Tag Archives: Fiction

Title

His name was The Grand Supreme Leader Of Everything That Is, Was, Or Will Be.

He promised us inner peace, knowledge of things heavenly and worldly, a profound sense of purpose.

We could have all of this, The Grand Supreme Leader Of Everything That Is, Was, Or Will Be said, if we just trusted him completely.

That trust, he said, could be earned easily, quickly, and with a few strokes of a pen.

Just sign on the dotted line. Don’t read the document, just sign.

And so we did.

After two weeks of intense seminars, meditation, fasting, we signed.

And now we are the proud owners of a pristine beach-front property.

In Kansas.

General

“Alright, listen up you maggots! There’s no room for weakness in my platoon. You got that! I said do you god damn got that?!

We will advance on the enemy. We will fight the enemy. And yes, some of you may die. And some of you may lose an arm or a leg. And some of you will never be the same.

But ask me if any of that matters to me and my answer will be that it fucking does not matter to me what happens to you. Not one god damned bit. Do you understand?

What matters to me is that you don’t act like a bunch of motherfucking, cocksucking, wet pussy wimps. That’s what matters to me.

Do you understand, maggots?”

Reflected in the beady, black eyes of the bears and giraffes and one white and pink bunny was the image of a six year old kid in a way-too-big-for-him Army uniform, perhaps belonging to a man 30 years older than him who never came home.

Organise

It was all wrong. The face didn’t look quite right. The proportions were somehow…off. And one of the arms seemed to be longer than the other, which didn’t make any sense. He’d been trying to arrange the parts for what seemed like hours, but still. It was all wrong somehow.

He couldn’t try much longer. His hands were sticky and slippery and the parts kept slipping through them. He had to get it right. He knew they were on his trail and would find the body soon enough.

Origin

“Good evening and welcome to another episode of Voices of Villians. Tonight, we’re very happy to have our guest, Fast Foe, join us in the studio. Welcome, Fast Foe.”

“Thanks for having me.”

“So, as our viewers probably know, you’ve been quite busy lately. What drives you to your acts of villianry?”

“You, know Chuck, I think it’s just sort of a passion. Like, you have to really like what you do. And, like they say, find something you love and you’ll never work a day in your life. I think I can say that’s true for me.”

“And for me, Fast Foe. And for me. Very true words. So, I have to ask a question that is definitely on my mind and I think on the minds of a lot of our listeners too.”

“Ok.”

“Why or how did you choose your specific targets? Why fast food chains like McDonalds or Dairy Queen? Is this some sort of health crusade? Which would be a little odd for a villian.”

“Haha. Yeah, I think that would be a little weird, Chuck. And that’s definitely not the case, not the reason. I think, like most villians, my main motivations all go back to my origin story. I think that’s true for a lot of us.”

“Interesting. And what, may I ask, is your origin story?”

“Glad you asked, Chuck. A lot of my fans seem to be confused.”

“Oh, so you have a strong fan base?”

“I do. I just hit 30 followers on Instagram.”

“Well, that’s not–“

“Like I was saying, and to answer your question, it all goes back to my origin story. You see, some years back, I was driving back home from a really long road trip. Like 8 hours straight, or something. And, boy, it was hot that day. Like 90 degrees. And I didn’t have AC in my car at the time. I do now, but anyway. I didn’t have AC then and it was hot and it had been a long drive, like 8 hours or something, and at this point all I really wanted, like what I was really craving, was a milkshake from a McDonalds.”

“Those can be quite refreshing.”

“They can! But, Chuck, and here’s the thing, I couldn’t get one.”

“There isn’t a McDonald’s in your town?”

“Oh no, there most certainly is, Chuck. But when I pulled up to the drive-thru window and tried to order, they told me their milkshake machine was down. Can you believe that? On a day like that? No milkshakes?!”

“That must have been disappointing.”

“That’s putting it mildly, Chuck. Putting it mildly. So it was then and there, sweating and unsatiated in my car, that I decided I would put an end to all of them. It was then that I decided to become Fast Foe.”

“Because you couldn’t get one milkshake?”

“Chuck. That’s not the point. It’s not about just one milkshake. Plus, I went to four other places that day. Four, Chuck! Four! And all of them, all of them, said their milkshake machines were down.”

“Still, it seems a little–“

“Chuck. Chuck. I’m not liking your tone, Chuck. This is my origin story. It’s mine. And I have my reasons for becoming Fast Foe. For becoming a Super VIllian.”

“I couldn’t help but notice–“

“Yes?”

“Well, I couldn’t help but notice that you added the word ‘Super’ in front of ‘Villian’ this time.”

“Well, that’s what I am, Chuck! That’s what I am. Fast Foe is a Super Villian. That’s what I am.”

“I think your ego may be a little Super-Sized there, Foe.”

“Chuck.”

“Yes?”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Look, I’m feeling like you don’t respect me. Like you don’t respect what I do. I think this interview is over, Chuck.”

“Oh come on now, Foe. Don’t leave. This is my first interview with a Super-Sized Super Villian.”

“That’s it! So help me god, Chuck. So help me god. You will never drink another milkshake from a fast food chain again. I’ll see to that!”

“I’m lactose intolerant.”

Costume

Sally was the first one to hear about the whole fiasco, and she definitely had strong opinions. Opinions that might have been too harsh considering that she’s worn the same costume every year since 1994. To say that it was played out would be an understandment, as far as her friends were concerned. Still, Sally was the first one to hear about the ordeal and to share her perhaps-too-strong-considering-the-circumstances opinion with Michelle.

Michelle was somewhat distracted when Sally was recounting the details of the outfit ordeal. This was probably at least two-fold, Michelle’s distraction.

1. As a general rule, based on decades of friendship with Sally, Michelle typically paid little-to-no attention to her friend and her various stories, rants, admonishments, complaints, and so on. These days, Michelle devoted just enough attention to know when it was expected of her, socially speaking, to acknowledge that Sally had made a point of some such magnitude. This acknowledgement, if in person, typically took the form of a slight nod, indicating agreement. If over the phone, an audible, but not forceful, “uh-hu.” If over text, well it could vary wildly from a thumbs up emoji, to a suprise reaction to the message itself, to a one word response.

2. The season finale of Survivor was on.

Still, Michelle absentmindedly listend while Sally told her all about just how horrible John’s costume was. How utterly insensitive. How surprisingly offensive. How jaw-dropping insane it was.

Since this conversation took place over the phone, Michelle made sure to emit small, but audible sounds that she thought Sally would interpret as active listening, which it wasn’t.

After the phone call with Sally ended and the season finale of Survivor concluded (Michelle was not happy with the results. Brian, really?!), Michelle found herself in a unique state that was unfamiliar to her these days considering how many social platforms she regularly kept up with. In short, Michelle experienced an all-too-uncommon feeling in the digital age. Michelle was bored.

So Michelle picked up the phone and called Carl, who she knew, based on the length of their friendship, the nature of their general conversations, and the knowledge of their shared interest, had also just finished watching the season finale of Survivor.

After a brief but empassioned rant about the results (they both agreed Brian was trash), Michelle switched gears to another mutually shared interest: gossip.

The details of the costume crises were a little hazy for Michelle, due to her aforementioned distracted nature, so she had to improvise here and there and fill in the details to the best of her abilities.

Carl couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Had John really showed up to the party in that costume. Had he really? The nerve. The gall. The total and complete lack of respect for all things considered decent in the realm of social decorum. I mean, had he really?

Carl hung up the phone and paced and paced, his cat watching him with a mix of confusion and concern. He just couldn’t believe what John had done. Could not believe it.

Carl took to Twitter and composed an epic 23-part rant. Rage-fueled and righteously indignant, the rant was. Carl couldn’t remember all of the details Michelle had relayed to him and the ones he did recount weren’t exactly accurate. This lack of recall and accuracy was two-fold:

1. As previously mentioned, Michelle herself could not remember everything that Sally had told her and so she filled in the missing bits the best she could. This mainly meant she imagined certain details and exaggerated others.

2. Carl’s rage was so red-with-tooth-and-claw, so blinding, and the adrenaline of composing such an inspired Twitter-take-down so high, he couldn’t be sure what he was typing, during the drafting itself and even when asked about it later.

Jane was the first to like each and every tweet in the 23-part exercise in costume condemnation. Richard was the first to retweet the entire thread. Howard was the first to comment with predicatble platitudes condemming the accused offender. Rachel followed suit by echoing Howard’s sentiments and upping the ante by posting numerous articles from such sources as Buzzfeed, Vice, Ranker, and the like, all of which took strong positions on various forms of costume faux-pas.

It took little time, in terms of real-world and social media conceptions of time, for the conversation to go viral.

People outside of the small group of friends started liking, retweeting, and commeting on the posts, the retweeted posts, the comment sections of the articles, replying to people who commented on their initial comments, and so on and so on and so on.

The ramifications of were wide-spread and beyond anything anybody had seen before or could have predicted in the first place. The New York Times published an op-ed on the subject. The Atlantic featured an insightful and well-thought article on the nature of costumes themselves. Numerous smaller websites and blogs shut down for a brief period due to the overwhelming traffic the content was generating.

Carl, being the original poster, was invited to be interviewed on various socially concious podcasts, YouTube channels run by influencers in the world of fashion, he even had a small write-up on Spirit Halloween’s website about the do’s and don’ts of costumes.

Eager to generate more content to drive more traffic and sell more ads, these and other media outlets eventually reached out to Michelle and Sally to get their side of the story, an invitation they happily accepted.

While the details of what exactly John wore on that ill-fated night were hazy at best and not exactly the focal point of the debate anymore, the general consensus was lazer-focused and firm.

Whatever it was he did, whatever it was he wore, and whatever the reason, it was wholly and without question, unacceptable. Condemnable. Reprehensible.

Decades later, while talking with some coworkers in the breakroom, John was asked what his costume was going to be for the company Halloween party.

“The last time I celebrated Halloween, I was 12 years old,” John said. “Haven’t worn a costume since.”

When asked why, John just shrugged his shoulders and walked away.

Sow

Pilot’s Log
12 March 2130
Days to Deployment: 5

Infinity is beautiful. If you’ve never seen it, it would be hard for me to describe the breathtaking wonder of an endless void. Some might find the solitude disquietning, but I have come to take comfort in the isolation.

It gives me time to think.

They told me this mission would be simple. Long and mentally and physically taxing, but simple in its directives: Locate Planet X1506-78, Locate fertile terrain, Deploy and Dust terrain with panspermia capsules.

Simple.

I know what’s riding on this mission, what’s at stake. I feel the weight of hopes millions and millions of lightyears away.

Physically and mentally taxing. But, for me, I have come to see this mission as morally taxing as well.

Do we deserve to perserve our species? What right do we have to disrupt the natural evolution of an alien planet? Is life sacred or profane?

I do not have the answers to these questions yet.

Pilot’s Log
13 March 2130
Days to Deployment: 4

I spoke with my wife today. It’s just a room now, I told her. It’s time, I told her. You need to do this, it’s healthy, I told her.

It’s easy for me to say that. I’m not the one who has to remove the crib, the toys, the pictures on the wall. I’m not the one that will have to paint over all of those animals and their bright smiles and frolicking feet.

It’s just a room now. Walls and a window and a floor and a ceiling. It’s just a room as sterile and inhuman and indifferent as the white-walled hospital room with its machines and their beeps and hums and numbers on screens signifying a decline.

It’s just a room now. Just like it was just a body in the end. A tiny 14-month old body. It wasn’t even a body. It was a host. It was a tiny 14-month old cancer host.

It’s just a room. It’s just a body. It’s just a host.

Pilot’s Log
14 March 2130
Days to Deployment: 3

Is it better to have never been born at all? Given the unpredicatble nature of life, given all of the possibilities for pain and pleasure, given the uncertainty of the ratio of pain to pleasure, given the question of the duration of the pain, of the pleasure, of the act of being alive itself, is it a gamble worth taking?

Thought experiment: I come to you with a proposition to join a game. If you choose not to play the game, you lose nothing. Everything stays the same.

However, if you choose to join the game, there is no gaurantee as to how long you will play the game, how much pain or pleasure will come your way, and, most importantly, you have very limited agency in this game, your will is imposed upon by outside forces and is therefore not free.

Would you play?

Pilot’s Log
16 March 2130
Days to Deployment: 1

Hope is a strange concept, a strange bedfellow, a savage lover. The concept itself has become a little absurd and irrational and naive to me. What good is it to invest in something that’s wholly beyond your control?

Why has an entire planet of people placed their hope on me, on this mission, on these panspermia capsules?

To continue the human race? But what good does that do for them? They’re dead anyway. Is there really any comfort or consolation in the notion that our species will live on this foreign planet?

And do we deserve to? After what we’ve done on and to ours? On and to our own species? On and to every other species that we claimed dominion over?

And what about these capsules? Do they even want to start the long and arduous process of evolution to become something so staggeringly inconsistent as us?

So loving and hateful and compassionate and indifferent and charitable and greedy and peaceful and murderous and on and on and on and on.

Do they even want to play the game?

Pilot’s Log
17th March 2130
Deployment Day

This will be my last entry. I have made a decision, a choice, a commitment. Or I feel that it has been imposed upon me, so maybe I am not to blame for the consequences.

For poserity, in case this recording is ever transmitted: I feel that the moral course of action here is to self-destruct.

This will be a beginning just as violent and firey and random as the beginning of all things.

There will still be a chance for some of the capsules to survive and fertilize the terrain.

Those that fight to live will have made their choice. They will play the game, for better or worse or whatever.

Who will survive and what will become of them?

Hall

Running through surroundings that feel familiar and not-familiar, similar and strange, at the same time, there’s a weight that isn’t normally here, palpable, beckoning, eternal even, no that’s absurd, not eternal, but heavy nonetheless, it is real though, this weight as I’m running, tripping, falling, miscalulations that lead to missteps and I have to grab the wall to steady myself, hands slipping on picture frames of smiling familes that have people I recognize but don’t know, smiles that are somehow frightening, toothy and threatening, the frames slippery so I can’t quite get my grip, but inertia and momentum and an ineffable and inescapable fear prevent me from falling flat on my face, which I know would be distastrous, I know it, that falling would be disasterous, because I feel it and I feel it like a fact, not like a passing emotion, not like this fear that follows, my hands are wet and the soles of my sock-covered feet are damp, there’s a moisture everywhere here that doesn’t exist in the hall that’s in my house, even though that’s the hall that I’m running down, or it is but it isn’t, an abstraction, a concept of a hall, perhaps Platonic in its ideal, the condensation, humidity, a primeordial wet from the oceans we all walked out of, once, the oceans where we all dwelled before we could walk, before we could run, to run to reach some place, to run as play, to run to run, but I’m running away, from what I don’t know, but it’s there, this thing, behind me, I can feel a hotness on my neck, predator’s breath, our relationship, our positions, me in front and it behind, forever in tow, it’s inextricable, entwined, a predestined eventuality, inescapable, something that only our species is aware of, blessing, curse, Granny Smith knowledge, to be conscious of being conscious, an awareness of being aware, the finitude of it all, in the end, not-being is the goal, terrible, unimaginable, conscious of being conscious of not being able to comprehend infinity, ours is a limited set existence with no imaginary numbers, this I know as I run, and I know, no matter what, I know, no matter how I run, I know, that eventually, one day, on a date and time and place, perhaps this one, I know, that no matter what, I know, that whatever I’m running from, I know, it will catch me, I know this because I feel it, and I feel it like a fact.

Pluck

I know. I know there are things such as razors and electric shavers. I know these are things and that they exist.

But this is more than a morning routine to get rid of an unsightly five-o-clock shadow.

This is a transformation.

If I have to pick each one of these little bastard black hairs from my arms and shoulders and stomach and legs, then I will.

I will pluck and I will hurt and at times I will bleed.

You wouldn’t want to know somebody that’s never been through an ounce of pain.

When I’m finished, everybody will want to know me.

Brackets

In an effort to allay public concern and in commitment to this office’s pledge of transparency, we are releasing the following document related to the recent event.

———————————————————————

OFFICE OF [REDACTED]

Sometime between the hours of 2am and 3am on [REDACTED]/[REDACTED]/[REDACTED] in the rural town of [REDACTED], Mrs. [REDACTED], who was awakened at these hours to “attend to biology” (her words), reportedly saw through her bathroom window a strange light maneuvering in unusual ways.

After Mrs. [REDACTED] finished “attending to biology” (she was unwilling to provide any specific details as to how long this particular activity took), she ran to the bedroom to wake Mr. [REDACTED] because she thought it was an event he might be interested in, due to the fact that Mr. [REDACTED] having, on previous occasions, shown great interest in these types of phenomenons.

Sometime between the hours of [REDACTED] Mrs. and Mr. [REDACTED] walked to the front porch of their house in rural [REDACTED] to get a better view of these lights that were behaving in an unusual and slightly suspicious manner.

According to [REDACTED] and [REDACTED] [REDACTED], they were only on their [REDACTED] porch for [REDACTED] minutes or what felt like [REDACTED] minutes (they could not be sure) before the lights in the sky that are behaving in an [REDACTED] and [REDACTED] manner appeared to increase in luminosity, leading [REDACTED] and [REDACTED] [REDACTED] to conclude that they, the lights, were moving closer.

Shortly after [REDACTED] and [REDACTED] [REDACTED] became suspicious that the [REDACTED] were moving closure, an event took place to confirm that suspicion.

One of the [REDACTED] lights in the sky ceased moving and began to pulse. A bright white hot beam emanated from the [REDACTED] forcing [REDACTED] [REDACTED] to shield her eyes.

Once [REDACTED] [REDACTED] opened her [REDACTED] she notice that [REDACTED] [REDACTED] was no longer with her on the [REDACTED] [REDACTED]. And the [REDACTED] that were behaving [REDACTED] and [REDACTED] were also [REDACTED].

[REDACTED] [REDACTED] ran back in to the [REDACTED] and called [REDACTED] to report the [REDACTED] of [REDACTED].

Local [REDACTED] interviewed [REDACTED] [REDACTED] about the [REDACTED] of [REDACTED] [REDACTED]. They [REDACTED] her that they would [REDACTED].

In [REDACTED] days the [REDACTED] of [REDACTED] [REDACTED] was found in [REDACTED]. It had been [REDACTED] beyond [REDACTED]. [REDACTED] were used to make an official [REDACTED].

After the [REDACTED] of [REDACTED], the [REDACTED] of [REDACTED] were [REDACTED] for [REDACTED]. Since the [REDACTED] of [REDACTED], the [REDACTED] of [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED].

———————————————————————-

We can confidently assure the citizens of this great country that this is everything we know.

You are safe.

Coup

Outside

It was a strange sight to see. Almost surreal. The day itself was fine, almost perfect. A balmy 62 degrees with the sun lazily inching towards the horizon, slower than usual it seemed, as if it too wanted to see how this would all play out.

The weird part of it all was where it was taking place and the particular participants involved. In fact, before the whole ordeal was over, there would be six accidents from motorists rubbernecking in disbelief.

SWAT vans in the parking lot and in the after school pick-up line. Snipers trying to awkwardly steady themselves on the monkey bars, preparing for the worst-case-scenario. Officers in full riot gear, semi-circled around the entrance. Higher ranking officials pacing nervously behind them.

“Are we really doing this?” Captain Davies asked. “I mean, are we seriously considering this?”

“I think we might have to,” Lt. McConnell said. “The rules of engagement might dictate it.”

“Breaching?”

“Breaching.”

“Into a fucking middle school cafeteria?”

“I think we might have to.”

———————————————————————

Inside

The atmosphere in the cafeteria was somewhat calm, considering the circumstances outside. Sure, visually it was a mess. Chili dogs had been the lunch special. And every last bit of what had been served, prepped, and still-frozen was splattered on the floors, walls, small bits stuck to small sections of the ceiling.

Mrs. Williams and Mrs. Jenkins sat on the floor leaning against the serving line, hands tied behind their backs with makeshift hairnet-handcuffs.

“What in the fuck are we going to do?” asked Jeff Linely, pacing frantically as if to demonstrate that he obviously wasn’t in charge of the situation. “What in the ever-loving fuck are we going to do?”

“Just let me think!” Sam Kinson said. “I just need to think.”

Lacy Mathis and Karl Sandler huddled under one of the cafeteria tables. Considerably younger than Jeff and Sam, they were confused as to just how exactly they found themselves in this position. It was only Tuesday. They were both missing drama club, though they were sure it had probably been canceled. All things considered.

“This was a stupid idea,” Jeff said. “Just stupid. How in the ever-loving-fuck did you talk me in to this, Sam? How?”

“Talk you—talk you in to it? It was your idea, fuckface. Diversity of choice. Inclusion. What about the poor peanut allergy kids, you said. What about poor gluten-intolerant Lacy, you said. Talk you into. Fuck off, Jeff. Just fuck right off.”

“I didn’t mean this! I was just trying to look out for those that can’t look out for themselves. Lacy won’t speak up! Somebody has to. But I didn’t mean this!”

Lacy poked her head out and yelled, “My mom packs my lunch!”

———————————————————————

Outside

At this point, the snipers were well into the third round of a fierce bracket-based competition of chicken on the monkey bars. The officers outfitted in riot gear were swiping left and right (mostly right) on Tinder. This included all of the single officers and a few of those in fully committed monogamous relationships too.

“We’re going to have to make a decision,” Captain Davies said. “We can’t just stand here and let this turn into some type of Waco-esque situation.”

“Seriously. Waco?” Lt. McConnell said, rubbing his eyes. “But I see your point, the drama of that statement notwithstanding.”

“So? What’s the call?”

“The ball’s in their court right now.”

“They’re in the cafeteria, sir. Not the gym.”

“Captain.”

“Yes?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

———————————————————————

It wouldn’t take days and nights and the use of psychological torture tactics to end the standoff. They would be no fire. There would be no eventual breach and no casualties on either side. There would be no investigation, no books written about the subject, no documentaries,and no limited series based on the event on any of the many streaming services.

In short, it would not turn into a Waco-esque situation.

It ended peacefully and in such an uneventful manner that is not even worth writing about.

Two things did come out of the whole ordeal though.

1. The school board agreed, quickly and unanimously, to expand the offerings in the cafeteria.

2. Jeff and Sam learned that the food in juvenile detention could use some improvement.