumbled as I thrust my left fist forward and punched the bullet with my middle finger’s titanium knuckle. The shock traveled up my arm and stunned me for a moment, but feeling his own hot bullet bounce lightly off his forehead stunned Mr. Short a little bit more. I took the opportunity to grab a handful of his face and smash it backwards through my front door.
Everything went quiet for a moment, and I realized that the television was having a moment of silence for the Emperor’s father, dead for a good thirty years. I went into the kitchen to wash my hands.
“You pay for da door!” I heard the super shout from down the hall.
All I could do was stare at my brand new bag of Colombian organic beans and get a little misty…
benjamin sTone
CURRENT MUSIC: The soundtrack to HERO
LAST BOOK I READ A PAGE OF: Harry Potter 6, screw you
CURRENT MOVIE: Finishing THE ANARCHISTS
NEXT MOVIE: MEMENTO MORI