scottums

Apotheosis

Thu, 10 Jul 2008 19:25:30 GMT

A bit of flash fiction. As always, leave comments.
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It seems simple enough. A bronze tube about a foot long. Some flowing script in a foreign tongue etched in the side. It looked like it wouldn't be out of place in an import shop selling fair trade bric-a-brac. Of course, most of their merchandise isn't capable of killing through mystical and arcane means. Those shops would a lot more popular.

My assistant was preparing the storage box for it to rest. "The retrieval team showed me video of what happened. Bainbridge actually melted. It was right out of Indiana Jones."

I stared at him with disapproval, "While Bainbridge was a dangerous cult leader and a thorn in our side for quite a while, I don't think it's proper to watch his demise with a bag of popcorn."

"Sorry sir," my assistant mumbled. He then said, "But why did he did commit suicide? His followers would have died defending him."

"I don't understand."

"Why didn't he use The Wrath of God on the team? I'm glad he didn't, but still…"

"The Wrath of…" I was trying to figure out what my assistant was talking about. A not uncommon experience. I realize his mistake. "You use the computer translator again."

"Well….." my assistant was defensive.

"You cannot cheat in this line of work. You must study and learn and think for yourself. Your brain in your most important tool, not an AK-47, not tana powder, and not a computer." I despair of this generation.

"So what is it called?"

"Apotheosis. The computer probably thought 'pain' was meant as the pain of an enemy dying when it fact it is referring to pain as in labor pains."

"Wait. You mean that," he pointed to the metal tube "can make you a god?" My assistant eyes lit up. Oh dear, I know that look.

"It can and Bainbridge knew it. He studied. But his ego failed to see a basic requirement. Most humans are sheep. It's not their fault. Life rarely calls on them to expand their horizons. Even we can be a bit blinkered. But Bainbridge thought he was the master of all he surveyed. He thought all this would do was give him the power of a god. He never thought it through. It a shame, he had a good mind once."

My assistant's quizzical expression made me comment, "Much better than yours. Can't you see the mistake?"

"Umm…"

I sighed. "Let's imagine that a man who has led a sedentary lifestyle, ate all the wrong foods, etc. was called upon to run the New York Marathon. What would happen?"

"He's dropped dead." The light dawned for my assistant. "So Bainbridge's mind wasn't ready for the godhead."

"Exactly. Most people can barely handle being human. Bainbridge was so bad at it, he thought being becoming a deity was the answer. It is a shame, he did have potential." I place the tube in the box and sealed it.

A bit more from The Greatest Army

Wed, 09 Jul 2008 17:59:37 GMT

More from The Greatest Army. Comments, as always, are welcome

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Finally we arrived at the corpse factory. I was looking for some clue of its evil purpose but it looked like any manufacturing plant. As the small train continued, I could see several buildings: a power plant, a barracks, and a main building which we were now pulling in.

General Kopfer said "To fully demonstrate our operations, we are following the process where we take the material into the facility for processing."

"The dead bodies," I said. Kopfer flinched a little and said "Ja."

Kopfer's aide then pulled out several wads of cotton masks with strings attached out a nearby box. They resembled the masks the hospital personnel wore. He also grabbed a bottle, opened it, and sprinkled a small amount of liquid on a mask. He handed the first one to me. It smelled of lavender.

"As you can imagine, the facility can be somewhat malodorous. These will help."

The train finally stopped inside the main building. We stepped off into a large room lit with electric lights. I could see the floor was stained unusual colors and antiseptic penetrated the lavender. Several men in medical smocks and similar masks started to take the boxes off the storage car behind us. "The material is offloaded and taken by the staff to the sorting room," the general indicated with a sweep of his hand.

We stepped into another room with several tables. Already the staff was beginning their work. They picked through the bodily remains like rag pickers sorting through trash. Anything that looked reasonably intact was put on the tables. A head scored with shrapnel, a torso with the left arm still attached, and a body complete but riddled with machine gun fire. I was becoming dizzy not only with the offal of war but the businesslike tone the staff had. When something was pulled for a crate, they made comment about this body needed the bullets removed before continuing, how they needed a right index finger to restore a hand, or that the heart or lungs could be salvaged from a chest. Other staff members were calmly taking all this chatter down on clip boards and placing numbered tags on these remains.

The Baron asked, "There are no English in this?"

"Nein," Kopfer answered, "our procurers are quite careful to bring back the sons of the Fatherland so they can serve once more."

The general continued his speech, "These sorters will take the notes and collate them to see what can be reconstructed. After that, the parts are then taken to the surgery for repair."

The Greatest Army

Tue, 08 Jul 2008 13:56:28 GMT

Finally beginning on my WWI horror piece, "The Greatest Army". Still rough but I thought I'd put it out there for comment. Please do comment.
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They attacked in the dawn. Despite the mud, the rats, and the near constant shelling, my men were well trained and were at station. It didn't matter. One of the Germans took a five second barrage from one of our guns and he merely got back up and started again.

I heard Perkins scream, "Franks! It's bloody Franks!" I ordered him silent, but he was just stating allowed what we all could see. No one knew what the German term was for this new soldier. They were sheathed in rumor: they had the strength of ten men, they ran across No Man's Land quick as lightning, and they were damn near impossible to kill. And all wore gasmasks making them less like men and more like monsters. And now they were coming for me and my men.

I ordered the men to deploy bayonets and moved to the phone to inform HQ and one of their grenades hit. I should of anticipated that their supposed strength would increase the distance of the thrown grenades but even I was a bit panicked by the Franks. I was instantly buried under dirt and wooden planking. Half dazed and half buried, I could do nothing to watch my men be butchered. In my concussed state, it seems like a nightmare, but I knew it was real. I saw the Franks pour over the lip of the trench. They didn't even bother to use small arms or bayonets. They tore Perkins' arm clean off. Young McGregor who had lied about his age to serve was decapitated by a Frank's bare hands. I will never forget the sounds of bones breaking with the screams. None of my men's bayonets and even rifles at point blank range could stop these demons.

Because of my buried state, the Franks thought I was already dead. So they allowed their true nature to come out. They removed the gasmasks. In all the reports and rumors, none had ever seen one of the Frank's faces, looked his enemy in the eye. At first, they would too far away from me to see any detail, but I could see that their skin was sallow and looked more akin to a corpse than a healthy soldier. Could they have been administered some from of opium or morphine can produced their enhanced state but at the cost of their general health. But then they started… to eat the flesh of my men. I felt my sanity start to slip. The Franks grunted with pleasure as they gnawed on arms, legs, and torsos.

One of them came close to me to retrieve an arm and I saw his… its face. It was wrong. One eye was a normal brown but the other was blue with a milky cataract over it. The jaw was too big for the rest of his face. One side looked as if it was missing its cheek bones. The face had several stitches running across it, seemingly holding the amalgam together. But it what was behind those mismatched eyes that scared me the most. I could sense intelligence but it was not human. Only then did I truly wonder if the men were set upon by demons. They retreated after getting their fill and I receded into black bliss.

Some self promotion

Fri, 22 Jun 2007 15:12:31 GMT

http://needcoffee.ning.com/

That the address of Needcoffee's new forum with a ton more features but with the same hyper-caffeinated madness. Why not give it a try.

I'm alive

Mon, 18 Sep 2006 12:40:38 GMT

I figure this would be quicker than email so... I've been sick. Only with fever though. Now I had chills and sweats and associated stuff with it but no chest or head congestion. I been able to do little things like wash all the sheets and pajamas I sweated through. But I have been mostly laying on the couch watching bad TV. God help me, I want to be well.

Thu, 24 Aug 2006 21:50:42 GMT

Brilliant idea from porphyre

What with the Washington State Supreme Court handing down its anti-gay-marriage decision several weeks ago and the ever-hearing more about attacks on reproductive rights down south, I'm feeling that the States is tripping a bit too merrily down the Handmaid's path.

This week, I found a way to strike back.

Focus on the Family, the horrid anti-gay evangelical church based in Colorado Springs that wields too much power for anyone's good, has a store on their website that will give you books, CDs, and DVDs absolutely free of charge. Usually people pay for their items by donation, raising millions of dollars to help Focus on the Family produce more hate-propaganda featuring "experts" on homosexuality who claim it's a curable "sickness". (They're practically defined by their book A Parent's Guide to Preventing Homosexuality. Course, there's no mention of having less kids, which is the only proven method. No, no, you shouldn't use birth control, that would be wrong. They need more worshippers, how dare you prevent god's will.)

It's a little bit time-consuming, but not enough to deter me. (Nor should it you). The chance to take money out of their pockets is too useful, not to mention satisfying.

Here's how to do it in 10 steps:

1. Go to www.family.org and look for the "Resources" link in the blue bar on the left-hand side, right above the "Search" box, and click it.

2. Under the "Resource Category" menu on the left-hand side, you'll notice categories such as "Homosexuality" under "Resource Category." Me, I went straight to the CD's and DVD's under "Resource Format."

3. Go through, find something you like, such as the recently released movie, The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe or The Chronicles of Narnia Radio Theatre Complete Set, suggested donation US $79.00, or the three disc Les Misérables soundtrack. It's not a very wide range of products, but there's bound to be something either you like or you could use as a sweet gift for someone else. Click the "Add to Cart" button.

They won't send more than $100 worth of materials for free in any given shopping trip, so be sure to go through a few times, until you're sure you've dinged them.

4. Select "Add New Shipping Address," decide to send it yourself or someone else, and once you're done picking up to $100, click "Proceed to Checkout." Some people have been sending items to themselves to sell later on eBay, some have been ordering the more controversial items as conversation pieces or educational props, (as anti-anti-propaganda), but I plan on using mine as gifts, mostly. I've found no reports on receiving Focus on the Family junk mail after inputting an address, so I figure it's fairly safe.

5. The next screen asks you to sign-up for an account and give your information. Fill it out with fictitious information, enter whatever name and address you like. You might want to make up a phone number too and an e-mail account too. After filling out all the required fields, click "Proceed to Checkout" one more time.

6. This will take you to the "Here is Your Cart" page. You may have to re-enter your data again after this part to actually confirm your account. Eventually, you'll get to the "How Much Would You Like to Donate?" page.

7. Select "Enter other total amount" and enter 0.00 as the amount you would like to pay. (Don't put in a dollar sign or it will ask you for credit-card information.) Don't be fooled by the field in the lower-right-hand corner that shows you the suggested donation amounts, simply Proceed to Checkout.

8. The next screen is a guilt screen, to make you feel bad about how little you donated. ignore it. Ignore it utterly. Think of how many people they're persecuted and had in their "gay kids can be cured" camps. Just proceed to checkout again.

9. Click "Checkout Now."

10. Finally, pass this information on to all your friends. They've got money to back them, we have word of mouth, let's see if we can win.

Mon, 24 Jul 2006 16:45:54 GMT

http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=5578249 - NPR's Fresh Air talks to the authors of One Party Country. (audio)

I know, I know I keep harping on this but this shit is bad. The government is not suppose to be a part of the Republican Party. Or any party. And nothing substantitive is being done to stop it. The Democrats are still a mess and the netroots are powerful enough. Is it going to take another Great Depression or even a complete metldown like the Soviet Union for people to figure out this that isn't a good idea.

Things are better

Mon, 19 Jun 2006 13:18:45 GMT

I can't really go into detail but let's just say I took the bull by the horns on part of my situation. If you're really curious, email me.

Do I have to move to get a date?

Wed, 07 Jun 2006 14:09:24 GMT

Yes, I'm finally breaking down and using LiveJournal to bitch and complain and go TMI so there's a cut to protect you if you're not interested.

I am a late blommer. So I have zero experience with dating and sex, forget about it. I'm also gay, so that adds an extra level of complecation. I've checked out several dating web sites and while I've found a few guys that looked interesting, they have come to nothing. I'm been to the one gay bar (that I know of) in town a few times but nothing came of that either. I wonder if the pool in Tallhassee is too small or I'm not trying hard enough. Or are my requirements too high since I'd like a guy who doesn't focus on looks too much, pateince for my lack of experience, and maybe a little geeky too. I'm not looking for the love of my life, I'd be happy with a 'freind with privledges'.

What a pain in the ass.

I am...

Thu, 06 Apr 2006 12:01:56 GMT

I am the girl kicked out of her home because I confided in my mother that I am a lesbian.

I am the prostitute working the streets because nobody will hire a transsexual woman.

I am the sister who holds her gay brother tight through the painful, tear-filled nights.

We are the parents who buried our daughter long before her time.

I am the man who died alone in the hospital because they would not let my partner of twenty-seven years into the room.

I am the foster child who wakes up with nightmares of being taken away from the two fathers who are the only loving family I have ever had. I wish they could adopt me.

I am one of the lucky ones, I guess. I survived the attack that left me in a coma for three weeks, and in another year I will probably be able to walk again.

I am not one of the lucky ones. I killed myself just weeks before graduating high school. It was simply too much to bear.

We are the couple who had the realtor hang up on us when she found out we wanted to rent a one-bedroom for two men.

I am the person who never knows which bathroom I should use if I want to avoid getting the management called on me.

I am the mother who is not allowed to even visit the children I bore, nursed, and raised. The court says I am an unfit mother because I now live with another woman.

I am the domestic-violence survivor who found the support system grow suddenly cold and distant when they found out my abusive partner is also a woman.

I am the domestic-violence survivor who has no support system to turn to because I am male.

I am the father who has never hugged his son because I grew up afraid to show affection to other men.

I am the home-economics teacher who always wanted to teach gym until someone told me that only lesbians do that.

I am the man who died when the paramedics stopped treating me as soon as they realized I was transsexual.

I am the person who feels guilty because I think I could be a much better person if I didn’t have to always deal with society hating me.

I am the man who stopped attending church, not because I don't believe, but because they closed their doors to my kind.

I am the person who has to hide what this world needs most, love.

Please repost this if you believe that homophobia is wrong.

A little word streaming

Wed, 05 Apr 2006 13:31:07 GMT

Here's a little something I wrote from a writing exercise. Since it's kinda odd, I thought I'd share.

Set the pot to boil.
The beef is prepared.
The soup will be ready soon.
I sharpened my pencil.
I would write an extensive description about the dish.
The paper will overflow with by brilliance.
It is amazing how my talent never hits bottom.
Now the recipe for the soup does call for donkey.
But I'm sure the substitution will still taste like a pleasant dream.

When I'm finished with this piece, I will sleep.
My bed will welcome me.
Although the sheet may need airing out.
Ah but the drug I take will make any inconvenience meaningless.
The pill will wash away all cares.
Especially when chased with a shot of whisky.

The bread will complement the soup.
The butter must be softened.
And the peanuts must be shelled.
The alcohol is already taking effect.
Hello little monkey.
Is that key for me?

So where's our trophy?

Tue, 14 Mar 2006 02:20:02 GMT

Yes, we won the award for Best-Kept-Secret Blog. Of course since we won, I doubt we're in conpetition for next year. It's very cool to be part of this strange enterprise called Needcoffee.

How evil are you?

Wed, 08 Mar 2006 17:10:19 GMT

You Are 46% Evil

You are evil, but you haven't yet mastered the dark side.
Fear not though - you are on your way to world domination.

How Evil Are You?

Unlucky for the Rabbit

Sun, 05 Mar 2006 15:43:03 GMT

Widge has another Fiction Frenzy at Needcoffee, so here's my entry. As always, comments welcome.

Unlucky for the Rabbit
by Scott Campbell

"And this is one of our monitor suites, General." The room resembled any studio control room with a wall of video monitors, various consoles and computers manned by personnel in lab coats. All the screens have one man on them, an ordinary looking man in a suit with stains on the pants and jacket of his suit. He stands in a subway station, clearly exhausted, but all the benches are occupied.

"As you can see, we are currently observing subject 'Fred'." The man occupying the general tapped a few keys and on one of the larger screen displays a close-up of the man. Several small cuts could be seen on his cheerless face. On the corner of the screen in green letters: "March 3, 17:46 EST Subject: Fred Test: Bad Luck Level 2"

"Well, he looks like he's had a shitty day," said the General.

"Exactly. We have been able to induce 14 bad luck days for Fred alone."

"Now Dr. Smith, according to your reports, you can create the opposite."

"Oh yes, we had combat teams carry the focusing agents in simulated combat scenarios and there was improvement in accuracy, completion time, everything." Dr. Smith practically glowed with pride. "And of course, the benefits of inducing bad luck onto an enemy political or military leader are obvious."

"So the project is going well?" the General asks innocently.

Dr. Smith's pride dimmed a little, "Yes, General Browne."

"I got an email that mentioned some problems. Are there any problems? It really is easier to tell the truth."

Dr. Smith considered. "There isn't a problem. It's more of a disagreement."

General Browne sat down and motioned Smith to continue.

"As you know, the luck is generated by projecting a sub atomic energy field over the target area. This alone doesn't affect anything on the macro level. That's why the focusing agent is required to concentrate the energy and cause the various sub atomic particles to synchronize their spin." Dr. Smith had appeared at several congressional and White House briefing, so was skilled at giving the very simple version. "But we discovered that a sentient mind was needed to shape that condition into influence events to be favorable or unfavorable for the subject. It seems to work on the subconscious level. Fred and the rest of our current subjects have no knowledge of the cause of their good luck or bad luck."

"So, where's the disagreement?"

Dr Smith sighed. "We've been reluctant to experiment with higher energy levels since there's a correlation between them and the unlikeness of the events experienced. There are concerns about something happening that might expose the project or kill innocent people. Now our tests on our subjects show that some of the subatomic particles are spinning in a synchronized fashion even after the energy field in turned off. These inconclusive results led a few of our scientists to think that there might be a buildup and cause a high probability spike. But it's doubtful…"

The General said "Tell me about subject Louis."

Dr. Smith sighed again. "During one of the tests, subject Louis happened to be involved in three bank robberies in a day. But we never established that was from a spike. There could be other factors that contributed to that admittedly unusual event. Now if something completely inexplicable happen…"
The General interrupted "Like being attacked by giant mutant alligators."

"Exactly" the doctor started to laugh but then he noticed that general wasn't looking at him but at the monitor. The doctor turned around and saw that Fred was backed into a corner of the subway station while alligators walking on two legs slowly advanced on him. The doctor sighed and said "I need to make a call."

Sci-Fi Quiz

Fri, 17 Feb 2006 17:43:34 GMT

From the lovely dindrane

You scored as Moya (Farscape). You are surrounded by muppets. But that is okay because they are your friends and have shown many times that they can be trusted. Now if only you could stop being bothered about wormholes.

</td>

Moya (Farscape)

75%

Babylon 5 (Babylon 5)

69%

Serenity (Firefly)

63%

Galactica (Battlestar: Galactica)

56%

Deep Space Nine (Star Trek)

56%

Millennium Falcon (Star Wars)

56%

FBI's X-Files Division (The X-Files)

56%

Nebuchadnezzar (The Matrix)

56%

Andromeda Ascendant (Andromeda)

50%

SG-1 (Stargate)

50%

Enterprise D (Star Trek)

44%

Bebop (Cowboy Bebop)

25%

Your Ultimate Sci-Fi Profile II: which sci-fi crew would you best fit in? (pics)
created with QuizFarm.com

Burden

Fri, 03 Feb 2006 20:18:35 GMT

Inspired in part by Needcoffee's Fiction Frenzy. As always, comments are appreciated.

Burden by Scott Campbell

The room was without adornment or distraction. This was a room where you were forced to concentrate on the matters at hand. The matter today was secured to a chair in the middle of the room. The man in that chair didn't look evil or mad. His expression was normal, for lack of a better word. The three people that sat in front of him studied this man who had destroyed billions. The woman in the center spoke to him.

"I am the Mysteriarch for this matter. I will decide how you and the events you caused will be solved for the good of all. These are my advisors." Her hands indicated the avian to her left and the ursine to her right. "Seven days ago, you gained possession of five solar disruptors, weapons of mass destruction that can cause stars to destabilize, even go nova. You then used these weapons on five stars, all of which contained inhabited worlds. You have caused the death of billions of sentient life forms. You have been examined and no biological abnormity has been found. Till this event, you have not associated with irrational influences. Therefore, we require your explanation for your actions. Truth is required."

The avian barked, "This is unnecessary. We only need to identify his conspirators and hunt them down. Surely a mind probe is all that is needed."

The ursine replied, "As I said when you argued this before, if this action was the result of some social disorder, we must address it before it can cause others to engage in irrational acts."

"Irrational acts! Five worlds and all their peoples are now cinders!"

The Mysteriarch raised her hand, "I require an explanation. That is all." She looked at the man in the chair.

The man looked at his judges and focused on the Mysteriarch, "And if the explanation is… uncomfortable?"

"That is why we are here. By breeding and training, I determine what will be done and what will be known for the best of all, without basis or favor." Her stare conveyed condescension. "I doubt your story will shock me."

A ghost of a smile appeared on the man's lips. "I wish I had such ability. What I know has driven me to…" He stopped, wincing at the thought. "I didn't want this. I discovered what I know by chance."

The ursine asked, "This was on your academic study on this pre-Contact world, Sol III?"

The man nodded. "I'm… I was a xenologist. The preliminary survey of this world has some anomalies, the possibility that they were visited and influenced by peoples alien to the natives. I was to find more evidence to confirm and determine their identity for possible legal action."

The avian piped in, "What is this group that acquired the devices?"

The man looked at him and laughed. The sound was bitter and contemptuous. "Oh no. It's far worse."

The Mysteriarch shot the avian a look and turned back to the prisoner. "Continue."

"I went to Earth; the natives call their world Earth, and started compiling information from their academic institutions. They have a natural curiosity of their origins and their past which helped me. As I was researching, I kept having this strange sense of familiarity. Certain religious ceremonies, ancient writings, and legends seem to indicate non-native contamination, but as my researches continued, I was experiencing a sense of … dread."

The prisoner breathed, gathering his strength. "You see, when I was a child, my mother cared for her father who was sick and not long for life. She had no one to care for me but I was a good child and she felt comfortable leaving me to play in the old family home. One day, I was in my grandfather's library and I found some books, so different from the rest. They talked of realms that were vast and inexplicable and alien gods that were mad and reveled in chaos. Of priests who worshipped these gods and made their followers cavort and dance to discordant rhythms. Of the great pain and suffering caused to gain notice from these beings. Of perverted sciences and magics and the abominations created by them."

The three were becoming more and more concerned by the prisoner's childhood experience. The avian screeched, "Do you speak of the ways practiced before the Rational Crusade?"

"Yes."

The avian flew out of his chair and screamed, "Obscenity! We should kill you now before your taint infects us!"

The ursine slunk lower in his chair, "Why did your grandfather have such books?"

"I did ask him before he died," the prisoner said. "He told me that without that dark knowledge, how could we know when such darkness would come again? How could we recognize it, fight it?"

"An interesting argument," pondered the ursine.

The avian looked at his colleague with disgust, "Interesting argument?! The Grand Armies of Rationality purged our stars of those mad cultists. Closed all portals to their domains. Destroyed all their damned tomes and writings. All to ensure that their cancer was cut out and burned. Keeping such books can only inflame and titillate weak minded fools to commit crime and atrocity."

"No!" The prisoner spoke with such force that the avian nearly lost his balance.

The Mysteriarch commanded calmly, "Please return to your seat." The avian complied.

"Don't you see?" The prisoner spoke with more passion, more force. "Earth was influenced by outside forces. By those dark forces we were told were destroyed. We didn't destroy them, they just went somewhere else. They went to Earth. They built their cities of peculiar angles and raised altars to the infinite void and to those vast beings that dwell there." The prisoner faltered. "But something happened. The cities fell and their gods were banished to dreams and the outer reaches of reality. I had hoped that this was the end of the threat."

"But in one book, one horrible book written by a madman addled by narcotics, it talked about how when the stars were right, they would come back. They would rise from the oceans and the earth and from the underside of reality and reclaim all that they lost. I dismissed it at first. A simple resurrection tactic to ensure the followers' obedience. But I checked and those stars would form the conjunction detailed. How could someone with telescopes with crude lenses track stars that take thousands of years in their movements? Then I knew. It was all true. All of it. And it was coming back. I had to stop it. If the stars were destroyed, the various gravitational and electromagnetic conditions couldn't be met. I was able to use some of the hexes the priests wrote down to acquire the solar disruptors and the ship to deliver them. No one helped me. I acted alone."

After a moment of silence, the ursine asked, "If this outbreak was to happen on Earth, why not destroy it? Why destroy five star systems instead of one?"

"Because we deserved it. We are so proud of our past, our Rational Crusade. But we merely moved that evil to taint a young planet without any defenses. We were arrogant in our victory and an innocent world should not be punished for it. We are the ones who should be punished for our hubris."

"And that was your decision to make?" The Mysteriarch asked quietly. "You took it upon yourself to save us without any thought to inform the authorities."

The prisoner opened his mouth but the Mysteriarch spoke on, "But you imagined we would not believe you, that we would still be unable to handle the truth. That we would ignore you, dismiss you. You never looked for other ways of stopping this conjunction. No other methods to prevent this return. You decided to condemn billions who never participated in the Crusade, who never even had knowledge of these matters to death. Just you."

She walked to him, still speaking quietly, "You commit acts worthy of a god. But you only have the wisdom of an ordinary man." She stared into his eyes. "The only hubris I see here is yours. For that hubris, you will be punished. You will die horribly for your crimes. And everyone outside this room will believe you acted to satisfy an insane appetite for destruction and revenge. The only monster they will know about is you. You will be cursed from now till the end of history. My only regret is that your punishment is so slight." And then she turned away.

Eat me!

Wed, 07 Dec 2005 02:08:53 GMT

Oh Great Cthulhu!

I have been an extremely diligent devotee this year.

In July, I defiled the grave of that traitor, Lovecraft (90 points). In May, I fed hiebster to a Shoggoth (250 points). Last week, I exposed princeofcairo to soul-rending horrors (250 points). In June, I stopped ratmmjess from defiling Lovecraft's grave (-20 points). In January, I recruited chadu as a new cultist (30 points). Yesterday, I sacrificed djbnaut to Cthulhu (500 points).

In short, I have been very good (1100 points) and deserve to be eaten first.

Your humble and obedient servant,
Scottums

Submit your own plea to Cthulhu!

Mon, 24 Oct 2005 18:04:00 GMT

She was trapped in the corner of her bedroom. She tried fighting to no effect. The phone wasn't working. The man kept patiently walking towards her. She had fallen into a fetal position on the floor begging "pleasedontkillmepleaseno"

"Why?"

The man's voice was calm and reasonable. The woman was taken out of her fear enough to respond "What?"

"Why shouldn't I kill you?"

The woman's voice trembled "Because it's wrong. Because the police will get you."

"The police, my dear, will not stop me. I am beyond their ability to stop. And the concept of right and wrong are so fluid, despite what certain moralists say. I find exploring the human body during the moment of death pleasurable as well as the effect my acts have on the sheep we laughingly call society."

He removed a long thin knife from his coat and stared at it. "The question you should ask, my dear, is why you should live?"

She stared at the knife, nearly hypnotized by how its edge catches the light from her digital clock. She tried to answer but she couldn't think.
"I understand" the man said gently. "It's hard to think with the animal instinct to survive pounding in your head and your veins. But if you think about it, your existence really is unnecessary. Your appearance will not inspire artists to create. Your intellect will not broaden anyone's understanding. Your talents are minimal. You are simply a minor clog in a big machine. All you truly contribute is piss, shit, and carbon dioxide."

Her tears flowed again. But not from fear. His words were cutting through her.

He drew closer to her. "But I offer you something precious. You will become more. You will be a symbol to so many: the capriciousness of modern existence, the need for greater strength in adversity, the danger of freedom unbound by caution. Your life will be studied for years to come to determine what made you special to me. Your body will be measured to see all the twists and turns my explorations of your flesh take. Your name will live on, carved into history with my bloody blade."

He held out his hand. She found herself taking it. He led her to her bed and laid her down. A few flicks of his wrists and she was naked before him. She gave no resistance when he tied her to the bedposts. She found her heart beating faster, but not from fear.

She asked in almost a whisper "Will it hurt?"

He smiled. "Oh my, yes."

Blank Slate

Tue, 27 Sep 2005 17:34:47 GMT

A follow-up to http://www.livejournal.com/users/scottums/2005/02/12/

Feel free to comment.

I don't trust elevators. How can you. You're relying on its indicators to tell you how many floors are being passed and what the destination is. All the travel is hidden from you. And the thing of it is, no one notices. People either space out or talk to the people next to them, but they trust the elevator to go from ten floors up or five floors down. All that time when the doors are closed in between is a blank.

And I like to check out blanks.

I, and others like me, explore the blank spaces that are on the maps, the places people never notice or have forgotten about. Or have deliberately hidden in plain sight. That's what I'm going after today.

Wethersfield Memorial Medical Center is a sprawling mass where it treats everything from lung cancer to acne. To handle the relentless march of modernization and people who have more and more medical complaints, it is in a constant state of construction. We have a list of construction firms that build secrets from panic rooms to underground bunkers. Doing a routine search of the various subcontractors for hospital construction, I noticed Williamson Construction was one. I doubted the Chief of Surgery needed a panic room, so whatever it had built should be interesting.

I started with the plans for the hospital. Since I'm only 13, I couldn't fake being a doctor with the white lab coat and a stethoscope. But keeping to visiting hours and carrying a flower basket works just as well. The hospital corridors are a chaotic mess of nurses rushing about, patients in beds, wheelchairs, or walking with IV poles. There was always a prevalent chemical odor that removed the smells of sickness. The thing was the absence made you notice it even more. Using a pedometer to track how big the floors were, I walked unnoticed taking sniffs of my flowers to keep my sanity.

Now to the elevators. Hospitals have a lot of them. Not just because a hospital is big and you want elevators to be convenient, but emergency personnel have to get to operating rooms, labs, and patients rooms fast. So there are elevators in some odd places. And I'm going to see if one goes to an odd place.

The elevator gives access to the seven floors of the north wing. The elevator itself has doors on the front and back for greater access and the buttons reflect this. Each floor except the seventh has a pair of button, for example '3' and '3R'. The seventh floor only gets one. However from the measurements I took and looking at the building itself, there is a section that can be accessed by the elevator rear doors. Of course, it's not listed on the hospital directory, but it's there.

I must explain something about myself. I have certain abilities not usually found among so called normal people. One is that locks unlock for me. Doesn't matter what kind from simple key locks to the latest biometric security systems, they want to open up and show me what they're hiding. Some people have looked into it to see if I'm some sort of fairy changeling or X-Men mutant. But they never can find the cause. Doesn't bother me much. I care only about the result.

So when I was alone in the elevator cab and it reached the seventh floor, I walked confidently to the rear doors. By all rights, I should have banged my face on the doors, but they opened up and I walked through the doors into a corridor like all the others in the hospital. I need to stop building up my expectations. You very rarely encounter bubbling beakers and Tesla coils. I peeked into the first room lit only by the display of several machines. I saw what looked like a woman laying in a hospital bed hooked into several IV bags. A tube ran into her mouth and the rhythmic mechanical pump was in time with her breathing. There was no reaction that I could see when I entered. Was she in a coma? Then I noticed the bulge. She looked about six months pregnant.

I went to the room next door. Different woman, different stage of pregnancy, but same setup. What the hell? I finally saw a nurses' station and noticed no one sitting at the desk. I saw that there was a half full of coffee on the desk. I put my hand over it and still felt some warmth. OK, where's the nurse? I walked quietly down the hallway, listening for any sign. And I heard it. Grunting and moaning. I hope that isn't what I think it is.

It was. I saw a man in a lab coat with his pants around his ankles on top of another comatose patient. I got out my trusty taser, cranked it to full, and hid in the next room. And I was going to go easy on him. After a few minutes, I heard him squeal, then the rustling of clothing. I tensed and when he passed the doorway where I hid, I jammed the taser right in the back of the neck. Never knew what hit him. After that it a simple job to tie him up with spare IV tubing and cover his eyes with some cotton padding and paper tape.

With the pervert dealt with, I started trying to figure out what was going on. I saw that the desk was set up to monitor twelve 'patients'. But they were tracking both the women's health signs and their fetuses. All of them were pregnant. But that's all I got. Their charts were full of dense medical jargon and abbreviations. I excel at languages (another of my talents) but I'm not good at Tech-ese. I did gather that these women were pregnant by being implanted with pre-fertilized eggs. So all these poor women were just incubators? I also saw the phrase "persistent vegetative state". Were they already in that state before they were put into service? The paperwork didn't say.

Then I noticed a doctor's name amongst the lab work. Dr. Filitov. He was one of these fertility doctors who advocated successful men to donate sperm to increase the population of smart people since stupid people were breeding too fast. The usual eugenics crap. He had approached several members of the explorer's group for donations, but they brushed him off. Could this be where he's incubating his so-called super babies? Then giving to suitable parents to be raised as saviors of humanity or future overlords? I made copies of some of the files and took some pictures of this secret breeding pen. I would submit this to the Executive Committee and let them figure out what to do. They knew people who could sort all this out. But the credit for finding this bit of weirdness would be mine. But first, I would take a shower to get the antiseptic smell of the hospital off of me.

Thou shall have no gods before me...

Tue, 23 Aug 2005 12:52:17 GMT

"Mmmmmmmmm, must be Friday."

Galleria Incognita: Customer Relations

Thu, 30 Jun 2005 14:57:41 GMT

You have to wonder about the people who work at the Galleria Incognita. You can sense that they know that they work somewhere different. But they never call attention to it. Stating the obvious is simply not done. The sales associates, clerks, and shop assistants are all professional and knowledgeable. Some would say that in itself is remarkable. I’m surprised that nothing seems to faze them. When they show baby dragons to a small child or helping a six-armed one-eyed alien with the latest from Armani, their courteous and friendly manner would put Disney cast members to shame. Nothing breaks through.

Well... that's not quite true.

I happened to be shopping for a nice scarf for my grandmother in one of the many, many women’s clothing stores (it is a mall after all) while a clerk was helping a rather plain woman lace up a large brocaded belt. As she finished the last knot, the customer began to transform. Her hair lengthened and grew more luxuriant, but began to form into a complex shape bound by golden thread. She moved with exquisite grace and poise. Her skin lightened and smoothed as if her flesh became living marble. The woman looked as if she could have stepped from the Elgin Marbles. It was still her, but she has acquired a classical beauty that poets would destroy many trees to record.

And while she examined herself in the mirror, she said “Do you have something that makes me look more like Britney?”

And just for a second, the sales clerk’s mouth dropped and she gave this obviously shallow woman a Look. One of those Looks that speaks volumes of disbelief, shock and disgust.

But just for a second. Like magic, her face reset and she said calmly, “I don’t believe so, ma’am.” And of course the female customer was too far gone in her own little tacky world to notice.

It’s nice to know there are actual people who serve you here. People who feel, care, and most probably complain about you behind your back. Because they're people, of course.

Tick Tock

Thu, 09 Jun 2005 13:45:52 GMT

Hadn't done anything with this in a while, but it's back, baby!

http://www.needcoffee.com/updates/2005/06/08/cultural-apocalypse-clock-060805/

Universal values

Mon, 02 May 2005 17:02:01 GMT

“Goddamnit, give me back my wife’s body!” screamed the Secretary-General.

That’s how our short meeting ended. I was used to human screaming being my peoples main delegate to their planet, but the government officials were agitated by their fight/flight instincts being triggered. For us, screaming was for warning of predators or an attacking hive. This just added to their confusion over what they understood as the proper way to dispose of a dead body: using animating fluids on the corpse so it could perform manual labor. For us Myrmidons, they are simply laborers. The humans call them zombies.

Many in the government believe Urichson was insane, especially for one so high in office. I tried to explain that I had met him on many occasions and found him perfectly rational and a shrew negotiator. I tried to explain that humans have different emotions than we do, especially concerning ‘love’. I tried to explain about humans’ religious and personal beliefs about death. I tried, but they didn’t care. They only cared about all the metal our planet would get from the trade agreement. They simply ordered me to resolve the problem. ‘The Isolationist faction are trying to use this to show humanity as unsuitable for commerce. Resolve this conflict before they can sway the populous.”

Riding to where it… she was sold to, I watched laborers working on a construction site. I watched them, with their toughened skin and wiry muscles performing their simple and repetitive actions. Humans would have used robots, their metal and silicon laborers. But our world is metal poor so we developed the animation process, using an available resource, dead bodies. Breeding, the source of so much feeling in humans is pure biological instinct for Myrmidons. The complications humanity put themselves through still boggle me after all these years. But we are not without emotion as some human think. We feel relief if someone dies after a long painful illness. We feel regret if someone young dies without realizing their potential. But we never developed the attachment to whoever spawned us or whomever we mate with. The Isolationist faction makes much of all the wasted energy and resources humans devote to love, but I have been in their cities and viewed their media. When I came home, I did find our ordered and planned way of life duller by comparison.

When I arrived at Manufacturer Lorell’s factory, I noticed several of our people with Isolationist armbands on their upper shoulders. And they had noticed me. They were supposed to make sure that human agents didn’t try to intimidate the Manufacturer or steal the human laborer. Despite the Secretary-General’s anger, I was assured that no illegal actions would be taken. However, our embassy on Earth was reporting news broadcasts how various groups were protesting, saying we were holding her hostage. It was strangely reassuring that Myrmidons and humans had fringe groups in common.
When Lorell said ‘I believe in our principles’, I should have seen that as a clue to forthcoming troubles. I explained reasonably how giving up the human laborer would benefit our people and the Secretary-General was willing to exchange resources for it.

“But how would this benefit the humans?” he responded. “How can sacrificing the work that this laborer will give be beneficial when all that this human will do is place it in an elaborate box then put both in perfectly farmable land. Not to mention the chemicals used to prevent disease and for mere artifice. Or even worse, burn the body wasting all that energy and releasing unnecessary pollution. No, we must be an example for humans so they can turn from their wasteful methods,” he finished very satisfied with himself.

I had to use all my willpower not to listen to my body that wanted to unsheathe my claws and rip his throat out. He was a manufacturer, not a diplomat. He wasn’t familiar with how to deal with alien species with their different cultures and mores. He was going to cause the tensions to escalate and escalate until possibly war. I left hurriedly so I didn’t do anything undiplomatic. I brooded all the way to the government building. When I arrived, I was ready to find out how far I could go to resolve this problem.

The next day, the Secretary-General and I surveyed the damage from the air transport crash in the industrial district. Fortunately, at night no one was in the district except for laborers. Several factories burned including Manufacturer Lorell’s. Only smoking rubble remained. Needlessly to say, all the laborers were gone.

I explained to the human how since it was a government transport that malfunctioned, we were responsible and would recompense everyone who had suffered loss. The human leader said nothing, merely stared at the ruin. Then he looked at me. His two eyes met my three and there was an understanding about what had happened. Some things are universal.

Cthulhu on my mind

Mon, 25 Apr 2005 14:21:41 GMT

Mr Lovecraft's tentacled creations seem to have a firm grip on my mind. I recently got the ANNOTATED SHERLOCK HOLMES and while I read through the stores, I'm seeing connections between the Master Detective and the Great Old Ones.

I know there's a story collection called SHADOWS OVER BAKER STREET dealing with this, but I wonder if anyone has done any real research on this?

I also been thinking about Cthulhu and Elizabeth I. SHe nearly made herself a goddess during her reign, she had a fine mind in her own right, and John Dee, English translator of the Necronomincon, as her advisor. With her iron will, could she have used the dark forces to England's advagntage? Did the sailors who faces the Spanish Armada have the Innsmouth Look? Could she have had The Book of Common Prayer contain praises for strange sounding 'angels'?

She even had plenty of Irish to sacrifice to these dark gods.

Just some disperate thoughts that refuse to settle.

Cold Turkey Day, take 2

Tue, 12 Apr 2005 18:25:44 GMT

After receiving some valid criticism, I decided to revisit the concept and put it in a better construction. Comments are always appreciated.
-------------------------------------------
Working geriatric care is like watching over old alarm clocks, thought Nurse-Captain Bennett. As she walked down the corridors, she saw people with their lives winding down. Sometimes their ticking just stops. Sometimes they produce an alarm and a whole team materializes to wind them back up. She chided herself; these are people, not inanimate objects. She always got like this at the end of the week. God, she needed a beer. Soon.

She walked towards the checkpoint of the Security Section or the ‘celebrity wing’ as the staff calls it. Many resent it saying it was a holdover from the days where patients with money and power got preferential medical treatment. Mostly it was the younger staff, inundated since birth in the popularist rhetoric of the Federal Medical Corps. She’d even seen several orderly-privates with ‘Life, The First Guarantee’ tattooed on their arms. She appreciated the enthusiasm, but as she had to explain more times than she liked, you just can’t have a U.S. Senator in a general ward. Protection measures had to be taken. The scan finished its search for anything offensive and she walked through.

The ever-present smell of disinfectant and sickness was less here. This section was little used, another complaint of some of the more radical staff members. In fact, there was only one patient here at the moment. She walked down the short quiet hallway to his room.

Alan Whitaker, a man compared to Clarence Darrow and Earl Warren lay in bed, various tubes and drips surrounding him. His skin had become parchment, his muscles mere memories. Time is the true popularist. But he still had a smile from Bennett when she walked in. She made a point of visiting him and not to revel in past glory as Nurse-Lieutenant Carroll so cattily remarked. But Whitaker had no family and most of his friends and colleagues were dead. And no one should be alone during their final days. Today she found that Whitaker wasn’t glued to his WestLaw terminal, going over this precedent or that ruling, but watching television.

A narrator was intoning, “On Friday Nov. 30th 2007, the day after that year’s Thanksgiving Day, tobacco farmers across the South reported their plants rapidly wilting. Department of Agriculture scientists were dispatched and containment procedures to save healthy crops were taken. But the infection moved so fast and killed so quickly, it was determined that by that Monday, tobacco in America was essentially gone. But that was just the beginning.

Army personnel and aid workers in Afghanistan were reporting whole poppy fields dying in a day. CIA agents operating in Columbia noted massive activity of narco-terrorists uprooting coca plants to save them from this wasting disease. Police officers found that marijuana obtained in drug raids was turning to gray dust. Although the EPA didn’t make the announcement for six months, it was evident to everyone that coca, marijuana, poppy, and tobacco plants were extinct worldwide.”

“The new Cold Turkey Day documentary any good?” Bennett asked Whitaker.

“Not really. Mostly a rehash of the same information. But they had to have something for the 50th anniversary. I’m just watching it to see myself in my prime. God, I was a handsome bastard,” Whitaker chuckled.

“You still are.”

“You shouldn’t bother flattering me. Tipping isn’t allowed, remember.”

“’All personnel should endeavor to achieve optimal patient relationships regardless of individual or group distinctiveness.’” Nurse-Captain Bennett quoted.

The screen was now showing images of the military defending Bogotá from the mobs desperate for aid and revenge. Without the income from coca, whole towns descended into abject poverty without even subsistence farming to feed them. This started a montage of various locations where the story was sadly similar: Kabul, Mexico City, Lagos. The misery caused by the Cold Turkey Day virus had begun.

They both watched the chaos on screen. “It still amazed me, the sheer size of the rioting.” Said Bennett quietly.

“I remember CNN showing satellite images of the fires in Jakarta. You could actually see the blaze from space. Everyone was so shocked. I don’t know why, when you knock out a major pillar of the economy, bad things are going to happen. It really didn’t hit home for me until the storming of Pfizer’s corporate HQ in New York. I can still remember the chanting outside becoming more and more crazed”

“You were there?”

“Yes, I was with the Secretary of State trying to get the Pfizer brass to lower their prices on medical supplies. Aid agencies were completely tapped from countries ripping themselves apart, our own system was near collapse treating all the junkies drying out and the people they beat or killed to get that last hit and these suits were talking about their responsibilities to their shareholders. The Secretary and I ended up on the roof waiting for a Marine helicopter to rescue us. We were fortunate that the mob was busy beating the executives to death not to bother us.”

Bennett took a surreptitious look at his blood pressure. No significant change. Well, all this was decades ago. “I guess your prosecution of the Cabal at The Hague must have been personally satisfying.”

Whitaker lifted his arm with difficulty and pointed, “There I am.” And there he was, hair black, back straight and radiating righteous fury. “No matter how damaging the scourge to the health, both moral and physical, of these materials were, there is no justification for the action these men have taken. They thought that a problem that took decades, no centuries to develop could be solved within days. Like gods, they thought they could wave a hand and save the world from itself. But they are not gods, but men. And men must be held accountable for their actions, ladies and gentlemen of the Court.”

Whitaker stared at the screen. “Damn, I was good.” He looked at Bennett. He seems to be coming to a decision. Bennett had a feeling he was going to confess to something. She heard a lot of these from her patients near the end. She was close enough to them to confide in, but enough of a stranger so the information wouldn’t affect her directly. She waited.

“I should tell someone. Might as well be you. It was a fake. The whole trial was a fake”

Bennett wasn’t sure what he meant, “I’m sorry, what do you mean?”

“The search for the people responsible for Cold Turkey Day was going nowhere. There were no leads. The world was falling apart. It was decided that the world needed a victory. A resolution, to get beyond what had happened. So they found some agents, intelligence types whose pasts had been obscured. They set them up as the scientists who created the virus. Since I had legal experience, I was chosen among us to be the prosecutor. The judges, the defense attorney, no one else knew. And it worked, no one found out, and the situation slowly started to improve. The Federal Medical Corps got the hospitals working again and people started working again. But it’s all based on a lie.”

Bennett sat completely still. What the hell is going on, she thought. Whitaker took a breath and continued, mostly to himself. “We never did find them. They, whoever they are, are still out there. I always wondered if they had an inkling of they were going to cause. If they thought it was worth it. Maybe that’s why nothing has happened since. Or maybe they are waiting for the world to get back on its feet before they knock us down again.”

Bennett looked at Whitaker, lying in his bed lost in thought and left the room without saying goodbye. She clocked out, walked to her car and drove home. During her drive, she kept thinking if Whitaker was in his right mind. Something like this couldn’t be hidden for almost fifty years. She just couldn’t wrap her head around the enormousness of the knowledge. As she pulled in, she resolved tomorrow to talk to Whitaker again and get some straight answers out of him, find out if this was some sort of joke. She went to her fridge, pulled out a cold beer and drank deeply.

Almost instantly, she spat it out. It tasted horrible like battery acid. She stared at the bottle. She felt a chill that didn’t come from the beer.