100ThemeChallenge – Innocence

It seemed that I had just laid down and closed my eyes when my wife’s voice broke my reverie. There had been no dreams… no escape. It was always like this, at least on these sorts of mornings.

“C’mon, E’mok,” she said in soothing but stern tones, “its time to get up. You’ve gotta get it done.” I hated it when she used maternal tones, but I didn’t think she knew any other way to deal with me sometimes. I let it go. I was tempted to feign sickness, which wasn’t far from the truth. Some mornings I just plain hated my job, but  I wasn’t a child.

“The delivery got in okay, I take it?” I asked, groggily.

“Yeah,” she responded, letting out a small sigh.

I rolled over and looked at her for a minute. Jees, the largest star, was already nearing its zenith, and Jeestai, its little sister, was rising in the east. Beams from both suns flooded through our bedroom window, the feathery strands of her body glowing as they passed through her. The gossamer petals of her eyes opened wider as our eyes met, and she smiled, one side of her lip lifting higher than the other, an emerald tooth twinkling in the morning’s radiance.

I hadn’t realized the expression on my face until I saw it reflected in hers. The smile receded a bit, and the spiked ridges of her forehead rounded off a bit as she began to speak again.

“I’m sorry, honey,” she cooed sympathetically, “but its important. The regulations are strict and we can’t afford another fine – we’ll lose the farm this time.”

“Yeah,” I returned, “I know. Just sucks, is all.”

“I’ve gotta get down to the store,” she said, checking the wall clock and then gazing out the window. “Breakfast is on the stove. I set the stuff up out in the med station for you.” She draped a coat around her back, fluffy down from her shoulders poking up at odd angles as she turned to leave. “I’ll be back this evening, okay?” She never stuck around for days like these. I loved a lot of things about my wife, but not this particular trait. She left the room, and I mentally followed the sound of her footsteps and she walked to the front door and opened it. “I love you,” she said, finally, closing the door gently behind her. I got up, wrapped myself in the covers, and walked to the window to watch her get into her vehicle. The old six-wheeled cargo hauler’s door had always been a problem, and as she struggled to unlock it, I tapped on the window. She stopped at looked back at me. My hands emerged from the blanket.

I love you, too, I signed to her. She smiled. The door opened. She drove off. I watched the cloud of dust she kicked up as she passed the pens.

I had no interest in breakfast today. I got dressed quickly, grabbed a flying disc from the pet’s toy chest, and walked down to the feed station. The central computer’s sensors were on the blink again, so I had to open the door with the keypad, and, as usual, it took me three guesses to remember the code. I stepped inside. My son had forgotten to throw out the old produce, and something had gone rotten. I did the job myself, ordering my pocket planner to remind me to ground the boy later. I selected the choicest, juiciest fruits I could find in the bins and placed them in a small basket. I stepped outside the small concrete structure and relocked the door.

The pens were mostly empty this time of year, the majority of our stock sold off to feed lots and scientific firms. What remained in the pens were breeding specimens and a few of the cheaper pets. We kept the champions on the other side of the ranch complex, away from the slaughterhouse and loading dock. It was a very important part of the business, so much so that my grandfather had had a 10 meter tall soundproof wall put in place around that stock’s compound, keeping them ignorant of their cousins’ fates. With a happier, healthier product to sell, the wall paid for itself in five years.

The sensors at the champion’s compound were still working, and the ornate wrought-iron gates sprung open for me quickly as I approached, shutting almost as soon as my heels passed their threshold. The pens for the males were closest to the entrance – it didn’t matter so much if they escaped. I could hear them rough-housing in the communal cage, but I didn’t stop to check in on them. We kept only three of them, for variety’s sake. Towards the center of the compound were the seventeen individual female habitats, but only fourteen of them were occupied. I passed by them quietly, noting that they’d all been sedated. Inwardly, I thanked my wife. I stopped by cage number thirteen for a moment to take a look at its occupant.

Sh’mria had been the last homo sapien my mother had raised before she finally gave in to her illness. She’d been a month premature – her own mother, Sh’licta having escaped one morning and been run down by one of the produce trucks. Sh’licta had never been properly broken – it was a delicate process which took months and, from time to time, failed miserably. She would not accept her lot in life, but my parents were soft-hearted people. They knew they’d never be able to sell her so they added her to the breeding stock. Sh’mria had little of her mother’s spirit, and after I took over the ranch she became my prize broodmare. Of twelve pregnancies, seven had won high honors at the provincial level, and one had placed fourth at the nationals. Her skin was the dark, golden brown prized by the north coast upper class, with violet eyes and the dark red hair my family’s stock was famous for. It had taken my great grandfather generations to get the eyes right. I stared down at her as she lay curled up on her cushions, no movement other than her steady breathing. I was thankful that my wife had done this part of the job, and that Sh’mria couldn’t see the remorse in my eyes.

Some said it wasn’t right to keep creatures of their intelligence, and I could understand their position, but the world was what it was, and it had no other place in it for humans.

I left the female pens and went back to the brightly colored nursery. We only bred the champions every few years, to keep the prices inflated, and the law said they couldn’t be sold until they were at least old enough to read. It was just after market time, so the place only had one occupant left; I could hear her singing to herself as I stepped softly down the hallway to her kennel. She didn’t notice me yet. I took a moment to freeze her in my memory. I had intended her to be another breeder, so she was almost nine years old. In another year she would have moved in with her mother and aunts. In another five, she would have been inseminated for the first time. She was short for her age, slender and wiry. Her skin was just a shade lighter and slightly more reddish than her mother’s, a trait she picked up from her sire. Her deep red hair, hanging down just past her shoulders, was slightly curly, helped along a bit by her mother’s habit of putting it in tight little braids. She had the cute, button nose that my family had been trying to achieve in its pet stock for at least a century, and we were all quite pleased when we found out it was just barely within the breed guidelines for competition. She was bright, had a pleasing voice, and had learned three languages before she was four. As she played with her rag dolls on the slightly dirty tile floor, I knew in my heart that she was my pride and joy – almost perfect. I struggled to keep tears from welling up in my eye petals.

She suddenly stopped, aware I was looking at her. She looked up at me, and gave me a toothy, genuine smile.

“Hi, Master E’mok,” she laughed. “I was just playing with Keemy.” She held up the dolly, the little button eyes my daughter had sewn on it staring brightly at me. “You wanna play? You can use Jeesta!” She indicated the another doll on the floor, looking up at  me hopefully.

“Good morning, Sh’lyta,” I replied, forcing a smile. “I brought you some breakfast, and then I thought we might go play some catch.” I knelt down and placed the basket between us. She eyed the berries hungrily but waited for my permission, which I gave with a slight nod. She dug in greedily, all thought of manners out the window for a moment, before catching herself.

“Um, you want some?” she offered, holding old the basket.

“No, thank you,” I refused politely. “I already ate.”

I sat, leaning against the painted concrete wall, watching her devour the fruit, occasionally running my fingers through her hair. When she was finished, she hugged me, and leaned her back against me as she resumed playing with her dolls.

“Keemy says it’ll be cold soon!” she told me, cradling the doll like a baby. “She doesn’t like the cold. Brrrrrrrrr!” She laughed. “Jeesta loves the snow though. She’s a guard. I think I would like to be a guard. Could I be a guard, Master?”

“You wouldn’t want to be a guard,” I told her. “They have to work all day and they rarely get to play. You’re…”, I hesitated, “a champion.” She beamed, smiling ear to ear.

She played with her dolls for a bit, asking  me question after question. I answered as best and cheerfully as I could. I was a better actor than I ever dreamed, but it wasn’t the first time I’d done this. We left the nursery and went out to the compound’s freshly mowed lawn. I produced the flying disc and told her to go get ready to catch it.

“Hey, can mommy play, too?” she asked, hopefully.

“No,” I responded, almost breaking, “your mommy’s sleeping. She had to get a shot today.” I tossed the disc gently. She caught it effortlessly.

“Do I have to get a shot?” she asked in that irritated tone the children of both our species shared.
My heart skipped.

“Yeah,” I replied. “Don’t worry, though, sweetie.” I coughed. “It’ll be quick.”

We played for about an hour before my planner beeped, reminding me that I had to be out to the south paddock to finish work on the irrigation. I couldn’t hold off any longer.

“Its time to go in, sweetie,” I said.

“Aw,” she whined, her eyes scrunching in disappointment. “We just got started!”

“I’ve got work to do, Sh’lyta,” I replied. I hated myself. I walked towards her, scooping her up. She was as light, warm in my arms. She wrapped her arms around my neck, her tiny fingers playing with the feathers.

“I have to get my shot now,” she pouted.

“Yes.” The world went monochrome. I carried her into the med station. She whistled and hummed, slightly nervous. I took her into the large, concrete bunker, and locked the door behind us. I set her down on the stainless steel examination table. The shot was waiting for me on the counter.

“Lie down,” I told her. She complied. I pulled the plastic protector off the shot, being sure to cover the label as I gripped the syringe. I took her arm and lightly slapped the inside of her elbow, looking for the proper vein; then I wiped it with alcohol.

“Is it gonna hurt?” she asked.

“No,” I replied. “Don’t worry, just relax.” She laid back, staring at the ceiling, an expression of perfect trust on her face. I gave her the injection. It started to take effect almost immediately.

“Can I go play with mommy now?” she asked.

“No,” I said. “You have to wait a bit.”

“I’m sleepy,” was the last thing she said. I stood there for a long time, just stroking her hair, counting her breaths.

The second sun was setting in the west when my oldest boy finally came in for dinner. I sat at the kitchen table over an untouched steak, counting the squares in the wallpaper.

“Dad,” he said, worried, no doubt, that he was in trouble, “Sh’lyta’s not in her pen. Did Mom take her to town? I swear I made sure the doors were locked.”

“Its all right,” I replied coldly, “I had to put her down.”

“Why?” he asked, clearly upset.

“Got her results back from the Agricultural Board,” I said. “They gave her a Class F rating. She had a genetic condition that made her unfit for breeding. I had to put her down.”

“Damn,” he replied. “You should’ve waited for me, I coulda learned how to do that.” I gave him a grave look. He was just like me at his age: eager to learn. His expression dropped under my gaze. “I gotta learn sometime, right?”

“Yeah,” I said, picking up my knife and fork. I began to slowly slice a piece off of my steak. “You gotta learn sometime.”

100ThemeChallenge – Heaven

Simon closed his eyes for what he thought would be the last time. Darkness swallowed him, and he felt as if he were falling. Sensation slowly ebbed away, starting with taste and smell, then touch. The last thing he heard was his husband’s weeping, and the steady whine of a medical device which signaled that his heart had ceased to beat. Finally he was without stimulus, or even the suggestion of stimulus. The few thoughts he had left were steady and calm, all emotion leaving him by the same trail his senses had. The world he knew had been completely erased, and yet he found that something of himself remained.

When his eyes opened, they weren’t really eyes anymore. He had emerged into a new reality, birthed into being in a realm composed of solid light and vapor. His new feet, which weren’t feet, rested upon a rubbery, translucent substance, giving a little as he began to walk. All around him was light from an unseen star, and swarms of what looked like shimmering, ghostly locusts swirled around, great clouds and whirlwinds of them zipping here and there, the patterns they made individually chaotic but painting a larger, orderly picture. The rubbery mass belonged to what appeared to be a great spectral whale, and when he looked down along its side he saw that it swam through an ocean of water so clear that you could’ve seen straight to the bottom, had there been one. Above the surface of the water were the whitest, purest clouds imaginable, dotted here and there with glimpses of a sky so blue that Picasso would have wept to see them.

Other beings, like himself, stood upon the whale, each as in awe of what they were seeing as Simon was. They appeared as pulsating curtains of vapor, glowing even in the radiance of the place. Each form was unique, yet none were recognizable in any human sense. Some moved around, seeming to examine their surroundings, but most stood still, drinking in it’s majesty.

Simon felt a strange sensation from what, for lack of a better term, was his leg. He looked down to see a large, friendly looking koala bear, its purplish fur reflecting the brilliance like an oil slick in a rain puddle. It pointed to the water, and without a word, the two of them dove in, the liquid seeming to penetrate every atom of his new form. He lost himself in the ocean for awhile, his consciousness spreading out, seeming to touch every part of this creation. He was the whale for awhile, then the sky, then the locusts. He was outside of this place and inside of it, everywhere and looking upon himself. He had no mouth to smile, but all the other aspects of happiness were with him. He emerged from the water, dry as a bone, just in time to see a squadron of four great feathery serpents fly over head in a “V” pattern, a stream of stars and flower petals left in their wake. As they passed directly overheard, the serpent on the far right broke formation, flying straight up, the clouds and locusts parting gently as it past, revealing, at last, the golden disk that was this world’s sun. The serpent’s trail began to glow a blinding orange, spiraling outward from its tail like a an exploding bomb, the creature disappearing into the star’s corona.

The ocean came to an end at a great waterfall, its contents roaring over the edge into an infinite blue and white sky. The whale came to rest against the blade of a gigantic sword, at least the length of a few football stadiums and the width of a grand ballroom. It crawled up onto the impossibly reflective metal on bulbous legs, and its passengers began to flutter off its back like the seeds of a dandelion. They skated across the sword’s length at a brisk pace, with flying squirrels hovering above them, tiny brass instruments in their mouths, an orchestra playing some cross between an old drinking song and a classical overture.

As he moved towards the weapon’s hilt, he noted the great letters etched into the steel. In life he had never seen such a language, but in death he was not only familiar, but fluent. It was an incredibly versatile tongue – a single sentence might say a thousand different things. This one spoke of God.

“God Loves You.”
“God Does Not Respond to Bribery.”
“God Prefers Mint Tea in the Afternoon.”
“God is both so Perfect that God is Flawed.”
“God Lies to Tell the Truth.”
“God Likes to Fuck with Your Head.”
“God Is Lonely.”
“God Welcomes You.”
“God Employs Many Koala Bears.”

It would have taken an eternity to read every version of the sentence, but Simon suspected that he would have plenty of time.

The procession halted at the hilt of the sword, greeted by a million flag poles hosting a million banners: the flags of ever nation, every organization and club, every ship that ever sailed terrestrial oceans, and even flags associated with theme parks and fast food outlets. A herd of wildebeest circled the shaft of the handle, clinging to it as if by magnetism. As the whale-riders approached, the animals froze in a line across the top, and each of them bobbed across the handle on their heads. At the very end, those ahead of Simon seemed to jump out into the emptiness without fear, and when he arrived he looked down to see a great silver chalice, in scale with the sword, filled with what looked like deep, rich red wine. His companions disappeared without so much as a splash when they dropped into it. Without anxiety he stepped out into the air, and plunged.

The world of light, clouds, and spiritual locusts was replaced with red and nothing but red. He was the wine. He tasted both himself and the others, lost in dreams and secrets, growing drunk on the essence of what they all were and what they could be. When the vessel was full it began to move and tilt, gripped in the hand of what Simon knew in the heart he no longer had to be God. The liquid sloshed over the side and poured gently down into a great radiant outline of a mouth, the lips ringed with stars and nebulae, eyes above casting torrents of luminescent gas into eternity. Into his mouth and into his being they fell, absorbed into the spiritual matter, burning into each of his cells as if New York City had just flipped on all its lamps at once.

For a moment he was the very essence of Divinity – he was Vishnu, Lucifer, Hera, Shang-ti, Anu,  Brigid… he was Jesus and Buddha and Muhammed and Joseph Smith. He was the animal totems his ancestors had revered. He was the very soul of the universe, a singularity at the heart of creation just before the very second of the Big Bang.

And then he was Simon again. Only Simon. He hovered before God in a sea of stars, his form restored to what it had been on Earth, naked before the totality of the cosmos.

“You have a question?” God asked.

“I thought gay people didn’t go to heaven…?” Simon asked.

“Who told you that?” God asked in reply.

“Religious people,” Simon said meekly.

“Oh,” God laughed, “fuck them.”

100ThemeChallenge – Break Away

Previously, on DeviantArt: Tasked by the Goddess of Facebook with retrieving the Maltese Meme, our heroine, twilightgrrl69, fought her way valiantly across the turbulent waters of the Gulf of Youtube and the scorching sands of Myspace. But just as she had acquired one of the three ancient login keys  needed to unlock the Email Server of Doom, she was captured by the undead minions of the terrible Basement Cat! None who were dragged into the bowels of this legendary LOLcat’s underground lair were ever heard from again. Can our heroine escape his vile clutches?

“I’ll never tell you the location of the Maltese Meme!” she spat, struggling against her bonds in vain. “I’ll die first!” The LOLcat leaned over her, his breath laced with salmon and the tormented souls of small children.

“We can haz ways of makings you talk,” he declared. “Minions! Goez down to teh CostCo and gets me a 54 inch Plasma Screen Television.” He turned back to the girl with an evil smile etched across his furry visage. “Ve shalls sees how bwave you iz when u r staring down teh barrelz of GOATSE!”

twilightgrrl69 shuddered, but regained her composure quickly.

“Do your worst!” she shouted in defiance. “Not even the full force of Encyclopedia Dramatica can make me divulge my secret!”

“Ve shall sees…”

Her limbs became numb and cold. Her vision began to blur at the edges,  the sights drained of  their color. She knew the truth serum was starting to take affect.

“Queschun number one, mah dear–” Basement Cat began.

“–told you… I’ll never…” she whispered.

“Oh,” he replied, “Am not askin’ where de Maltese Meme iz. All ah wants to knows is… when youse falls in loves wit sumwon, whutz one thingz youse wants themz to haz? Pretty eyez, a sweet smilez, or a gud hart?”

Its a trap! her subconscious screamed, but with drugs coursing through her already overtaxed system, she could not resist the power of the LOLcat’s seductive voice.

“Uhhhh,” she began to respond, groggily, “a sweet… smile?”

“An you considerz yurself: flirty and funny, mellowz, or relly sweetz?”

“…flirty and funny,” she gurgled.

“Finully,” the cat continued, “willz youse forwards thiz quiz to tha rest uv yur facebook frienz?”

“NEVER!!!” she bellowed, ending in an agonized cough.

“Nao I shall tellz youse wich Jonas Brutha u iz,” Basement Cat announced. “Wud u liek that?”
“No! Noooooooo!” she cried. “Mercy… I beg of you… mercy!”

“Mersy? Feh!” the cat replied in disgust. “Basement Cat noes nuthin’ uv mersy! You iz… KEVIN JONAS!”

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!” she screamed, her eyes beginning to bleed from the sheer shame and degradation of it all.

Sweat rolled down twilightgrrl69′s forehead in rivers. She couldn’t tell if it had been hours, days, or even weeks since the horde of feline marauders had ambushed her outside the ruins of America Online. Her resolve still held, but the fear was steadily rising in her. She hadn’t slept, eaten, showered, or checked her Livejournal friend page – it was only a matter of time before she snapped and told the cute little bastards everything.

“Wouldz youse care fer sum cake, mah dear?” Basement Cat whispered in silken tones. “It relly iz quite delishus.”

“The cake is a lie,” she croaked, fighting hard to keep the scent of sour cream frosting and rich chocolate out of her thoughts.

“R U shure, mah dear?” he crooned, his face only a few inches from her’s. “Iz almost az good az cheezburger.”

“I wouldn’t know,” she mocked, “like all women on the Internet, I’m vegan.” Basement Cat stood on her chest and dug his claws into her flesh malevolently. The pain brought a twisted smile to her face. Another LOLcat in the room cleared his throat.

“Yez?” Basement Cat replied in annoyance. “Whut iz it?”

“Master,” the other cat said, “tortcher – yur doin’ it wrong.”

“Well zen whut wud u sujest, Minion?”

The minion licked the back of his paw for a moment, thinking.

“Res… ress…” it stammered, “resistunce… like thiz requirez… TWO GIRLZ… ONE CUP!”

Waves of horror suddenly ran up and down twilightgrrl69′s body. Her stomach lurched. Images of vomitting muppets and appalled former childstars spun around her head like a level 80 Retribution spec’d Paladin running Alterac Valley on a PVP server at 3AM. (Don’t lie – YOU ALL KNOW WHAT THAT LOOKS LIKE!) She hadn’t dreamed her captors would do something so sinister in any of her most fevered nightmares.

“Monorail Cat,” Basement Cat commanded, “get mez copie uv 2 Girlz 1 Cupz.”

“Sory, sirz,” a squeaky voice replied, “sisdum crashd. We muzt reboots!”

“Damm youse, Windoze!” Basement Cat howled, “Bill Gatez iz historize gratest monsder!”

Windows? She thought. They must be running Microsoft Inquisition 2007! She knew in an instant what she had to do.

“Basement Cat,” she moaned, “yur doin’ it wrong.”

The LOLcat turned to hover over her face again.

“Whutz this?” he asked, confused.

“Your lazy minions,” she responded, adding an extra smear of misery for effect, “they didn’t deprive me of an attachment. Its in my pocket.” The cat stuck his head in her pants pocket, and returned with a file named ‘free_tuna_from_nigeria.exe’.

“Oooooo… free tunaz!” he drooled. “Howz do I getz teh free tunaz!”

“Why don’t you just double click on it and find out?” she smiled. The cat did exactly that. Suddenly, twilightgrrl69′s bonds sprang open. The cat recoiled in horror, the executable dropping from his jaws. Their eyes locked together, a overwhelming look of triumph emanating from hers.

“Fail,” she said flatly.

The LOLcats sat on a cold tile floor, all of them bound up in electrical tape. Somewhere in the distance, water was running. Twilightgrrl69 stood over them, her arms folded under her ample, internet-sized breasts, a self-satisfied smile on her face.

“Hao iz thiz possibul?” bellowed Basement Cat.

“All your base are belong to me,” she replied with a chuckle.

“Whut r u goin’ to does wif us?” Monorail Cat asked in terror.

“Well, kittehs,” she grinned, “its BAF TIME!”

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!”

NEXT WEEK, ON DEVIANTART: twilightgrrl69 has escaped from the minions of Basement Cat, but she is still no closer to recovering the Maltese Meme, and time is running out! Tune in next week as she braves the treacherous comment threats of Slashdot in search of the mysterious Cory Doctorrow! Will she survive? And can a mere dip in the bathtub truly hold back the unholy hordes of Basement Cat?

100ThemeChallenge – Seeking Solace

“I’m hungry, weary, but I cannot lay me down
The rain comes, dreary, but there’s no shelter I have found”
America, “Man’s Road”

The city of Clovis, California, was burning. A couple of hundred miles to the south, Bakersfield had been overrun by Zombies, just as Sacramento had a month earlier. Los Angeles and the San Francisco Bay Area had fallen prey to nuclear terrorism, vanishing from the Earth in several large flashes, the ash they left behind carried west into Arizona and Nevada. A hurricane which bore a striking resemblance to the Eye of Jupiter took out most of the rest of the country, except, of course, for Florida, which was overcome by a sudden massive blizzard, freezing the state solid. Before the power finally cut out, I remember reading something about Europe being eaten by a giant lemur, but by that point, I didn’t really care. The entire world had been swept away around us, leaving only Fresno to wait for the final boom to be lowered.

It was under these less-than-ideal circumstances that I found myself riding a donkey down Blackstone avenue, headed up to Bill Jacobs’ house to await the inevitable and possibly place bets as to whether it would be the walking dead, irradiated fallout, weather disturbances, or giant blood-drinking space manta rays that took us out. My ride was pretty calm about it; so were most of the people I saw as we clip-clopped down the road, pulling a cart loaded down with warm beer. The streets were clear of cars and people walked around serenely, carefree expressions on their faces. Some were playing music on old, battery-powered boomboxes. Others sang. Some were just talking quietly. Children ran, played, smiled, and laughed. I felt like the only person in the city who was still afraid.

On the corner of Ashlan, an old black man had set up one of those big, steel drum grills. I could smell the meat from a block away. People of every color and background had lined up for a plate — he was happily doling out tri-tip, pork chops, and slabs of ribs dripping with rich barbecue sauce. They sat anywhere they could find a spot: perched on cars and in the backs of pickup trucks, sprawled out on the grass or crouching down on the pavement, greedily devouring what was at least their penultimate meal, if not their last. I grabbed a plate and waited in line. As the woman I assumed to be the man’s daughter globbed a double-helping of potato salad on my plate (“…for your donkey”), I turned to him intent on speaking, but my mouth refused to engage.

“Only got pork chops left,” he said, looking me over with a wide smile.

“That’s cool. Thanks,” I replied. “I’m, like… surprised. I… I dunno, I didn’t think anyone would be having a barbecue. I was thinking, y’know… it’d be rioting and looting and stuff. Big fires. People throwing molotov cocktails and shit.” I stood there next to him for awhile, watching him turn chops as I nibbled on my own. “Seriously, man, who woulda thought it would end like this? I’m scared shitless. Seriously, I’m all messed up. I can’t understand why everyone’s so… calm.” I took large bite, chewed quickly, and choked it down. “How the hell are you dealing with all this?”

“What do I look like, kid,” he replied in a manner that was half-snarl and half-chuckle, “the Magic Negro?”

“Morgan Freeman and shit,” the woman added, laughing.

“I’m sorry, I just…” I sputtered.

“Would you mind sharing some of that beer, please?” he asked, the smile broadening.

“Sure,” I responded, taken aback. “I’m headed to see some people so, like, just one for everyone, ‘kay?”

An old filipina lady handed out cans as I finished my pork chop. I mounted my patient steed and continued on. Two blocks up the road was Shaw avenue, where I would need to turn to go up to Bill’s house. Four corners that had only two months ago featured crowds of Persians holding signs decrying the Iranian elections now had people from all over the city, holding hands, singing, and praying. The songs were not mournful, and the prayers were not begging for forgiveness or mercy. They thanked God for what they had been given, and asked only that there be something waiting for them when it was all over. I wasn’t a praying man.

I stopped next to a catholic priest who was giving Last Rights to a crowd of Latinos.

“Father,” I asked after he had finished, “do you know if the road is clear up to Marks?”

“Sure, sure,” he said, wiping his forehead with a paper towel, “say, didn’t I see you during the protests?” He studied my face for a moment. “Yeah, you were in your car. When you pulled up to the red light you started blasting that Beatles song… ‘Revolution’!”

“Uh, yeah,” I replied, a bit embarrassed. “I was kinda, like, giving encouragement?”

“I love the Beatles,” he laughed. “Best band ever. Where you headed, mijo?”

“Up to the Bluffs,” I replied. “Some friends of mine are getting together for one last…uh… get together.”

“That must be what all the beer is for,” he smiled. “I don’t suppose you could spare a few?”

I gazed over the entire crowd.

“I don’t think I have enough, Father.”

“Oh, just some for me and my parishioners,” he said. Leaning in close, he continued: “These protestants… they don’t drink. Been on the wagon for seven years, myself, but, the way I figure it, what is twelve steps worth when you’re two steps from the End of the World, huh?” He laughed. I started handing over the booze. I stood on the corner with him for a half an hour, in silence, taking in the pure lunacy of it all. The world was ending, and these people weren’t happy about it, but they were happy, nonetheless.

Finally I said to him: “Jesus, are you people crazy? I mean… we’re all gonna die! At any moment something… awful… horrible… is going to come raining down on us! Seriously, what the hell are we doing here? Why aren’t we running? Why are you all just standing around like its a fucking ice cream social?”

“Son,” the priest said with a grandfatherly etched across his face, “I think you’re late for your party.”

Another half hour later, I was three blocks away and down to a single six-pack. The street was mostly deserted. At the corner of Palm an old stray dog was trying to stick his head in an abandoned McDonalds bag. I got off the donkey and approached him, and he came right up to me, licking my hands like I was his master just home from work. I opened the bag for him, and pulled out a relatively fresh double cheeseburger. I dropped it to the ground and he went to work on it, sucking it down like a vacuum cleaner. I looked up to see a group of  homeless guys, all white men, laying out on the grass next to the office building which housed most of the local radio stations. They were passing around a joint. I could smell the cheap ditch-grown marijuana wafting through the breeze. I’d been sober for months, but right then and there, I wanted little else but a drag of it. I grabbed the last six-pack out of the cart, unhitched the donkey, and sent him on his way. If I were ever going to make it to my friend’s house, it might as well have been on foot – it seemed cruel to use up his last hours with physical labor.

I approached the men with beer outstretched. Pointing to the joint, I said:

“I’ll share if you will.” An old man, perhaps in his sixties, clothed in stinking rags, held it out to me, and I exchanged it for the six pack. I took a long, deep drag from it, the chemicals immediately flooding my bloodstream. My nose got numb for second as I exhaled.

“Careful with that shit, dude,” the man replied, his voice much younger than I expected. “There’s coke in there. Don’t wanna get addicted or nuthin’!” They all laughed. I still couldn’t. I sat down in the grass, waiting for the gentle embrace of Mary Jane to take away all my cares. It didn’t. If anything, it made it worse. I was semi-incoherent, even sadder, and now my teeth were itchy.

“This is a bunch of bullshit,” I said, anger starting to boil up. “What the fuck, man? Is that all I get? 34 years of… aimlessness… shit jobs… bills!!! People driving BMWs and eating motherfucking caviar and shit while I struggle to put Mac’n'Cheese on my table… and you guys… dig your dinner out of dumpsters.” They laughed. “Bad teeth… wars all over the place… people… starving in Ethiopia… kids shooting each other in gym class… cancer! AIDS!!! Animals dying out left and right…” They passed the joint back to me, I took another hit, passed it, and went on. “And for what? Now its all ending for no good fucking reason, and… what do we get? One last afternoon?”

The old man looked up with pity in his eyes.

“Its more than everyone else got.”

100ThemeChallenge – Dark

“ma teresa’s joined the mob and happy with her full-time job”
Primitive Radio Gods “Standing Outside a Broken Phonebooth with Money in My Hand”

Its was 2:30 in the morning, and I was lying on my ex-girlfriend’s living room floor in my underwear, wrapped up in blankets. I couldn’t get that song out of my head. The lights are out, the television is off – its the kind of interior darkness that makes every little bit of remaining light hit you like a lighthouse beacon. I wanted to sleep, but I’m was way too full and way too caffeinated. The flickering switch on one of her power strips is was my god.

It had been a long day. I woke up late, showered, shaved, and left in such a rush that I had neglected to lock the front door. I drove down to Milpitas, angry selections from my Pixies records blasting, my rear view mirror throbbing to the bass as I screamed down the 880 Freeway. I arrived at Melanie and Lloyd’s house just as they were about to give up on me, and from there we proceeded to the Los Gatos Wine and Art Festival, where my roommates had a booth. We walked around for about and hour, sampling the nick-nicks and examining paintings. I sat down in the grass with the woman who had been my first girlfriend, 14 years ago, and as she read some unnamed fantasy novel on her smart-phone I took the opportunity to vaguely appreciate the music echoing from the stage – a jazz trio provided by the local Kiwanis.

As the singer — a tall, skinny man, probably in his late sixties — began crooning his not-half-bad rendition of  “Summertime”, Melanie announced that she was done, and hungry, and ready to go to the movies. For no apparent reason, it hit me then, like a freight train, or something equally large, metal, and driven by a diesel engine:

I am going to be somebody’s father.

We left the festival and proceeded to a steakhouse near the theater. As the son of an Australian, I find that the Outback Steakhouse is always good for a laugh. I hadn’t been to one in a decade, and this time I was pleasantly surprised to find that they’d finally added lamb to menu. I had a gin and tonic while we waited for our table – Lloyd opted for beer, Melanie for a glass of wine, my ex- and her little sister settling for iced tea. I had forgotten that my stomach was devoid of food, my breakfast having consisted of a Big Gulp and a single donut, and by the time we were seated I was quite wobbly. This happens all the time – my genetics were provided by England, Scotland, Australia, and possibly Mexico, and yet I still can’t hold my liquor. This is not to say that I hurled all over their nice hardwood floors, but I was definitely one and a half, if not two sheets to the wind. I had a lovely meal of chicken breast topped with cheese and bacon, french fries, and 4 baby back ribs, washed down with two or three cups of coffee.

We finished up our food and went over to the theater. Lloyd, my ex- (Jennifer, for the record), and I got tickets for “District 9”, with Melanie and her youngest daughter (Heather, also for the record) opting for a romantic comedy rather than a flick where humanoid waterbugs rip people’s heads off. Halfway through the second act, my pocket begins vibrating. I check my phone to see the name of  the expectant mother of my expected child in tiny black letters. I excuse myself, squeeze through the crowd, and exit the theater, answering the phone just as I entered the hall leading into the lobby.

She talked. I listened. The conversation was pleasant enough. She told me she’d been down to Wal-Mart to price cribs, strollers, and car seats – in fact, she found a stroller with a detachable car seat for $140. Something in my stomach turned to cotton. My heart started pounding in my chest – I swear it was spelling out something in Morse code:

I am going to be somebody’s father.

I told her that I have to go but I’d call her back that evening. I returned to the theater to finish the movie – its a sad tale, but I’m not here to write a review for a movie you’ll probably end up seeing anyway. We all piled into Lloyd’s big red sedan and drove back to their home, where my car is waiting for me, silly little Saturn grill smiling at me as we turn into the driveway. Jennifer and I said our goodbyes and drove over to her current boyfriend’s home, where we proceed to spend hours discussing Linux, videos games, old roleplaying games, and eventually food, which leads, eventually, to eating out again. Ben, Jen, and I headed out to Chili’s, where I had a bacon cheeseburger and they opted for meals  I can’t quite recall at this time. A conversation about computers led to a conversation about drugs, inevitably leading back to computers.

We dropped Ben off at his house and began the trek to take Jen home to Palo Alto, stopping at a 7-11 for what would be my 11th cup of coffee that day. As I walked back to the car I saw two teenaged boys on the far, darkened end of the parking lot, listening to Metallica as they sat on the trunk of their vehicle. I didn’t have to ask what was up – they were young and stupid enough to frequent the sort of drug dealer who makes you meet them at a convenience store. I sipped my coffee and thought about the child I am expecting, wondering if she’ll be that stupid.

I conveniently forgot to call back the expectant mother of my expected child.

We took the bridge across the Bay. My beverage made a valiant effort to keep my eyes open. My Pixies record was still playing, this time quietly. I talked to Jen and tried not to rant or complain about life. I told her about the kids waiting on their car and what I thought they were doing. I told her that I was afraid to drive back because I felt like I was falling asleep at the wheel, and she offered me her floor to sleep on. We get back to her apartment and suddenly I’m wide awake. We played World of Warcraft. She went to sleep, so I put on one of her Babylon 5 videos and tried to do the same. It doesn’t work.

I lay there listening to Peter Jurasik go on and on about quiet people moving the Universe and loud people getting all the credit. My heart beat steadily and hard like a sledgehammer pounding in railroad spikes. My stomach was so stuffed with food that its like a bowling ball in my stomach – I flashed on a Tori Amos song, then on the mother of my expected child. In my head, creeping paranoia duked it out with leaping paranoia, while cold indifference watched from miles away, or possibly read a fantasy novel on it’s smartphone.

I am going to be somebody’s father, and I am little more an overgrown child.

I don’t remember why that Primitive Radio Gods song crept into my mind. The caffeine advanced and receded within me like weak surf gently crashing on the rocks. My body wanted to sleep but my mind just kept on going, and it wasn’t the actual thoughts that bothered me, but the speed at which they were flowing through me. The paralysis of sleep would come over me but my brain wouldn’t stop. My conscious mind would suddenly find itself free of its moorings and decide to drift, but some aspect of consciousness stayed open, jammed into place by coffee. The numbness which enveloped me at that point frightened me, and I would jerk awake, fearing that if I let it take me I’d never come back. So I laid there, my arms raised up towards the ceiling out of concern that I might have been having a heart attack. The sampled voice of B.B. King repeated softly, seeming to come from the back of my skull.

“I been downhearted, baby. I been downhearted, baby – ever since the day we met.”

It went on like this for what seemed like hours. Finally I pulled myself up onto the tiny couch, elevating my feet to quell my delusions of cardiac arrest. I closed my eyes and began to drift, finally too tired to resist the current which was carrying me off to dreamland.

That’s when I saw her – blue green eyes, broad shoulders, a slim waist curving into almost impossible hips. She had the sort of build you only see on women with a genetic propensity to be heavy but who would do anything to fend off the inevitable. A sporty girl, perhaps 17 or 18, with shoulder length hair, dyed the sort of red that only comes in bottles. Despite her age, she already had those fine lines on  the sides of her eyes, but none by her lips. In fact, I had the distinct impression that her mouth wouldn’t know a smile if it had jumped up and bitten her. She wore a big white t-shirt someone had written “FUCK YOU” across with one of those big fat black magic markers, and a pair of incredibly tight khaki shorts. She was beautiful, and under normal circumstances I might have found her incredibly enticing… but I knew in an instant who she was.

She hated me. I was her father, and she hated me.

I jerked awake. I put on the TV and watched Montel Williams try to sell juicers or something for another hour or so. The song kept echoing in my head, its lyrics completely meaningless within the context of what I was feeling and thinking. I was so grateful to be in the dark.

100ThemeChallenge – Light

How that monkey got ahold of that million candle power spotlight, I don’t think we’ll ever know, but I had to tell the court something.

“Y’see, your honor,” I began, clearing my throat, “it all started back when I was in my senior year at Time Warner University,” — I inwardly prayed that name-dropping a prestigious college would score me points with the mostly affluent jury — “back in spring of 2317. I was working on my BA in Genetic Engineering, and I was working in the lab late one night with some other students and this one guy, Skylar, we used to know.” I tried to formulate my next statement carefully, a truth drug administered by the bailiff engaged in a knock-down, drag-out fight with the counter agent my lawyer had given me before the trial. “Nobody really liked Skylar, y’see, but he had the best weed ever.”

Good, I thought. You said weed instead of tobacco.

“Anyway, my friend Hamid – he was from Tulsa – Hamid was all fascinated by this experiment they did in back around the turn of the century. The Oregon Regional Primate Research center took genes from a jellyfish and grafted them into the ova of a monkey. Well, two hundred and twenty four ova, to be exact.”

I swallowed nervously and then smiled at the Judge, ignoring the jury entirely. She didn’t bother to look up from her computer screen, and I couldn’t recognize the pattern that reflected off her glasses. My little sister had been a lawyer for a short time, before the accident, and her second clone had grown up obsessed with the history of the legal profession. The topic of her master’s thesis was the trial of a former professional athlete who’d been accused of killing his ex-wife and her boyfriend. Apparently it had been big news in its day, dominating the old news infrastructure for five straight years. I could imagine how frustratingly boring that must have been – she only worked on that paper for a year and I was already sick of hearing about it three months in. The only part that really stuck with me, though, was a humorous little snippet about the Judge – Hirohito was his name, I think. She said it was a well known fact that he – that was, of course, back when men could still be judges – spent the entire trial playing a video game called “Doom.” I wondered what game my judge was playing. Probably “Hangman.”

“Only forty of those eggs could be fertilized,” I went on, mopping my brow, “and only five of them managed to implant. Of those five pregnancies, only three were born live, and of those three, only one had the jellyfish gene, and it only glowed if you put it under a blacklight.”

“Objection, your honor,” the prosecuting attorney interrupted, raising a massive, barnacle-encrusted claw. She clicked her mandibles impatiently and said: “Testimony is irrelevant and boring.”

“Overruled,” replied the judge, not taking her eyes off the screen. “Continue, young man.”  The prosecutor sat back down in a huff, one of her tentacles flicking slightly in irritation.

“Well, it was late, mid-terms were over, and our lab had just received its first Lifeform Replicator – I know, you can get one at Wal-Mart these days, but back then it was a really big deal for a university lab to get the funding for one. Anyway, we were pretty high, and Hamid and his boyfriend were all ‘Hey, lets see if we can recreate that experiment!’ So I went down to the marine biology lab and raided the specimen tanks while Velma went back to her cell at the convent to get one of the rhesus monkeys she kept to feed her two-headed pythons. By the time she got back with one we we’d already gutted and gene-mapped the jellyfish and a few squid just for good measure.” I reached for my glass of water but took the judge’s by mistake. When its contents turned out to be vodka, I inwardly praised L Ron Hubbard. “Velma harvested the entire contents of the monkey’s ovaries and then we went to work. It took us until sunrise to get the genetic matrix setup properly, and by that time were all so baked and exhausted that right after I turned on the replicator we all passed out. When I woke up that afternoon the lab was filled with monkeys – man, they were everywhere!”

“How many monkeys would you say there were, Mister Oppenheimer?” my attorney asked.

“It was a long time ago,” I responded, sheepishly, “but I think the surveillance scanners put the number at three hundred and twenty five.” The judge choked a bit upon hearing this.

“Young man,” she said, rising anger in her tone, “are you quite sure you accounted for them all?”

“Your honor,” my attorney interrupted, “you’re not suggesting that my client is responsible for New York City’s ongoing monkey problem, are you? Because, if you are, I’m afraid I’m going to have to move for a mistrial.” Her hand moved to the large red button on the desk in front of her.

My sister’s clone told me once that, back in the 20th century, “mistrial” meant that the current proceeding was scrapped and a new trial had to be scheduled – it had absolutely nothing to do with electrocution.

“Please continue, Mr. Oppenheimer,” the judge said politely.

“Well, no,” I murmured, “I’m not sure that we got them all. That’s really the whole point. Y’see, the monkeys were, well, weird. They weren’t like your usual feeder monkeys. The first one had already mastered American Sign Language by the time I woke up. In the time it took me to wake the other guys up, twelve of them had already applied to graduate school, and two of them had signed record contracts with an independent label. I was afraid of what would happen to my chances of getting into the masters program at McDonalds Technical Institute if they weren’t stopped soon. Luckily, Greenpeace had an office on campus, and those guys were usually armed to the teeth, so we raided their armory and methodically swept from lab to lab killing the little buggers. You might have heard about it, your honor – it got us on Oprah. I mean, y’know, before she attained enlightenment.”

“Praised be the Bodhisattva,” intoned the bailiff.

“Praised be the Bodhisattva!” responded the gallery. That part always creeped me out.

“Can we get on with this, your honor?” the prosecutor asked, snorting with derision.

“Anyway, after graduation,” I continued, a lump forming in my throat, “I really didn’t give them a second thought. I graduated, went to MTI for a while, dropped out, followed some clones of the Grateful Dead around for a few decades, and ended up a window washer at the Ohio Mega-Ziggurat for. Thats where I met my wife. She decided in fall of ’35 that we were going to move back to New York. I hooked up with a window washing crew that works the old Freedom Tower. The money is good and I get great benefits but –” the prosecutor hovered a claw over the big red button on her desk, daring me to continue “–well, anyway, its 3AM, August fifth, and I’m up on this scaffolding washing the hundred and fourteenth story. My visor gets all fogged up so I wipe it off and when the plexi-glass is clear I see this monkey.”

“The same species of monkey as in your experiment?” asked my attorney.

“Oh yeah – spitting image of Velma’s feeder,” I replied. “And she had this big flashlight, like the kind they used to take on camp-outs when there was still wilderness and hot dogs were still legal. So I’m stunned… just… stunned. She looks straight into my eyes… sorta smiles at me. Then we both notice this blimp going by. We both stare at the blimp for a few seconds, then she turned on the flashlight. Damn, it was bright.” I took another swig of the vodka. “She just about blinded me with it, and then she turned it on the blimp. Her eyes sorta glowed green for a second, and suddenly the beam coming from the flashlight turned this deep, intense sort of red. The blimb caught fire, and started plummeting from the sky real fast. It crashed down on top of Madison Square Garden, right in the middle of roller derby… I knew that cuz my wife was there competing that night…” The judge looked horror stricken. “Oh, don’t worry, she survived. She’s tough.” I cleared my throat again. “Well, yeah, anyway, I’m guessing the monkey had developed some sort of psychokinetic ability whereby it could manipulate and intensify active light sources, in this case turning a simple flashlight into an powerful laser weapon. So what could I do? I jumped into my powered armor, activated my jetpack and –”

“Objection, your honor!” the prosecutor shouted in rage. “This has absolutely nothing to do with Mr. Oppenheimer’s five unpaid parking tickets!”

The entire court fell silent.

“Sustained,” the judge coolly replied. “This trial has become extremely silly.”

“What do you suggest we do, your honor?” asked a giant inflatable duck.

“Oh, let’s just execute him and go out to the cinema. The Regency is playing an old Monty Python movie.” Everyone pressed their red buttons simultaneously, and a sixteen ton weight fell from the ceiling, crushing me flat.

And I lived happily ever after.

EDITOR’S NOTE: We would like to apologize for the content of this story. The author was originally tasked with writing a story about a futuristic light bulb fetishist acting out a sexually charged scene in her basement with a manwhore, but, well, he’s not a very good writer, and he’s usually drunk. When I came in Monday morning I found him sprawled out on my desk, smelling of bathtub Irish cream and covered in those self-adhesive flowers people put on their bathtubs to stop their grandmothers from falling and breaking their hips. The above story was written in magic marker on the inside cover of a first printing of Beowulf. It took my secretary hours to decipher and transcribe. Please, if you see the author anywhere near a liquor store or drinking establishment, call 911. Thank you.

100ThemeChallenge — Love

100ThemesChallenge #2: “Love”

“[Love]! Why did it have to be [Love]?”
Indiana Jones, sort of

“I hate it when people misquote movies,” the old lizard repeated to himself, licking his lidless eyes thoughtfully.

Genoquan had been on this planet for less than a local decade, and it’d grown tedious by the end of the first week. He had a job to do, though, and he was very good at it, or, at least, lucky. Luck didn’t come easily to his species – every casino they’d ever built on the planet Qual-Zang-Veng-Bug-do, or Joe’s Star 7 as the Earthlings designated it, had managed to economically ravage the surrounding communities. These people might have been massive aquatic reptiles with a serious genetic advantage in the areas of  biochemical research, but they were terrible poker players, even worse at craps, and totally unrepentant suckers when it came to slot machines. Sadly, the result of this was that, despite having cured all forms of cancer in terrestrial lifeforms, they came away from century’s worth of goodwill up to their four armpits in debt to the Intergalactic Native American Consortium. INAC might have been infamous for their revenue recovery tactics – they were still finding fragments of the last planet to default on a loan – but they were quite generous to their employees, which was what eventually landed Geno in their genetics lab in Oakhurst, California.

“Another sparkling white wine, please,” Geno asked a bartender over the intercom. A slender, perfectly formed barmaid (probably a clone) appeared suddenly, setting down a crystal champagne flute on the table next to him. He could hear the increased heart rate of his lab partner, Velma, as the barmaid turned to her.

“And for you, honey?” she asked. Velma gulped – Geno could smell the adrenaline increase in her. The middle-aged woman sputtered a bit, but couldn’t quite form any words. Finally, she shook her head, and looked down at her fries.

“Uh, well,” the barmaid smiled nervously, sharing some of the same symptoms as the older woman, “if you need anything, just holler, ‘kay?” She paused a moment, as if waiting for something, turned, and walked over to take orders from another table.

For the most part, Geno didn’t like humans. He tried to. He really wanted to, but they were complicated, and his life didn’t need any more complications. He’d worked with Velma for just under a year, and found her to be one of the few hominids he could stand to talk to in his off-hours. By the popular standards of the species, she was fairly unattractive — short, just over two meters tall, with almond shaped eyes that were too close together and a nose which was totally unlike the sharp, pointy muzzles you saw on the fashion pages or in Congress. If she’d been born a few centuries ago she might have undergone a bit of plastic surgery to make herself more desirable. However, the latest incarnation of Krishna had forbidden this.

“Jesus Batman Christ, Velma,” Geno exclaimed with one mouth while drinking from the other, “why don’t you just ask her out? You’ve been playing this game for months and its getting really old.” He really wanted her to get a girlfriend – it would’ve made their conversations a lot more interesting than the daily whining sessions she engaged in after a few martinis. She swallowed a mouth full of potato and added a big glob of ketchup to her plate.

“You know I can’t,” she replied meekly. “We’ve been through all this before. It just…” The rest of the sentence was stuck in her throat, leaving her mouth empty. She filled the void with more fries.

“’It just’ what?” he responded in a mocking tone. His scales rippled like a wave across his half-naked back as he struggled to choke back a stream of unfair insults, but he found himself unable to completely hold them down, finally settling on: “Damn, you’re pathetic!”

“Oh, what do you know?” she spat back, angrily. Velma had endured Geno’s abuse for months now and she was about at her wit’s end, but she wasn’t a particularly aggressive woman. Still, a response like that could not go unpunished. “You’ve been divorced five times!”

“And you’ve never even had a girlfriend,” he muttered, smiling. Raising his voice a bit, he continued, a heaping tablespoon of sarcasm mixed in with his tone: “Those zero-gravity orgies you used to attend back at the Convent don’t count!” His left tongue whipped out like a bolt of lightening, returned with a bundle of french fries.

“Knock that shit off, ‘Jar-Jar’,” she spat, “its fucking disgusting.”

“Look,” he explained calmly, “her blood flow increases 20% when she’s talking to you. There’s a 34% increase in her salivary production. Her hormone production goes through the frickin’ roof when you’re around, and she hasn’t even been exposed to your sebaceous secretions yet! This chick’s already in love you with you. I bet she goes to sleep at every night dreaming about having your thighs wrapped around her…”

“That’s enough!” she interjected, suddenly flushed.

“And I told you about that ‘Jar-Jar’ crap!” he snarled. He took a tiny sip of his sparkling wine, swishing it around in his left mouth and transferring some of it, via osmosis, into his right. He relaxed a bit, a smile breaking across both mouths. “I just worry about you, is all. You’re missing out on something that could be really good for you. Life isn’t just gene-splicing and karaoke, girl.”

“I know,” she murmured, trying not to let it bother her so much. “I just… I mean, yeah, I think she digs me. I think she’d go out with me… might even be my girlfriend. But what then? What if we get all intertwined and she moves in with me and then one night I wake up and she’s packed her bags and all I see is a note that says ‘sorry, but you fart in your sleep’.”

“Trust me,” he laughed, “it ain’t just in your sleep. Maybe the other monkeys can’t hear it, but I’m with you every day in that meat-locker they call a genetics lab. You need to lay off frozen burritos.”

“Its not funny – my doctor says he’s going to have to inject me with butt-worms if my test comes back positive.”

“Hey,” he replied, a hint of bitterness in his voice, “you need to appreciate those things. They’re the reason my dad didn’t come to any of my recitals.” He sipped a bit more wine, pausing to try to frame his next statement better. “Love’s an awful risk, Velma. My second wife left me because I kept leaving the gazelle de-boner out. The gazelle de-boner, for Krishna’s sake!” His gaze lowered, the bitterness increasing.  “I made good money. I could have bought her one of those automatic thingies – I even had my lawyer send her a letter promising her one, and stock in the company that made it, if she’d just come back and finish incubating our eggs.”

“Shit,” Velma groaned, breaking into a smile, for once, “she sounds like a total bitch.” She paused for a moment, staring at the barmaid as she bent over a table to collect dirty glasses. Her eyes lingered over the curve of the woman’s hips before she asked: “What if this girl’s a total bitch, too?”

“You never even got her name, did you?” he asked, pity in three of his eyes. “Its Amiko.”

He drained the remainder of his glass, and the ridges on his forehead smoothed, a sign that any Quanesian knew from the earliest days of childhood, signifying that he was about to share something he considered a hard fact of life.

“You’re probably not going to marry this woman. You’re probably going to date her for awhile, maybe have some good sex — go to a few fun parties — get a drunk a time or two. You’ll take her to the zoo, make out on the Ferris Wheel at the boardwalk, and she’ll win you a stuffed animal playing skee-ball. You could get tired of her and break up. You could catch her winning some other chick a cupie doll. She could lull you into a false sense of security and then rob you blind, selling all your furniture to buy crack. Maybe she’s got anger issues and she might rough you up once or twice, and maybe you’ll be stupid enough to let her. And all of that crap could happen after you’ve gotten married or even had some kids together.”

Geno extended a clawed hand towards Velma’s plate and gingerly selected a french fry, popping it into his mouth.

“Or,” he grinned, “she could be the one you’re destined to be with, and you could live” — he snorted — “happily ever after.”

“Yeah,” she responded through a mouth full of half-chewed potato, “that’s what I’m worried about.”

“The other option, of course, is to just sit there and eat fries like a moron, and go back to an empty apartment, again,” he stated flatly, no hint of emotion on either set of lips. “Its up to you.”

Geno’s left tongue lashed out again, scooping up the last of the fries and depositing them into his right mouth. He chewed quickly, swallowed, and left loose a belch so loud it shook the table. Velma gave him a disgusted look but remained silent. This time, both mouths were smiling.

“Now,” he slid his glass to the edge of the table, “I want more booze. Shall I call for the barmaid?”