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Aug 17, 2022 08:42
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The Saddest Rhino posted:... In? It is a misdemeanor offence to sell a dyed duckling in Kentucky, unless part of a group comprising six or more
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Aug 17, 2022 09:19
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Vampirism is prohibited in the state of Louisiana
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Aug 17, 2022 09:20
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In Massachusetts it is illegal to make, sell or own an explosive golf ball.
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Aug 17, 2022 12:06
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in
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Aug 17, 2022 13:09
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it's an offence to possess 50kgs of potatoes in Western Australia.
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Aug 17, 2022 13:17
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In please!
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Aug 17, 2022 14:14
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In
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Aug 17, 2022 17:33
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In.
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Aug 17, 2022 18:03
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In
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Aug 17, 2022 20:18
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PhantomMuzzles posted:In please! in Victoria, corresponding with pirates is punishable by up to ten years imprisonment
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Aug 17, 2022 20:43
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if you challenge a man to a fist fight to the death in Norway, he must accept or pay a penalty of 4 deer.
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Aug 17, 2022 20:45
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in France it’s illegal to name your pig Napoleon.
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Aug 17, 2022 20:46
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any man carrying onions in Paris must be given right of way in the streets.
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Aug 17, 2022 20:53
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PhantomMuzzles posted:CRITS! I was originally gonna message you to thank you for the kind and thoughtful crit, but you don't have messages so I'm gonna spam the thread by telling you I appreciated it so much! And that goes to everyone else who read my garbage! I know my stuff is trite and unimaginative and bad, but I'm trying to improve and you've all been so helpful!
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Aug 17, 2022 21:12
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poo poo, I meant to say I was IN in the last post as well. But editing is illegal. 
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Aug 17, 2022 21:13
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Screaming Idiot posted:poo poo, I meant to say I was IN in the last post as well. But editing is illegal. In Norway editing photos without attaching a note is illegal
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Aug 17, 2022 23:18
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In.
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Aug 18, 2022 09:12
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In Texas it is illegal to sell your own eye
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Aug 18, 2022 09:25
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In.
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Aug 18, 2022 18:55
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in Hawaii coins may not be placed in ones ears
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Aug 18, 2022 21:03
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Let's close that off, but if you enter from now I'll give you the most brutal hellrule I can think of and nod at you in an approbatory manner
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Aug 20, 2022 10:28
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This is a challenge to be completely clear. Act as you see fit.
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Aug 20, 2022 11:44
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sebmojo posted:Let's close that off, but if you enter from now I'll give you the most brutal hellrule I can think of and nod at you in an approbatory manner
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Aug 20, 2022 12:25
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Ohio police may bite a dog if they want to.  none of your characters can comprehend that they exist 
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Aug 20, 2022 12:41
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What day is the deadline?
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Aug 20, 2022 18:54
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Kuiperdolin posted:What day is the deadline? Deadline is Sunday 8/21, 11:59 PM PST. 
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Aug 20, 2022 20:45
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In Norway editing photos without attaching a note is illegal Paper Trail 1200 words max, 1185 words used I miss my brother Erik, so it hurt to learn I was an only child. Our hometown of Reine is small and remote, but my family was always quite well-off; my father had a talent for investment and unaccountably good fortune when it came to canceling debt. “Anders, the trick to making money,” my father often told me, “is to never spend it. Use other people’s resources. Never use yours unless you don’t have a choice.” My father’s a shrewd man despite his age; his memory is perfect, able to recall to the last word anything said in his presence. Every December 26th, when our extended family gathered to eat the leftovers from the more private Christmas celebration the day prior, my father would often stand and recite A Christmas Carol in its entirety. More impressive was his artistic skill; give him pen and paper, and within hours he could draw anything from memory with photographic fidelity. His prowess didn’t end there; long ago, the editing of photographs was done manually with airbrush and ink, or through clever darkroom tricks. Despite our wealth, father often had a side business of restoring old documents and photos, and he would sit quietly for hours and hours at his work, enjoyment clear on his aged features. He used to teach Erik his trade; I remember the pride in his voice when Erik had done an especially good job on a photo. Now father uses a computer for his work, and when asked about Erik, he always answers with annoyance and confusion, “Anders, you’re my only son.” When I showed him the framed works made by Erik, he just sighed and claimed they were his. Mother had been gone for a long time. One night she’d left to spend time with her friends, and that was the last I’d heard of her. Father had taken her disappearance with stride; he claimed they’d drifted too far apart, and if she wished to make her own way then it was her choice and he wouldn’t force her to stay. When I’d asked why she never tried to reach out to me, father had an explanation for that too. “Some women,” father had said after a long and weary sigh, “are just made different. When they leave they’re essentially erased from the picture.” I stopped asking about my mother and brother after that; it was clear I would be given no satisfying end, and so I did my own research. I scoured the library’s genealogical archives and the internet. Days of digging and searching, every lead turned into a dead end. I looked up aunts, uncles, cousins – every name had come up blank. I thought back to those perfect Christmases where family would come and feast, but the details had become indistinct. Faces blurred, events were vague, even the names which had been so clear became smoke in the wind. No longer could I tolerate the confusion. If my brother were here, he would have thrown open the door to father’s office, marched inside, and demanded to know just what the hell was going on. As I stood there at the office door, I was acutely aware of how I lacked my brother’s strength. I timidly knocked at my father’s door like a child going to be scolded. After several moments, my father called me inside. Strewn across the desk were photos and documents in peculiarly disorganized piles. Father himself looked as though he hadn’t slept in days. Deep bags under dull eyes, features pale and wan, but his voice was commanding as ever. “Anders,” he said. “I know why you’ve come. I presume you have questions?” “Father, so many things don’t make sense,” I said. “I went to the library earlier. Our family has lived here for generations, yes?” “As you have been told,” father said, tired eyes boring into mine. “There was nothing there about us. Genealogical records for some of the families in town stretching back decades, but nothing for us.” Father said nothing. “I went online and looked. Nothing there, either.” He continued to watch me impassively. “I looked up your name. Emil Hansen. I got many results, but your name is a common one, and I didn’t find anything about you, specifically.” “Is there a point?” “My brother, my mother, our family – I can’t find any of them!” I blinked as as tears filled my eyes and I leaned over the desk to plea. “Am I losing my mind?!” His expression softened, and the tired annoyance in his tone had shifted to pity. “Sit down, son.” I did, grateful for the chance as my legs could scarcely support my weight. He cleared his throat and leaned over the desk to look me in the eye, unblinking. “There was once a man who had nothing but his hands, his eyes, and his thoughts. He was a clever, skilled, gifted. But he was greedy as well.” I stared, uncomprehending. “What are you talking about?” “Let me finish my story, son,” he said. He cleared his throat. “When honest work failed to give the man the riches and comfort he sought, the man used his talents to tip things in his favor. He re-wrote contracts, he altered evidence, he learned to twist letters and images in ways to fool men and god alike-” “Father, I don’t want to hear a fairy tale,” I said, anger sparking up hot and white at the base of my skull. “I want you to tell me what’s happening!” He sighed, then he took a piece of paper and a pen, and in an elegant, flowing hand he wrote something, but before I could read it he snatched it away and set it inside a folio. I wanted to ask what he was doing, but I could tell he had more he wanted to say, and so I decided to let him say his piece. “But in time, all debts become due. You may defer them, trade and alter them, but eventually you must pay them. And so the man paid his debts until all he had left was his youngest son.” He picked up a framed photo of him and I at Rondane National Park and looked at it sadly before pulling the back off of it and removing the picture. “What are you doing?” I asked. “The old man had one last debt to pay,” father said as he picked up his latest work. It was nearly identical to the one he’d set aside, but instead of depicting a smiling man and his young son, it showed only the man, stone-faced and alone. Father set it in the frame. “A man must choose between himself and those he cares about.” He lit a match and set the picture of the man and his child aflame, and I fell back in my seat, shuddering, numb, my ears filled with a growing roar. “I’ve broken too many laws. A payment must be made if I am to live. I’ve made the edits, written the accompanying notes; I pray this will be enough. Forgive me, son.”
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Aug 21, 2022 11:03
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It is illegal to hold a fish in a suspicious manner in the UK. Space Mechanic Dennis 640 words Dennis Wilkinson stared deep into the trout’s eye, looking, perhaps, for the answer to his troubles. What he saw reflected there was a mammoth from outer space. The mammoth tapped Dennis on his shoulder with her trunk. “That’s illegal,” she said. The hinges of Dennis’s fishing chair squeaked as he turned to look over his shoulder at the hirsute beast behind him. He squinted in the watery midwinter sun. Dennis should have been at his job at Geoff’s Autos. His alarm had gone off at 7.00 that morning as it had done every weekday for the last thirty years, and Dennis had dressed in his shirt, tie and blue coveralls, and walked down to the end of his street. Then, with a heavy feeling that felt a lot like giving up, Dennis had turned left instead of right. To the river instead of the train station. They were going to fire him anyway. He was too old. Couldn’t keep up. Dennis was sure of it. “No it’s not,” Dennis said to the mammoth. “You’re thinking of the Salmon Act. This is a trout.” The mammoth shook its head. “Section 32(1A)(a). Applies to trout, too.” Dennis sighed, leant forward, and let the trout slip from his hands back into the silty water. The mammoth tilted its head and regarded Dennis sadly. “You could have just held it in a less suspicious manner.” “It was probably too small anway,” said Dennis. “Nothing I do is any good anymore. Can’t even catch a decent fish for my tea.” The mammoth let out a snort. The dusky brown cape that lay draped over her back quivered, then unfurled into a huge pair of moth wings. The mammoth gave them an agitated flap, creating enough wind to lift Dennis’s thinning hair from his scalp. “You shouldn’t talk about yourself that way,” she said. “Can’t, can’t, can’t. That’s all everyone at home ever told me. That’s why I stole this spaceship and ran away.” “I’m pretty sure that’s illegal,” said Dennis. “But if you’re running away I wouldn’t stop here. People round here don’t appreciate each other. Thirty years of service…” The mammoth raised her woolly eyebrows. Dennis scrubbed one grease-stained palm over his face. “You don’t want to hear about my problems,” he said. The mammoth made a hmmm noise deep in her trunk. “Well,” she said. “How about a problem of mine?” The mammoth nodded over her shoulder at the spaceship parked in the middle of the field. “Where I can find a good mechanic?” Dennis’s eyes went wide. He stood up, hands instinctively feeling inside his coverall pockets for his tools. The ship was beautiful. Long and sleek, she gleamed in iridescent green and pink. His legs felt shaky as Dennis climbed the stile. He heard the fence squeak as the mammoth stepped over it behind him. He stared into the dark eye of the ship’s windscreen. The mammoth’s reflection stared back at him, her wings fluttering. Dennis hesitated. He could see Geoff’s sneer in his mind’s eye. The younger mechanics all turning a blind eye when Dennis coped another earful for working too slowly. A spaceship was beyond him. Impossible. The mammoth ran her trunk over the ship’s nose. “She’s vintage,” she said. “An oldie but a goodie.” Dennis’s hands clenched into fists inside his pockets. Sometimes you have to turn left instead of right, he thought. “I could… take a look? If you like?” The mammoth trumpeted her agreement. “Welcome aboard!” she said. She held out her trunk, expectant. Aboard? Dennis thought. His heart was racing, but his hand was already rising to meet the trunk. “I haven’t asked you name?” he said. “Hilda,” said Hilda. “Space Captain Hilda.” Dennis grinned. “Pleased to meet you, Hilda,” he said. “Name’s Dennis. Space Mechanic Dennis.”
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Aug 21, 2022 11:39
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any man carrying onions in Paris must be given right of way in the streets A nice trip to Paris 649 words “Yeah, for some reason, Paris has a law saying that you have to give right away to any man carrying onions!” My friend Brad was telling me as we walked towards the Paris Catacombs. “That’s a stupid law, why only onions? Why not any other vegetables? What makes them so special?” I replied. Brad just shrugged and we continued our walk. It was a sunny, crisp, autumn day and we were enjoying a long vacation courtesy of part of the inheritance that Brad’s grandfather had left him. It was kinda weird that one of the few stipulations in the will was that Brad had to visit the Paris catacombs on a specific day of the year to get the rest of the money, but his grandfather was always a little odd and there was more than enough money to jump through this small hoop. The peaceful walk was interrupted by a shout from behind us. A man with a bag of onions in his hands was running like the devil himself was chasing him. He was heading right for us, shouting. The people in front of him weren’t just giving him right of way, they were jumping and falling out of this man’s way! I was spellbound by the sight of it almost to the point of the man running into Brad and I. I didn’t leap out of the way like everyone else, but I did move to the side. Brad moved to step out of the man’s way, then, at the second, Brad stuck out his foot and tripped the man, spilling the onions everywhere! “Mes oignons!” The man cried as he desperately tried to gather the onions back into the bag. Brad started to kick the onions away from the panicked man. “What the gently caress, Brad?” I shouted. “This is how I get the rest of my inheritance." Brad replied coldly. "It wasn’t actually the trip to the Paris catacombs that would get me the money, it was ruining a man running with a bag of onions to the catacombs on this particular day.” He continued kicking onions away from the panicked man, “I’ll be insanely rich by the end of the day. I might have to do a couple years in a French prison, but then I won’t ever have to work again.” I was stunned for a moment before I gathered myself and started to help the man collect his onions. Then Brad punched me in the nose, felt like he broke it, knocking me down. “DON’T HELP!” He yelled, “Do you know how much money I’ll get? 100s of millions! You aren’t loving stopping ME!” Brad went back to kicking onions as the people around us started to come out of their shock and head toward us. “gently caress you, Brad!” I screamed as I jumped up and tackled Brad to the ground. We wrestled for a moment before a piercing laugh stopped us, and everyone around us, except for the panicked man who was screaming "non" louder and louder. “I am now free!” The voice laughed. I looked up and noticed the sky getting darker and darker and a piercing wail getting louder and louder. I looked at Brad and saw blood streaming from all the openings on his face. I started screaming and didn’t stop. In a secret location in England: “Sir, Sir! Message for you!” cried the messenger, handing a note across to an older lady. She read the note quickly, muttered gently caress underneath her breath, and then pulled out her phone to make a call. “General, We lost Paris. Yes, we’re sending in priests to contain it again. I don’t yet know how to spin this one, I’ll come up with something though.” She pressed the end call button and lit up a cigarette. “Those stupid laws are there for a goddamn reason.” she said to no one in particular.
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Aug 21, 2022 14:52
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AN IRONIC TALE "In Texas it is illegal to sell your own eye " 771 words A one-purple-eyed Chicagoan parked his Audi in one of several empty places, adjusted the eyepatch over his empty orbit and walked through swinging doors into the saloon. It was mostly empty. Two roughnecks were playing billiard, Johnny Cash blared on tired speakers, a repulsive drunk argued with the barkeep for one more bowl of peanuts. At the other end of the bar, one ageless Black man in very clean cowboy garb stared at nothing with great interest. And one man sat alone with his beer by the window, wearing a duster and a hat inside, combing his horseshoe mustache with gnarly fingers. The chair opposite him had been slightly pulled away from the table. “Howdy partner.” The guy laughed at his own joke and sat. “Quite the place.” “It’s discrete.” “Makes sense. I read online it’s illegal to sell your own eye in Texas.” “Good thing for me it’s not my own eye.” The Texan looked at him with two hard grey irises. “Right, but you must have bought it from someone? I get it, I get it, no questions. Still, that law must make things difficult for you.” The stranger fidgeted with his eyepatch. “Texas is a conservative place. We like our laws as they are.” “That’s what I don’t get. The people who wrote these laws, to them we basically live in a world of science-fiction. And yet we’re prisoners of their decisions.” “Demosthenes said that in Locris, any man who proposed a new law had to wear a noose around his neck before the assembly of the people; and if the law failed to pass, he was hanged for trying to introduce a bad law.” The stranger granted him a brand new ceramic smile. “Well I did not expect someone to quote Demosthenes at me in this place.” He leant forward. “Can I see it?” The Texan produced a small metal box from an inner pocket of his duster. When the Yank reached for it he tightened his fingers. “I’d like to see the money first.” “Of course.” The one-purple-eyed man was almost breathless now. He pushed an envelope toward the Texan, who opened it and counted the bills without much care for who was watching. The drunk and the barkeep had finally gone silent. Johnny Cash hadn’t. Water condensed on the sides of the beer glass and the metal box. The Texan shoved the envelope inside his duster. “Aight. It’s yours.” The Chicagoan snatched the box and opened it hurriedly. An eye rested on ice, with a bit of optical nerve attached, one single purple eye, of the exact same hue as his own. “How did you? No question, I know.” “It’s as fresh as it comes, but I don’t need to tell you it needs to be attached within 24 hours. Earlier ideally, for better results.” “Of course. I have an appointment at an Austin clinic later today.” He looked one last time at his purchase, closed the metal box and put it in his shirt pocket. “You want something to drink?” the barkeep asked, suddenly at his side. “Thank you, no. I have medical procedure later today.” The man shuffled away indifferently. “Well, to Texas,” the Chicagoan added, raising an imaginary glass. “Where it’s still the Wild West, and it’s already the future.” The man in the hat and duster nodded. Then the two roughnecks grabbed the one-purple-eyed man by his arms, pinned him down against the table, silent at least with surprise. Somewhere the repulsive drunk was laughing. The Black cowboy took his head carefully but firmly in his hands and pried his eyelids open. All he could see, blurry from being so close, was the mustached face of the seller and a huge Bowie knife. When it went in the Yankee screamed and jerked. Yet the Texan butchered his eye out with a sure, precise hand, and deposed it delicately on ice, in a small metal box he immediately put in the time machine the barkeep had brought to the table. The box disappeared and he picked it up half an hour earlier. By now the roughnecks had let go of the blinded man, who slumped on the table bawling in pain and horror. You don’t need eyes to weep, but it’s a strange thing to weep without them. You can tell that’s not how it’s supposed to work. However nobody present really appreciated the weirdness of the situation. “It’s illegal to sell your own eye in Texas,” the man in the hat and duster said by way of conclusion. “Good thing for you it’s not forbidden to buy it.”
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Aug 21, 2022 18:32
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The Catawaha Days Frog Jumpin' Jubilee Surprise archive MockingQuantum fucked around with this message at 21:58 on Dec 10, 2022 |
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Aug 21, 2022 20:39
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Week 524 Entry You Wouldn’t Steal a Car In Victoria, corresponding with pirates is punishable by up to ten years imprisonment. 942 Words Jeremy had 418 subscribers to his skateboarding YouTube channel and was pumped as hell to get two more. At 10:00 he posted to Insta saying “hopin to hit the big fo twinny tomorrow! Working all night on a fresh vid. Passin the time by watchin the new FFX movie. Aint in theaters yet so i just downloaded it #FastX #FastAndTheFuriousTen #FastTENyourSeatbelts” He clicked past the warnings from the sketchy website. The video quality was trash, but Vin Diesel and Jason Momoa gave him all the energy he needed. His eyes turned to gravel as he worked all night, editing his sweetass kickflip montage. He finally posted it just before 2am and promptly passed out. Jeremy woke up at 8:20, hella stoked. He reached over and yanked his phone from the charger. The gently caress…. There were no icons at the top of his screen. No push notifications at all. Nothing from YouTube, messages, socials. He opened up his texts to most recent. Last night Taylor had messaged him, “sup brah when the new video hit?!?”. Jeremy had messaged back “just launched and this poo poo is 🔥🔥🔥lmk asap wut u think”. All night, and no response. poo poo what if I didn’t make the video live? Jeremy panicked as he mashed his laptop power. He had a whole celebration planned that afternoon for getting those last two subscribers and he’d feel like a dumbass if he didn’t hit it. He pulled up YouTube and ZERO. SUBSCRIBERS. It didn’t make any sense. He wasn’t logged in an alt. Nothing had been flagged for content. He lost every single subscriber overnight. Desperate, he turned to the Gram for some sort of explanation. He checked his post from the night before. Zero likes. Zero comments. He checked his profile. Zero followers. What the actual gently caress?!? Jeremy pulled up messages again. “Taylor! wtf is happening, man?!” He watched as the little checkmark in the corner changed to Taylor’s profile pic. He waited. No dots. “Taylor what the gently caress man are you seriously leaving me on read?!?” The little checkmark again morphed into Taylor’s face, but no dots appeared. One after another Jeremy spammed all his friends and it was all the same. Left on read. No reply. No reactions. He posted to all his socials, begging for any kind of answer. He checked his friends’ feeds. Ashton posted around 7:30am: “sux 2 lose a friend but 10 years is a long frickin time #NotWorthTheRisk”. Is that about me? Around the same time, Jace wrote “U were the Vin Diesel to my Momoa, but ya shoulda known better #TalkLikeAPirate” What the actual gently caress is happening?! Jeremy took a deep breath and considered his mantra. What would Dominic Toretto do? Instantly he could hear the answer in Vin Diesel’s gravelly voice. Family! Family is everything. Jeremy grabbed his keys and phone and ran out the door. His neighbor with the dorky hat didn’t wave back to him. No one made eye contact with him as he walked down the sidewalk. No one sat by him at the bus stop. When he boarded the bus and took his seat, everyone around him moved. He rode in silence, choking back tears. He finally made it to his mom’s little house by the beach. He ran up to the door, desperate for her love and advice. He rang the doorbell and knocked and knocked. Finally the frilly curtain on the door window parted. His mom’s eyes were red and puffy. He called through the door, “Hey Ma, sorry to drop by with no warning but I really gotta talk to you.” She didn’t respond. She looked so serious. She didn’t move to unlock the door. “Ma, what’s going on? You’re not gonna let me in?!”. His mom held one hand up to the window, tears welling up in her eyes. She shook her head. She glanced up and down the street before mouthing the words “I love you Jeremy. Goodbye.” Then she closed the curtains and Jeremy could hear her muffled sobs through the door. He stumbled down to the shoreline. He sat in the sand and cried, his whole body convulsing. He was completely alone, adrift. He checked his phone but of course there weren’t any messages, updates, or alerts of any kind. He knelt down, and pounded his fists in the sand until his knuckles bled. Suddenly the beach trembled as a massive ship came ashore. The chunky wood part was painted red, just like Toretto’s Mazda RX-7 in the very first race against Brian in The Fast and the Furious. It had several sticky uppy bits that had big black sails, all branded with a skull and crossbones. It had cannons poking out the side and rowdy pirates singing and laughing on board. A rope ladder came down and a bunch of Johnny Depp looking motherfuckers climbed down and ran toward him, waving their curvy swords. “Do ye be Jeremy, lad?” The smelliest pirate demanded. Jeremy wiped the snot from his nose and nodded, cherishing the sound of someone speaking to him. “Well sounds like yer one of us now. Arrr ye ready to join us and sail the seas?” Jeremy stood. The smelly pirate held out a curvy sword to him. He glanced at his phone. Still nothing. He looked to the smelly pirate and smiled. He stepped toward the shore and threw his phone as hard as he could into the water. Taking the curvy sword, Jeremy said “I’m ready to live my life a quarter league at a time.”
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Aug 21, 2022 20:55
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Reboot Systems 1200/1200 Words An observer becomes aware. A variety of grays form a crude picture. Blend of sound quickly turns to white noise. Scents and smells and odors are blended into a cocktail where every nuance hits a perfectly edifying note. One jumps out: the wondrous fragrance of meat sauce spiced with cinnamon, nutmeg, allspice, infused with partially melted cheese. It was spilled not far away, and the paws set themselves into nose-guided motion. A moist tongue finds the dollop of spilled sauce and obliterates it. Pleasure radiates through the body, but quickly recedes; was this everything? No! screams the nose: more was spilled in a line which is immediately pursued. Lock is activated. Trail to Key is being followed. Reboot sequence underway as planned. The line originates at an edifice with a wooden extension. High on the structure, lit-up tubes form shapes that look like this: D I N E R. They mean nothing to the creature sniffing for more of its favorite spice blend. The observer riding it, however, understands the word. In a similar manner, it comprehends the dialogue between two beings on the patio. “Best part about being a cop? Probably the respect.” “You deserve it, Tony.” Understanding proliferates. A man in uniform is consuming a significant mound of grilled meat. Opposite him, a woman in a cheap dress has finished half of a hot dog topped with the spiced chili sauce this canine body loves so much. Initial simulation showed 76% chance of success for next step. Parameters were tweaked to include special attachment to dogs rooted into female figure’s childhood. Success chance should exceed 90% now. The observer’s host body jumps up the bench, landing next to the woman. A begging routine that has proven successful in the past is activated. The police officer jerks back, reflexively reaching for his firearm. “Jesus! Where did this mutt come from?” “Oh, Tony, relax. Just a poor stray. Good boy!” Canine body receives physical attention it revels in. Officer Tony grunts. “Can’t be nice to every stray, Maddy. Eventually they’ll all come begging for scraps.” Threat of violence was not included in danger matrix. Success was endangered beyond projections. Can parameters be adjusted on short notice? … Violence too entrenched in police culture. Would have to redo decades, impossible at this point. Was considered a necessity for the final step of the reboot sequence; maybe overdone. Maddy has started to feed scraps of heavily flavored sausage to the dog, provoking sheer ecstasy. The observer begins to get swept up in the emotions of its host, but an overwhelming urge to stay passive manages to snap it back to attention. “I just want to be nice to this one.” Maddy pouts. “Maddy, you’re so pure and I really like that about you, but that’s not how the world works. You gotta be tough or they’ll never learn how to take care of themselves.” “But it’s a dog?” Said dog has finished every bit of Maddy’s leftovers and is wagging its tail, content for now. Some strange tension is rising in the observer as it watches Tony draw a deep breath and put on a serious expression. The male figure has been denied any form of power in childhood. This socialization combined with the police system that was set up to receive him should be enough to guide his next actions towards the projected path. Genetics have been kept deliberately simple for generations to allow the simulation to calculate with less variables. “Maddy, there are a few things you need to understand if you want this to continue. And you want that, don’t you?” Her face affects a smile and her head performs a coy nod, but the trembling hand on the dog’s back betray her sudden nervousness. From this point, her presence in the interaction should remain minimal. The social system established over the last few centuries has heavily overemphasized the wishes of males over females, making the latter on average submissive as a survival strategy. Of course, on a whole society is much more complex and a gradual erosion of the initially set up gender roles has been observed; however, rather strict adherence in this key part of the world has successfully been held up. “Alright, so here’s how I see it. People in this country are too used to getting free poo poo, like this dog is. That’s why we see crime on the rise, because if they can’t get more free stuff, they’ll take it. With me so far?” Maddy nods, but her smile has faded. “And that’s when I have to step up and protect people’s property. So frankly, it pisses me off when someone decides to go all handout culture on me - it just makes my job harder. Do you want to make my job harder?” “No, of course not.” “Cool. Because it’s a darned hard job already. So let me rephrase my previous answer a little. Best part of the job? It’s that you can make people respect you. Hold the mutt down for a bit, will ya?” Tony gets up. Maddy doesn’t actually restrain the dog, but she does stop her stroking, resting a gentle hand on its back. The observer feels a low growl reverberate through the body and is tempted to join in. Lock is formulating an opinion! It is of course programmed on top of a basic sentience matrix, but should it become aware of its own existence, that would majorly impede its fundamental functions! How could the simulation not have accounted for this? Can the sequence be sped up? Is the Key at least still unaware? … It is. Its host body is perfectly configured as a vessel comprised only of instinctual stimuli. How is the dog more complex? “I pride myself in knowing the ins and outs of the law, Maddy; the limitations of the power the badge conveys. It’s a hard-earned privilege after all. Like carrying a gun, the whole stop and search thing, but also some older stuff, real obscure crap.” Written into legislative scripture as part of the reboot sequence, of course. “What I’m about to do is perfectly legal. It’s what deterrence and prevention means.” “The dog didn’t do anything. Please, Tony, don’t hurt it.” “Freeloaders are destroying this country. I’m gonna teach this one an important lesson.” Tony opens a mouth radiating onion and mustard smells. His teeth loom closer. He is about to bite the dog, which is legal in Ohio. And the dog is frozen in fear. Yes! The Key’s host will physically interact with the Lock’s, and the reboot will finally happen! You will not hurt this creature! No! The observer becomes active for the first time, and sends a jolt of action into the dog. It startles back. Tony’s teeth miss it. Setting up this precise chain of actions to happen at this key moment in time took centuries. Figures in the simulation becoming self-aware and threatening to discover what existence actually entails was the whole root of this problem, and now the Lock has done the same and ruined everything. What a disaster. The dog-Lock bites the cop-Key. Everything freezes, then begins to unfold. Oh. That works, too. _______________________ Ohio police may bite a dog if they want to none of your characters can comprehend that they exist
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Aug 21, 2022 21:55
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A Chimp Called Coconut; or, Brutal (but specifically the way that Josh Brolin says it in the movie Dune) 1200 words Did we all know it was a bad idea? I mean, we had to, right? I certainly did. I can’t imagine anyone was under the impression that adopting a baby chimpanzee in the wake of a tragic car crash that took the life of your wife and son and having him brought to a remote Norwegian island research base was “normal” or “reasonable”… but who could say anything? Dr. Nilsen was both deeply grieving and our boss. Certainly, I was silent with my concerns, numerous though they were. Truthfully, though, it wasn’t bad at first. Coconut was inquisitive and playful. He loved being around us at work. He was fun to watch! And he was sharp, you know? He picked up a rudimentary sign language. We could ask him for this tool or that and he’d sign, ‘okay,’ and grab it. Some of the staff got together and even sewed him a cute little lab coat. We voted him Employee of the Month six times, we did, and the last four were unanimous. He was like our little mascot. And then he killed Anders. I read Katja’s initial report. Anders asked for a scalpel, Coconut handed it over, Anders cut his palm reaching for it, Anders cursed loudly, Coconut was startled, Coconut smashed Anders’ skull into the table until it fractured, Coconut began eating Anders, Coconut was swallowing Anders’ nose and lips when finally coaxed away by Dr. Nilsen. Anders’ precise time of death was listed as unknown. Katja, a brilliant, but most importantly, petite researcher, hid herself in one of the cabinets and witnessed the savagery through a crack in the door. She believed Anders was still alive when Dr. Nilsen arrived. She wrote that Anders was “reaching towards me.” It took the Polti almost a week to arrive on our island. By then, the lab had been scrubbed clean and Katja had been shipped off. I discovered her by accident, wracked as I was by insomniatic stress, bringing her things to the port. She refused to talk to me at any length, quoting an NDA, but did reveal that she had been promoted. That Nilsen would be funding her own lab. I wish I could say I was outraged but I was mostly envious. Funding was difficult to find in those days and she was only a post-doc and, ultimately, Anders was already dead. And I assumed there would be justice. The Polti were gone before dinner. They spoke to Nilsen and no one else. He convinced them that this was a tragic, yet avoidable, misunderstanding. He pointed to Coconut’s six-time Employee of the Month status as proof of the primate’s inherent goodness. He showed that Anders himself had voted for Coconut to win all six times. He brought up an ancient law -- that if challenged to a fistfight to the death, one must accept or provide the loser with four deer. He provided two false documents: one, a toxicology report stating Anders had been drunk and the other, a collegiate certificate of boxing skill. All the while, Coconut charmingly served them coffee or tea, their preference, while wearing a tiny server’s cap and tie. Later, I tried to look up Katja’s report. It had been deleted from the system. The Polti wrote up that Anders, drunk on akvavit and hungry for real meat, had challenged the chimpanzee to a fistfight in hopes of goading the animal into hunting for him. He had been killed for his efforts. It was, technically, self-defense. There would be no charges. My God, you would think such a thing would have been sensational in the news! But this was back when America voted in that despotic Russian shill who never shut up and so Coconut’s rampage was barely a blimp. To my knowledge, it’s now just a minor trivia thing. A “fun” Reddit T.I.L. A footnote on the Wikipedia page for “The Murder of Dr. Hank Nestor.” Hank was our Black American. A real cowboy type from Texas. We lovingly called him “Yeehaw.” Brilliant, brilliant researcher but no-nonsense. When the Polti report came out, Hank was the one that got us all together to confront Dr. Nilsen. We knew, after all, that none of it was true: the drinking, the boxing, not a word! And we had woken up to the fact that Coconut was a dangerous animal and didn’t belong at a small research base and that we were all, effectively, trapped there together. That it was whim alone stopping us from becoming victims ourselves. Coconut sat in Nilsen’s lap, arms wrapped around the man’s neck. He was wearing a shirt that had belonged to Nilsen’s dead son. As a collective, we attempted to, calmly, lay out our concerns. They were waved away. We tried to, gently, demand that Coconut be relocated, if not for our safety than for his own betterment. This, too, was brushed aside. And the longer this conversation dragged along, the less patient we became and the less patient we became, the louder we got and the louder we got, the more visibly distressed grew Coconut until Kristian, another post-doc, stood up and pointed an accusatory finger at Nilsen. He was mid-yell when Coconut launched himself teeth-first and took off the finger. I was more grateful for Hank then, I tell you, than anyone else at any other time in my life. The man had secretly concocted a homemade pepper-spray with chemicals from the lab. He shot a direct stream right into the primate’s eyes. It was chaos there for a while, you know? Tight room. Homemade pepper-spray. Enraged chimpanzee. Everyone was coughing and crying and screaming. Coconut ripped off the room’s ventilation grating and disappeared down the shaft. It was a… rough few days after that. We could hear Coconut in the walls and in the ceiling. Everyone swore, at least once, that they caught a glimpse of his yellow eyes peering at them from a doorway or around a corner. Eventually, we baited him into the freezer with a few open containers of his favorite food. Hank, our cowboy hero, rushed into the kitchen and slammed the door. While we waited for Coconut to die, armed as we were with knives and jagged pieces of metal, I asked Hank if he was worried legally something would happen to him. And I’ll never forget the response because Hank was a no-nonsense kind of man. He said, “What would the police do? Charge me with man-slaughter?” We were all very stressed, as you may imagine. And that little pun was just… shockingly funny. We laughed so hard that we cried! And we were all laughing and wiping our eyes when Nilsen, I suppose, snapped. It was undoubtedly a lot for him, you know? His replacement child freezing in front of him. He stabbed Hank in the neck. Hank died. Nilsen offered to bribe us for our cooperation. We voted 4-3 not to accept. He only spent two years in prison because his dead wife’s cousin was married to a government minister. I regret my vote. It made no difference and funding is terribly difficult to come by.
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Aug 22, 2022 02:45
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"In Missouri no-one may wrestle a bear" Dashing in with Jim Harley Episode 43: The Missouri Bear Incident 567 words I'm Tom Conrad, and welcome back to Dashing in with Jim Harley. Today, the Dashing One will talk about a time when a man wrestling a bear in Missouri in a show he went to went horribly wrong. Jim, this sounds far too wild to be believed! What the hell happened then? Well Tom, first of all, promoters in the territories were trying crazy stuff like this all the time. For example, there was that promoted fight between Antonio Inoki and the boxer Muhammad Ali. Well, a few territories had a guy wrestle a bear, so the Missouri territory owner, Paul Bovine went and said, “By God, we’ll do that, as well!” Now, this Bear was actually tame, right? Nope! I learned later on that they just went to the nearest forest, captured the biggest bear they could find, and took it over to St. Louis! drat. That sounds incredibly dangerous! It was! But afterwards I heard that they advertised the Bear without getting, well, an actual loving Bear. So to say they were pinched for time would be quite the understatement! Anyway, The Bear was scheduled to wrestle a local guy named Bus McGree. Big meaty fella. Real hoss of a man. After he came out, a cage was rolled into the arena, and when the cage was opened, the Bear came charging at McGree! Wow! How did McGree handle the situation? Pretty loving poorly! Remember when I said that McGree was a big meaty fella? Well, that Bear had a nice meal, I’ll tell you what! Holy poo poo…so how bad was it? He literally ripped McGree to loving shreads! The audience was obviously scared out of their loving minds, so they got out of there! I looked at the ring while I was leaving, so I was able to see the Bear get put down. Ever since then, they outlawed folks wrestling bears in Missouri. I’ll bet! It loving killed a man! Actually, it wasn’t because of that! Back then, folks were expecting these larger than life men to do great feats of strength. And seeing someone like McGree be manhandled…bearhandled? A bear showed that he was just a regular guy, which broke kayfabe and exposed the business! Wow… how in the hell did the territory recover? Well, by basically blackballing Bus McGree! Many of the guys over there talked bad about him. Hell, when I signed up to train to be a wrestler, I had to take a questionnaire, and one of the questions was, and I poo poo you not, “Are you tougher than Bus McGree?” Wait, you still signed up to be a wrestler? After all that? Yup! My parents were smart enough to know that wrestling shows were usually safe when there aren’t any loving bears on the card! drat… anyway, before we take a break, Jim, I think I remember you telling me about a mobile game you’ve been playing recently? Yeah, it’s called AFK Raids. You know, the Dashing one likes to check out what the kids are into these days, and while I usually don't “get it”, I was able to get AFK Raids. Over two hundred units, fighting for glory, just like I did in the wrestling ring! Plus, if you enter the code, DASHINGJIM, you are able to get 50 free multi pulls! That’s D-A-S-H-I-N-G-J-I-M. Thanks again to AFK Raids for sponsoring Dashing In with Jim Harley.
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Aug 22, 2022 02:54
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It's an offence to possess 50kgs of potatoes in Western Australia Tall Tuber Tales 1,175 terrible words Somewhere in the desert, 1845 Sir William Eddlebee and his hired hand Reginald were lost. They had marched over the same shifting dunes for days now. Red sand penetrated their every nook and cranny, from the folds of their clothing to the cracks of their sun-blistered skin. William unscrewed the cap from his canteen and held it to his mouth, praying that somewhere deep within its recesses were a few drops of water. Nothing came from it, and he flung it . He called for Reginald. “Reggie, my boy, I’m afraid our journey may be coming to it’s agonizing end. My water is all gone, could I trouble you for a sip of yours.” “Oh, I’m sorry sir.” Reginald said, the words obscured by something in his mouth.” “Wh-what’s wrong with you?” William asked, startled by Reginald’s muffled words. He turned back and saw that Reginald was carving raw potatoes onto his palm and stuffing the chunks one at time into his cheek. Sucking, then chewing, then spitting anything he couldn’t stomach out onto the sand. William’s eyes went wide. “Potatoes?” he asked. “Ay, sir.” Reginald answered, sucking a freshly popped cube. “Where on earth did you get a potato, Reginald?” William’s eyes were wild now. “Oh, I traded all the supplies before we took off. Figured if’n you all had your supplies, I’d just be able to keep extra rations. Never knew it’d come in handy!” William ran over to Reginald and yanked his pack free from his person. “H-hey! Easy there, sir. Reginald said, spitting a wad of undesirable potato bit onto the sand. William looked at the satchel filled nearly to the brim with potatoes and physically felt something inside his brain shift. A sudden shunt of blood. A strange ache. Then he set himself upon Reginald with all the rage in the world. He bludgeoned the man in the face with a large potato, splitting the skin and bursting its flesh until Reginald’s face was unrecognizable from the assault. It wasn’t enough. William force fed the man his potatoes, pummeled him with them, kicked at the chewed up bits spat into the sand. Reginald breathed periodically, as if he had to force himself to remember the action, and then stopped altogether. William came back to his senses then realizing that he’d murdered the man. Conflicted with guilt he built a cairn for Reginald with the remaining potatoes. Sometime Later William had made it back from the desert safely. All of the members of his expedition company had met an ill fate, none iller than that of Reginald’s. Being that William was the only survivor to make it back people gossiped, but William did his best to remain aloof in the face of it. However, the facade quickly crumbled and led to his untimely death which confirmed what many had suspected. His letter read: “To whom it may concern, I, William Eddlebee, am a cheat and murderer. Plagued by rightfully suspicious accusations during the day and haunted by the protuberant potato filled corpse of my victim during the night, I can no longer stand to exist in this world. To those I’ve hurt, please forgive me. Yours in Christ, William Eddlebee.” The note came off as eccentric at first, but then the incidents began. 1855 While working on roads charting east from Perth, more than one convict reported seeing a ‘manifestation’ after receiving a shipment of rations which included 60KG of potatoes. The convicts described the manifestation as that of a young man, mortally wounded, potato mash escaping through broken teeth, eyes swollen nearly shut. They were so startled by this appearance that they abandoned their posts, and attempted escape or voluntarily returned to prison. 1903 At a market in Bunbury several decades later, a shipment of potatoes that had crossed through Kalgoorlie was delivered by a rather apprehensive deliverymen. When questioned about what had them in a sort, they answered that they saw a man on the road that looked dead and that he had followed them all the way to the city. This was dismissed as nonsensical and asinine, until at least 15 people including the delivery men witnessed what they all considered to be a ghost of a man. Repeat incidents like this occurred all over the west coast, but the common link wasn’t established until the government got involved. An incident during the Centenary celebration was the final straw, when the potato-laden corpse made an appearance in the dining hall. The appearance was passed off as that of an indisposed prisoner, but the guests in attendance were ultimately unconvinced. “That’s where we stepped in, Agent. Can you tell me what the first tenet of the Potato Marketing Corporation is?” “To uphold the honor and virtue of the tuber at all costs.” “That’s correct, son. Now the second?” “To offer the bounty of the potato at a reasonable and fair price.” “Right again. Now the final?” “To safeguard the world against the supernatural, accessible through the divine pathways of the potato.” “Dead on.” “When the Premier saw that bloated potato corpse. It was just confirming a rumor for himself. He had always believed in our mission, and recognized the threat the tubers presented despite their abundant nutrition. As such, he set the groundwork for the lengthy legal authorizations that would protect us from such occurrences in the future. When the Marketing of Potatoes Act passed, that was the first step in taking the war back to the restless dead.” “Unable to carry more than 50KG of potatoes, we were able to safely eliminate the occurrences until all those living who could remember the rumors or the dead man were dead themselves.” “So, how did potatoes get shipped around if people weren’t allowed to transport more than 50KG at a time?” “We authorized a special task force that made sure the people of this great nation got the potatoes they needed despite the dangers. We used the law to crack down on any potential outliers. We dominated the potato market with an iron fist because it’s what had to be done to save us all.” “So, I know you’re like really into the job and all, but you can’t be serious about this right?” “Agent?! You hold your tongue. Nothing has ever been more serious.” “Alright, grandpa. Sorry, rule four, an addendum to the three tenets. Never doubt the mission.” The old man smiled. Billy enjoyed trips to see his grandpa. He always told the zaniest stories, and despite their effect having diminished some in his teenage years, he knew it was something to hold on to. Something to cherish. The defunct Potato Marketing Corporation, may have never dealt with ghosts or missing explorers, but his grandpa’s men-in-black potato adventures were something he’d never challenge as untrue. He would nod and smile. Let his grandfather’s leathery hands pull him in close in appreciation of the visit. Let those tired eyes take him in, slower now than when he was young, and Billy believed him. He hung on to every word.
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Aug 22, 2022 03:50
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sebmojo posted:in France it’s illegal to name your pig Napoleon. Je Soooooeeeeeeee Napoleon 1153 Words Jean Pierre Girard was the happiest boy in France when his parents gave him a pig for his birthday. “We’re not going to eat this one?” asked Jean Pierre. “No, son, he’s yours,” answered Jean Pierre’s mother. “I will name him Napoleon!” declared Jean Pierre. Something flashed behind the pigs eyes, and an expression of wry amusement passed over its face, but only for a moment. Jean Pierre lifted the small pig up over his head and twirled around. The little pig closed its eyes and smiled as the wind whistled through its ears. Jean Pierre’s parents chuckled warmly and smiled down at their son. Jean Pierre was so excited to have a pig for a pet that he bought a tag and collar for Napoleon and fixed it around the little pig’s neck. Over the next few months, Jean Pierre could be seen chasing Napoleon all over the town. The little pig had a knack for escaping his pen, and would disappear on the order of at least twice a month. Sometimes more. The first week, Napoleon turned up at the train station. He’d somehow managed to get a hold of a ticket to Russia and was trying to climb aboard the train. Jean Pierre had to apologize profusely to the conductor to get his pig back. He gave Napoleon a good whipping with a switch when they got home. During periods when Napoleon was confined to his pen, the pig would carve elaborate shapes into the mud with his snout. Jean Pierre claimed they were maps of the local countryside but by the time he could get his parents to come look, the maps had all been completely crisscrossed by wavy squiggles and random shapes. The following month, Napoleon knocked over the trash bin. Jean Pierre found the pig in his pen, arranging cans and containers into ranks. He chased the pig all over the pen, spreading garbage everywhere. Both Jean Pierre and Napoleon were severely disciplined for the mess and poor Jean Pierre had to clean up all of Napoleon’s mess. The other pigs regarded Napoleon with suspicion. Napoleon was smaller than the other pigs and behaved oddly. It was clear Napoleon had loftier goals than rooting for slop and gorging himself on as much food as he could eat. In May, Napoleon went missing again, but this time Jean Pierre couldn’t find him. He searched high and low. All over town. All of Napoleon’s favorite haunts. The military surplus shop, the war memorial, the cannons in front of city hall. Napoleon was nowhere to be found. The little pig was already well out of town and journeying south. Napoleon’s passage was as secretive as possible, keeping to backroads and avoiding civilization wherever possible. The journey was perilous. Several times predators like wild dogs or hawks tried to snatch up the pig, but Napoleon always managed to outmaneuver them. Upon reaching Nice, Napoleon was forced to chance an encounter with civilization. Under cover of darkness, the little pig stowed away on a boat bound for Ajaccio. Though the pig managed to evade the eyes of the boat’s master and crew, he did not pass unobserved. Shadowy figures marked his presence. After several days getting rattled around in the hold of the tiny boat, the craft finally made port in Ajaccio. Napoleon navigated the streets there with relative ease, though in more than a few places he found himself frustrated by an unexpected turn in the road or dead end and had to double back. At length, Napoleon reached his destination. A ratty, broken down warehouse on the edge of the harbor. After glancing up and down the alley to make sure it was deserted, the little pig raised its front trotter and knocked a special knock on one of the side doors. “Oink oink?” snorted a pig on the other side of the door. “Je suis Napoléon,” answered Napoleon in uncannily human-sounding French. “Nous sommes tous Napoléon,” answered the pig inside. The door creaked open and Napoleon hurried into the dark portal. Inside Napoleon found himself facing maybe a dozen or so other pigs of various shapes and breeds, though most of them tended toward the small side. “Am I the last to arrive?” asked Napoleon. “Yes,” answered the pig who had let Napoleon in. This pig was also named Napoleon. All the pigs were named Napoleon. Napoleon knew. “Then let the Council of Napoleons commence,” said Napoleon. The other Napoleons went into the darkness and fetched a large, rolled-up map of Europe. With some difficulty they managed to unroll the map and anchor it with rusted pipes. “The problem with last time was our dependence on those idiotic, cowardly generals. For our next attempt, each of our armies shall be commanded personally by a Napoleon. We cannot fail!” pronounced a brown, spotted Napoleon. “Ridding ourselves of our worthless generals has presented us with an even larger obstacle to surmount: namely that we’re all pigs! How can a pig be expected to raise an army or command a nation?” objected a Napoleon with a spot over his eye. “Yes, well, I’ve actually come up with a solution to that,” it was Jean Pierre’s Napoleon who spoke up. “It’s devilish in its simplicity. You see, all we must do is—” At that moment the door burst open and the windows exploded inwards in a hail of shards! “Alors! They’ve found us again!” screamed one of the Napoleons. Napoleons squealed and scrambled in all directions, but there was no escape. Ruthless DGSI agents gunned down the hapless would-be dictators en masse. Jean Pierre’s Napoleon was the last one standing. Cornered behind a pile of crates in the back of the warehouse, Napoleon knew there was no escape. “Merde,” cursed Napoleon. “I surrender.” Robert Maximillian, the lead DGSI agent lifted Napoleon up and examined the golden tag around the little pig’s neck with amusement. “Looks like the Girard family in…” the agent squinted at the license tag. “Perigneux will be facing a hefty fine. If they only knew about the curse that any pig named Napoleon on French soil shall become possessed by the soul of Napoleon, maybe they would respect the law better, no?” “A pity for national security reasons we can never reveal this, or we would have agents provocateurs all over the country naming pigs Napoleon in a deliberate attempt to disrupt the country,” sighed agent Lafayette. “Yes,” agreed Robert. “This we both know. Still I say it is a pity.” “What shall we do with him?” asked Lafayette. “Send him to the colony on Elba with the others,” said Robert. The lead agent turned to his adjutant, who was standing nearby. “Antoine, make a note, eighteen June, 2022, Napoleon met defeat… again,” instructed Robert. Antoine saluted and started scribbling on a clipboard. “Alors, the eighteenth!” squealed Napoleon. “If only I’d known! It seems I’ve met my Waterloo again!”
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Aug 22, 2022 04:35
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Week 524- Law poo poo it is forbidden to fly a kite in a vexatious manner in the state of Victoria Stretch Goals 1001 wirds Mother snoozed on the chaise lounge, her tiny whistling snore echoing the gulls, noisy statues floating among the box kites and long-tailed dragons riding the updrafts that came with the tide. Johnny watched the water loop and whorl into the long aimless trenches he dug, finding himself sad when the castles collapsed, so he built them no longer. “Could I have a kite someday?” Mother did not wake, but Johnny knew she would say yes. With the coming tide, lightning flashed, illuminating the boxy ships in the distance and the kite runners wheeled their lines in. Johnny abandoned his water maze to get a closer look at the flyers and gravity defiers. There was magic in the cubes that rode the wind. But the boys and girls who conquered the currents were unkind to Johnny. “Whatchu doin little baby? You’d be too scared to fly a kite. One gust and you’d let go, and your kite would be fish food. You want that? You better be careful, unka micamac’ll make a kite out a you.” Mother woke when the chill hit her but she was satisfied with the sun that lingered in her skin. “Johnny,” she called, and the drip of heaven disguised his tears as they raced up the dunes to the car. On the morning of Johnny’s thirteenth birthday, Father gave him a rifle. It wasn’t wrapped nor adorned with ribbon or any baby stuff. The rifle was old but maintained by practiced hands. It was a gift bereft of sentimentality and the only ceremony held was Father walking it from the gun room past the Forbidden Door to present it without words to the boy. Father purchased a new rifle for himself. Johnny knew things would change from this day on, as his father packed their gear onto the cargo rack of the four-wheeler and strapped the rifles down tight. Johnny climbed on and sat, back to father, his short legs dangling off the back. As father bounced over the rutted trail, Johnny’s legs danced with a life of their own until Johnny thought about them and made them point back to the dwindling speck of home as though he could take one giant step and his legs would stretch all the way back to his front porch and he would be there in an instant. Or land on the porch and take one stilt-step across the miles and to the beach. Anywhere but here, now. When Johnny’s legs stopped dancing, he swallowed hard, and it hurt, his tongue was too dry. Father got off the ATV and said, “We walk from here. Quietly.” Father took up his rifle, and nodded towards Johnny’s. Johnny slung the gun on his shoulder, and the butt of the stock bounced into the back of his knees as he solemnly followed father down the whispering rows of wheat. “There,” said Father. The synchronous twisting heads popping from the grain and lazily munching knew the people were there and did not know that the people would be unkind. Father nodded to Johnny, “Aim and take that mother’s head off. Roos’ll eat all our crop.” It was not a mother, it was a boomer, but the boom of father’s rifle was all Johnny knew. Then it was a mother, a flyer, and Father, for once, patted Johnny on the shoulder, and contact hurt as much as it felt good. He bade him take aim. Johnny’s eyes stung but he obeyed. The trigger was slick and oily and all together too easy to pull. Father drew his knife and while he carved the loins for a dinner and more Johnny looked at his kill. He saw the blind little creatures crawling up the pale chest. Johnny did not cry. He grabbed his belly skin and stretched it into a pouch. He gathered the joeys and pushed them down into the fold. Ten, twenty of them, and he held his belly button nipple high until he felt the sides stitch up his ribs with a tickle and dropped his shirt knowing they were safe and sound. Father never knew. Never knew. We break our bread amongst the unkind and dilapidated. The Forbidden Door beckons. Mother chose to leave us. Escape to another continent. We love her. We love her. But she abandoned us. unka micamac knows he always knows the door opens and i see gary and brett and martin and they’re stretched like kites against the wall. i know they’re skin all skin all skin unka micamac wants the skin wants the skin to fly a kite made from the boys wants to feel the skin and feel the air And father has made the kites. unka micamac is father and father is the artist. There is love and there is no love. Johnny stretches his skin from his armpits and it takes days and weeks. Slowly, it pulls and the collagen relaxes and a kite is a kite is a kite is a boy. The boy wants to ride the currents and feel the risk of the wind. The wind does not object. The joeys are restless, they grow and such a tickle in his belly. The sun and surf beckon, but the fields are the home and Johnny lets them loose into the whispers. He feels the call of the gulls before he hears them. The Forbidden Door is open and Johnny does not like it. He grows his wings and flies amongst the box kites and long-tailed dragons and knows that he is free. Father fires his rifle and Johnny fires back. There is gun oil everywhere. Mother is nowhere. I wish mother was here. Guns are no fun. Guns are useful. Father is unka micamac father is dead. father flew the kite i wanted father flew the kite i was jealous of. Do not waste it. Do not waste it. Johnny flies and the currents take him where he wants to go. And he wonders if that’s true.
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Aug 22, 2022 06:24
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Prompt: no-one may enter the British Parliament in a full suit of armor To Bandy Crooked Words 1153 words "Welcome to the legislature. Here's your sword and pistol," said the sergeant-at-arms, a shaved ape of a man, blotchy and pale, as he waved the weapons in my face. Did you know we even still had a legislature? I certainly didn't until two weeks ago, when the postman came to my apartment flanked by a pair of postal marshalls. "Listen," I said, "The five dozen gorilla penises are cloned, perfectly legal and ethical. You can check for the matching dimples at the top of the-" That was when they showed me the summons. Special session of the intersyndicate congress. They didn't just leave it and expect me to show up, either. No flies on them. I did get one phone call. There's an eighty-year-old holobeau who I pay to pretend to be my naughty disappointed grandfather. He only speaks Tagalog and I don't but we can reach our understandings with tone and gesture. I should have called him but instead I called my editor. "Get you out of it?" he yelled. "Arsenic Scorpio, have you completely lost your mind? You luck your way into the story of-" "Story?" I said. "Since when has the legislature been a story?" "Have you been under a rock the last two weeks?" he said. I had, if you count a fully automated and functional granite fertility statue as a rock, but I kept quiet. "Two sessions running ended in deadlock." "Wait," I said. "Luck? Who did you bribe?" "Bribe?" he said. "All it took was an evening with the Secretary at-" At this point my brain ceased to function, locked in self-defense at the oncoming images. Editors should not be allowed to have sex. There ought to be a law. Good thing I was on my way, handcuffed and under armed supervision, to the legislature. The sergeant-at-arms gave me the weapons first, a sword that could have kept a monomolecular edge if anyone bothered to clean it and a single-round dueling pistol. Next was the uniform: thong, belt with scabbard and holster, and a white tank top. Smartfabric, so you can upload a party or faction symbol onto it. I went with a stick figure threesome in dark purple, which Fausto Cornwall says means I support returning the east coastal seasteads to the Chromeworks syndicate. He might have been joking, though. Fausto's a veteran, a survivor of the first two sessions. One of the few. He's got the scars to prove it. He explained it to me, during what I can honestly say was the dullest orgy I've ever attended, after the swearing in, before the battle lines were drawn. "I actually volunteered," he said. "First time. Hardly anyone does, not who can pass the screening. So we draft the rest." They don't let us have any drugs in here, and the booze is stepped on to the point where you piss it out before you can get properly drunk. Now for me, this whole 'clean and sober' state is so unfamiliar it might as well be a new drug. But for the other stiffs in this Congress it's just them being as boring as ever. But grok this: no drugs means no party drugs, no blue pills. So after the first hour all the mascs are caught waiting in line for refractory periods to synchronize while we femmes try and navigate that maze or amuse ourselves. Fausto was by far the most interesting person around. A talker. I listened to him filibuster while he filled my- "We keep going until we pass the thing, or no longer have a quorum, in which case they recruit another set. Pistols for formal duels. The sword at any time. No armor allowed. One guy-yes, that's it-tried to turn their cabinet into a chest piece and got booted immediately." Readers, it went just over thirty-six hours. The things I do for my work. Then we locked ourselves into our offices and slept another twelve before the session formally began. Then I woke up with the absence of a hangover, which felt so wrong that I had to slam my head into my desk three times before I felt normal enough to face the day. The first vote was an even split, three ways. The grand and glorious army of the Aligned Syndicates of North America and the Caribbean to join the conflict on the side of the Mining Syndicate, on the side of the Academy, or to maintain a state of official neutrality for no less than five years. Fausto, in a little heartbreak that I'll get over soon, was with the neutrality faction, a damnable centrist after all we'd been through. Like most of you other than the nerds, I hadn't been aware the ASNAC had an army, much less a grand and glorious one. I didn't think we had anything other than a postal service until finding out about the Marshalls, which I should have figured, the Congress, and now the army over the last week. I need to get out of government work before I find out there's still tax collectors our there. So yeah, we've got an army, old tech from the old nations, maintained and updated on contributions from the mercenary syndicates. Those nerds even take it out for war games out in the dustlands, but it's always on lease, still belongs to the ASNAC, still answers to Congress, so help us all. The first week was debate club, high-minded arguments about the values of reason, industry, and caution. By the second it was about the Syndarch's corruption and the Academician's scandals. Week three was when the first duels started. Week four was the first pitched battle. Week five someone figured out how to insert amendments, tried log rolling all kinds of things in the deal. Almost got some monstrosity passed before his faction invented the Caesar circle and took him down. Reinvented, or re-reinvented. By week six I was living nervously. Hadn't killed anyone, which was starting to look suspicious. We were dangerously close to the quorum line, and pretty soon I'd have to be on the outside of a Caesar circle or on the inside. And then I checked my mail. The sergeant-at-arms censors congressional mail, which is why I didn't bother. But I was nervous and bored and started reading. Even the junk mail, offering to send me a vacuum cleaner with a cloned dolphin brain and a wide assortment of attachments, where I spotted it, a tiny dot of embedded data. A letter from my editor. A dossier on good old Fausto, specifically. Turns out he's military, somehow slipped past the screening. And he's pushing neutrality because the mercs have spent decades robbing the army blind. Not much left but plans and IOUs. It didn't take much to swing the vote around to the Academy after that. At least they might be interested in some of the old plans and blueprints.
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Aug 22, 2022 07:40
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