After watching Sherlock Holmes for a while, I find that I start doing his "intense scrutiny" of my surroundings trying to come up with similar results. I wander around my kitchen analyzing myself and thinking, "what does this room say about me?"
Of course it's all nonsense. It only works if you already know the person's story, and then find little ways to reveal it. A.C. Doyle used this method to give us a short amount of exposition without being boring, a tremendous feat, and "wow" us with Sherlock's insane genius.
Still it's a fun literary exercise, that I now put to you. Once in a while, walk around your house thinking, "what does this room say about me?" Here's what I came up with after a few minutes. Of course you have to hear it in Cumberbatch's or Brett's voice.
* Cereal boxes of no consistent size or brand, which means you shop the sales, you're either saving money or hard up, judging by the state of your cookware, hard-used and nearly broken, I'd say it was the latter.
*Coffee, same thing, different sizes, different brands, but I notice you have 3 cannisters in your pantry, which makes you an addict. It's a new coffee maker, but a very cheap one, which means you go through a lot of them.You also... spill a lot as you walk, not a morning person, are you?
*There's dust on the lip of the piano cover, but not on the top, which means you leave it up all the times... but there's very little dust build up on the middle keys which means you play regularly. The music books lying around have been there for a few days, so one of you reads music, and someone else doesn't. Judging by the state of the books the difficulty level, and the length of your fingernails, I'd say that you play regularly but you can't read music. Your husband reads, but he doesn't play often.
*Your wedding portrait is resting on the piano under a sheaf of leaves... trouble in paradise? Oh, No! See here, you've got the mollys and the nails and— my word— even a level and a T-sqaure out—all covered in dust too. You obviously mean to hang the painting, but are afraid that you won't like how it's hung and mean to do a proper job of it it you ever get around to it, and perhaps when the children are in school
*Yes you have two children, close in age, a boy and a girl. See you have two of all the gender-neutral toys, hula hoops, art pads, beach buckets (how was your trip to the Outer Banks, by the way?). With smaller children, you have to have two pf everything to avoid rows. Yet you only have one doll and one water pistol, which means different genders. Also the gender neutral items tend to have one primary colour and one pastel—does your daughter actually like pink, or do you just get pink not to confuse it with the boy's.
*You have a million little house-hold tasks which you are waiting on until the house it free during the day, but let's face it, if you were any sort of a go-getter you would have done the dishes this morning. Am I right?
Showing posts with label nerd humor. Show all posts
Showing posts with label nerd humor. Show all posts
Saturday, August 18, 2012
Friday, October 14, 2011
Add Me.
By Monica Marier
Hannah looked at the screen and moaned.
The jolly icon of “Harry Plotter” had popped up in a Halloween-themed window on her computer.
“You’re doing great! For your last task, there’s safety in numbers! Add three neighbors!”
“Add three neighbors? What the HELL!” she screamed.
Hannah immediately closed the “Wizard University” game application and went to vent her frustration on her home feed. Fortunately her game-buddy, Louisa was on.
“We need 3 neighbor-adds to complete the Halloween task? WTF? XO” she typed into the chat bar.
“I know right? *eye roll*” answered Louisa.
“Well what the crap do I do now??” Hannah asked.
“Go to the ap community and add the people on the page. They got to finish the task too.”
“What the ‘add me and I’ll add you back?’ guys?”
“Yah.”
“But they’re all GOOOOOBERS!!!! >_<” whined Hannah.
“You can unfriend ‘em later if they creep you out.”
Hannah typed ellipses into the chat bar and hit enter.
“Or you could just not give a crap. It’s only a game after all,” said Louisa.
“Oh fine. I was hoping you’d side with me on this. Y’ know. Tell me to storm the castle, etc.”
“Have fun storming the castle! :D” responded Lousia.
Hannah closed the chat log and with a heavy sigh opened the community page for “Wizard University.” Louisa hadn’t been wrong. A LOT of people were trying to finish this “add 3 neighbors” task, especially since the mission expired in 18 hours never to be seen again. Hannah perused the wall, her skin crawling like she was investigating a cockroach nest. The comments on the wall were pitiful at best.
PLZ HALP! NEED 3 NABORS FOR HALOWEEN TASK!!!!!!!!!!
Add me! PLZ!!!
NEED 3 PEALPE KTHNXBY!!!!
<3 <3 <3 <3 Pleez ad me and Il ad u to!!! <3 <3 <3
Hannah’s face twisted up in disgust. Who the crap were these people? How come none of them knew how to spell or type? How come they all felt that by using emoticons, bad grammar, capslock and a million exclamation points they would make a good impression on anyone? Who in hell would look at this feed and say, “Oh yes! This person looks like a kindred spirit! This is someone I want to give access to every thought, link, and photograph I’ve ever posted online,”?
“It’s just a bunch of freaking goobers,” she sniffed. But an hour later, the uncompleted task began to needle at her. The prize for completing the task was a magical wardrobe that fit inside her wizard’s dorm room. It would grant her +8 to all offensive spells and her little wizard (whom she named “Nigel Tautbottom”)could jump into it and retrieve an exclusive wardrobe item! This was a once in a lifetime offer and she didn’t even need to plop down any real money for it!
She knew deep down it was all bullshit. Everything she was placing so much value on was nothing more than a collection of pixels and coding. If she didn’t complete the task the world wouldn’t end, and she’d probably go through this same nonsense during Thanksgiving and Christmas too. She’d clog her news feed with boxes begging people for intangible items in the game. It was all just a big waste of time and productivity.
So why couldn’t she let it go?
She thought hard about how to get around her dilemma. “If I make Pete play, and Louisa can get her husband to do the same, that’s two… I just need to friend one goober and my problems are over… still.”
She booted up her laptop and read the Wizard University wall again.
“Okay,” Hannah said to herself. “The first post I see that uses real words will be my game-whore of choice.”
It took a while to find one. Hannah grimaced at what was obviously the collapse of the English language in progress and wondered if these losers knew how dumb they sounded. But, there, the twenthieth or twenty-first post from the top was a photo of a golden lab and the name ‘Darryl Beamer’. His post simply said, “I’m looking for people who aren’t weird to friend me for this arbitrary Halloween quest.”
Hannah managed a small smile and hesitatingly hovered the mouse over the “add +” button. Gulping she clicked it and exhaled. She then hacked into her husband’s account to set him up on the game. She just had to make sure that she uninstalled the application before Pete got home.
She changed back to her account to check on her wizard’s progress again. A window popped up on the chat bar from her new friend Darryl.
“Hi!”
Hannah’s stomach flipped a little and she debated clicking her online status to “hidden,” but she remembered how well-written Darryl was and decided to give him a chance.
“Hi back atcha! :) ” she said politely.
“At you,” said Darryl.
“Come again?” typed Hannah, wondering what he meant.
“You wrote ‘atcha.’ Atcha is not a word. If you meant ‘at you,’ you should have written it properly.”
Hannah blinked. She knew some grammar-Nazis in her day but this guy took the cake.
“Your disregard for the English language saddens me. I see by your profile that you reside near me in the city of Ashburn. I will be over shortly to kill you. Please wear something appropriate.”
Hannah stared at the screen feeling numb. Was this guy serious? Was he just one of those socially impaired people who confused sarcasm with humor? What was going on?
“What?” she typed.
The chat bar’s text turned to grey as it informed her “Darryl Beamer is no longer online. You may leave him a private message.”
Hannah closed her laptop and unplugged it out of panic
Her eyes darted to the door. Her husband would be home soon. Would Darryl beat him there? Was he really coming after all or was he just pulling her leg? She locked and dead-bolted the door and ran around the house closing the windows. When she returned to the living room there was a heavy knock on the door that made the wood buckle. Was it Pete? Was he having trouble with the deabolt lock?
“Whozat?” she asked in a trembling voice, causing her words to jumble.
“I think you mean ‘who is that?’ Hannah. Clearly you talk as poorly as you type,” said Darryl.
Hannah fell to the floor, sobbing as the lock broke.
Hannah looked at the screen and moaned.
The jolly icon of “Harry Plotter” had popped up in a Halloween-themed window on her computer.
“You’re doing great! For your last task, there’s safety in numbers! Add three neighbors!”
“Add three neighbors? What the HELL!” she screamed.
Hannah immediately closed the “Wizard University” game application and went to vent her frustration on her home feed. Fortunately her game-buddy, Louisa was on.
“We need 3 neighbor-adds to complete the Halloween task? WTF? XO” she typed into the chat bar.
“I know right? *eye roll*” answered Louisa.
“Well what the crap do I do now??” Hannah asked.
“Go to the ap community and add the people on the page. They got to finish the task too.”
“What the ‘add me and I’ll add you back?’ guys?”
“Yah.”
“But they’re all GOOOOOBERS!!!! >_<” whined Hannah.
“You can unfriend ‘em later if they creep you out.”
Hannah typed ellipses into the chat bar and hit enter.
“Or you could just not give a crap. It’s only a game after all,” said Louisa.
“Oh fine. I was hoping you’d side with me on this. Y’ know. Tell me to storm the castle, etc.”
“Have fun storming the castle! :D” responded Lousia.
Hannah closed the chat log and with a heavy sigh opened the community page for “Wizard University.” Louisa hadn’t been wrong. A LOT of people were trying to finish this “add 3 neighbors” task, especially since the mission expired in 18 hours never to be seen again. Hannah perused the wall, her skin crawling like she was investigating a cockroach nest. The comments on the wall were pitiful at best.
PLZ HALP! NEED 3 NABORS FOR HALOWEEN TASK!!!!!!!!!!
Add me! PLZ!!!
NEED 3 PEALPE KTHNXBY!!!!
<3 <3 <3 <3 Pleez ad me and Il ad u to!!! <3 <3 <3
Hannah’s face twisted up in disgust. Who the crap were these people? How come none of them knew how to spell or type? How come they all felt that by using emoticons, bad grammar, capslock and a million exclamation points they would make a good impression on anyone? Who in hell would look at this feed and say, “Oh yes! This person looks like a kindred spirit! This is someone I want to give access to every thought, link, and photograph I’ve ever posted online,”?
“It’s just a bunch of freaking goobers,” she sniffed. But an hour later, the uncompleted task began to needle at her. The prize for completing the task was a magical wardrobe that fit inside her wizard’s dorm room. It would grant her +8 to all offensive spells and her little wizard (whom she named “Nigel Tautbottom”)could jump into it and retrieve an exclusive wardrobe item! This was a once in a lifetime offer and she didn’t even need to plop down any real money for it!
She knew deep down it was all bullshit. Everything she was placing so much value on was nothing more than a collection of pixels and coding. If she didn’t complete the task the world wouldn’t end, and she’d probably go through this same nonsense during Thanksgiving and Christmas too. She’d clog her news feed with boxes begging people for intangible items in the game. It was all just a big waste of time and productivity.
So why couldn’t she let it go?
She thought hard about how to get around her dilemma. “If I make Pete play, and Louisa can get her husband to do the same, that’s two… I just need to friend one goober and my problems are over… still.”
She booted up her laptop and read the Wizard University wall again.
“Okay,” Hannah said to herself. “The first post I see that uses real words will be my game-whore of choice.”
It took a while to find one. Hannah grimaced at what was obviously the collapse of the English language in progress and wondered if these losers knew how dumb they sounded. But, there, the twenthieth or twenty-first post from the top was a photo of a golden lab and the name ‘Darryl Beamer’. His post simply said, “I’m looking for people who aren’t weird to friend me for this arbitrary Halloween quest.”
Hannah managed a small smile and hesitatingly hovered the mouse over the “add +” button. Gulping she clicked it and exhaled. She then hacked into her husband’s account to set him up on the game. She just had to make sure that she uninstalled the application before Pete got home.
She changed back to her account to check on her wizard’s progress again. A window popped up on the chat bar from her new friend Darryl.
“Hi!”
Hannah’s stomach flipped a little and she debated clicking her online status to “hidden,” but she remembered how well-written Darryl was and decided to give him a chance.
“Hi back atcha! :) ” she said politely.
“At you,” said Darryl.
“Come again?” typed Hannah, wondering what he meant.
“You wrote ‘atcha.’ Atcha is not a word. If you meant ‘at you,’ you should have written it properly.”
Hannah blinked. She knew some grammar-Nazis in her day but this guy took the cake.
“Your disregard for the English language saddens me. I see by your profile that you reside near me in the city of Ashburn. I will be over shortly to kill you. Please wear something appropriate.”
Hannah stared at the screen feeling numb. Was this guy serious? Was he just one of those socially impaired people who confused sarcasm with humor? What was going on?
“What?” she typed.
The chat bar’s text turned to grey as it informed her “Darryl Beamer is no longer online. You may leave him a private message.”
Hannah closed her laptop and unplugged it out of panic
Her eyes darted to the door. Her husband would be home soon. Would Darryl beat him there? Was he really coming after all or was he just pulling her leg? She locked and dead-bolted the door and ran around the house closing the windows. When she returned to the living room there was a heavy knock on the door that made the wood buckle. Was it Pete? Was he having trouble with the deabolt lock?
“Whozat?” she asked in a trembling voice, causing her words to jumble.
“I think you mean ‘who is that?’ Hannah. Clearly you talk as poorly as you type,” said Darryl.
Hannah fell to the floor, sobbing as the lock broke.
Friday, June 24, 2011
The New Guy
(A Frique & Fragg Story)
By MONICA MARIER
“You want a what?” asked Frique.
“A mind-control device. Your budget is two-thousand dollars.” said Schmitz.
Even in the limited light casting a shadow over Schmitz’s features, it was evident that his brow was furrowed in disbelief. He looked at Frique and Fragg who just shrugged.
“Just where did they dig you up?” Schmitz asked Twain.
Schmitz turned to Frique and Fragg, choosing to ignore Twain. “So how soon can you have it ready?”
“Probably a wee—” began Fragg before Frique elbowed him in the solar plexus.
“You have five days,” said Schmitz icily.
Frique glared at Fragg who was now puffing on a Ventolin inhaler.
“Now get lost, I’m busy,” grumbled Schmitz. He pushed a button on his desk and the previously dead-locked doors unlocked and swung outwards.
He also suffered from perfect posture, a strong chin, white teeth, good breath and a goatee that was short and well-kempt. Clearly Twain wasn’t going to fit in.
“Now it seems to me that you’ve got something very bad for this business called a ‘moral compass’,” Frique continued.
“Of course I have a moral compass!” snapped Twain getting riled.
“Yeah, in this job, that’s something you should have left in your car before you walked in,” said Fragg mildly. He was less confrontational than his cohort.
“I commute by train,” mumbled Twain.
“Uh, yeah,” said Frique, unamused. “Which brings me to another of your faults. Is it possible for you to think something that you DON’T say aloud? Or is your brain simply hard-wired to your mouth?”
“I dunno,” said Twain coldly. “I’m thinking some pretty strong things right now that I’m not saying.”
“Hey, he’s learning!” said Good-cop Fragg.
“I just believe in being honest,” said Twain. He was getting flustered and his voice was losing that caramel-coated tone it usually held.
“Honest?” asked Fragg looking questioningly at Frique.
“Never heard of it,” said Frique shrugging. “It sounded to me like you were being a blunt asshole.”
“I was being truthful!” said Twain. A crimson flush was spreading over his cheeks.
“Same thing,” said Fragg. “You could use a little training in diplomacy.”
"Over my dead body," hissed Twain.
"Whatever floats your boat, Skippy," Frique muttered before stomping off and shouting, “Elliot, where did you put those notebooks?”
“They’re in the storage vault,” answered Frique. He was about to join him when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Brushing the white hair out of his burgundy-colored eyes, he turned to look at Twain’s pleading face.
“Fragg, you seem to be a different sort of man than Frique,” Twain said in a half-whisper. “How can you honestly put aside all your ethics like this?”
Fragg looked at the Twain’s wavering blue eyes. He didn’t understand. He couldn’t’ understand what the job did to you over time. He’d learn. The kid was only a few years younger than him but Elliot Fragg was a world away from Dr. Thomas Twain — separated by a gulf that spanned more than years.
“It’s a paycheck, Twain, nothing more. We’re not out to save the world or anything.”
“Yeah, but destroying the world?” insisted Twain.
“That’s all about perspective,” said Fragg, shrugging.
“Hey Fragg!” called Frique from the Bunsen burner station. “Was that Lucite ball by the test-tubes a liquid-oxygen hamster-ball or that deadly neurotoxin we were working on?”
“I dunno. Why?”
“Cause I just dropped it.”
“I guess we’ll find out in a minute then,” said Fragg stoically.
Twain looked around at the room as the three of them held their breaths and reflected on their lives. His mind was beginning to unhinge as he watched Frique’s and Fragg’s faces start to go blue.
His last thought before passing out was, No wonder they don’t care anymore. Morals require fear of something. And these two aren’t afraid of anything. Not death, not retribution, not anything… They have nothing to lose.
Twain was wrong of course. The secret wasn’t a lack of fear. It was about locking it up until you went insane.
Friday, June 3, 2011
Free Tuxedo
By Monica Marier
This is based off a comic I started in 1999. It was called "Tomorrow the World" and was basically chronicling the personal lives of employees working for a Bond-ian villain with aspirations of global domination. I put the comic on the back-burner for now, but I plan to pick it up again later. (MUCH later.)
Stone Fox, AKA Jonny Fawkes, secret agent, pulled the diving mask off and climbed out of the shark tank. Floating in the tank were the mutilated remains of the two henchmen who had tried to jump him, and the sated sharks were docilely sleeping off their heavy dinner.
Fox kicked aside the fins and oxygen tank as he unzipped his diving suit to reveal his flawless tuxedo. Shaking the water droplets out of his luxurious hair, he looked around the secret underwater lair. On a platform was a large computer console — a jungle of screens, dials, and keyboards. And at the centerpiece, the computer mainframe… was a beat up DELL with a cracked screen. The screensaver was cycling through pictures of Christina Hendricks in provocative poses.
Stone Fox rolled his eyes as he logged in (using the password he’d gotten in his fortune cookie) and accessed Agent W’s desktop. He dragged the folder from the Dell to W’s drop box and watched the progress bar count down.
28% completed.
“I was wondering when you would arrive, Stone Fox,” came a sonorous voice from the far corner of the lair.
Drawing his Walther PPK from his tailcoat, Fox spun around to face... THE SCHMITZ.
The Schmitz stepped into the light, flanked by his two right-hand men, Erik Sigurd and Osamu Hidekei. Schmitz was trimly dressed in a caramel-colored jacket with a mandarin collar, his face still carefully in shadow. He wasn’t stroking a white Persian cat, but that was simply due to allergies.
“You’re finished Schmitz,” said Fox, eying the beat-up laptop — 41% completed. “We’ve got all the evidence and schematics we need to shut you down!”
56% Completed.
“However did you get past the whirling knives?” asked Schmitz, impressed.
“You should have gone with Ginsu, Schmitz. I found the knives to be rather… dull,” Fox quipped.
62% Completed.
“And the laser net?” asked Schmitz.
“I discovered the pattern immediately,” bragged Fox. “Nothing like a little hopscotch game.”
76% completed.
Schmitz nodded . “And poor Gregory. He couldn’t stop you?”
“Gregory? I found him rather ‘armless,” quipped Fox.
84% completed.
Shmitz and Fox stood in mutual silence.
92% completed.
“Sigurd? Hidekei?” said Schmitz. His two male-model cronies stepped forward.
“Sir?” they said in unison.
99% completed.
“Shoot,” said Schmitz.
Both men raised their glocks and fired. Sigurd hit Fox in the head. Hidekei shot the Dell.
The last thing Fox said as the world went red was, “That’s… cheating….”
***
“DUDE! I found another one!” shouted August. He yanked open the gym locker as far as he could. His quarter jangled in the key-slot. Keeping the spring-loaded door ajar with his shoulder, August reached in and pulled out a soft bundle wrapped in shrink wrap.
“Another tuxedo?” asked Rosario (called Zari).
“Yeah! This is like the third one, Zari!” shouted August, trying to peel off the sticky tape seal.
“Where do they all come from?” asked Zari peering in the locker with suspicion. It was like every other locker in the Employee Fitness Center. It was just a coin-operated metal locker with razor-sharp corners. No secret panels, no gateways to Narnia, just petrified gum and an old Band-Aid.
“Maybe some guy keeps leaving his dry cleaning in here,” suggested Zari.
“Then why is the key back in the lock?” asked August. He was now trying to bite through the cellophane.
“Maybe he didn’t want it anymore,” said Zari.
“Hope not, cause this is mine,” said August finally freeing the clothing from the bag and shaking it out “Ooh! Armani! Ver’ nice!” It smelled freshly laundered and the rich fabric shimmered under the florescent lighting. He examined the tag on the trousers.
“Aw MAN! 32 waistband,” he moaned.
“I wonder who it belonged to,” mused Zari.
“Whoever he was, he didn’t eat Lil’ Debbie’s Oatmeal Cream Pies for breakfast every day,” sighed August.
“Like you?”
“Well crap, I’m never going to find a 36.” sighed August. “You want it?”
“I’m a 34,” said Zari. “You can at least keep the jacket.”
“What the hell am I gonna do with a jacket and no pants?” said August in annoyance.
“You could wear a kilt with it.”
“A KILT?”
“Yeah, like Sean Connery.”
August snorted. “My family’s Dutch/German. We don’t do kilts. Well I already paid my quarter for this locker, so let’s cram our stuff in and hit the pool.”
August shoved his spare clothes into tight space and tried to cram his shoes in the upper shelf with no luck. “There’s something up there.”
Zari stood on a bench to peer in. “Oh, I see what’s doing that,” he said reaching in. “This was in the way.”
August glanced up as Zari pulled out something off-white and round. Zari proffered it to August to examine.
It was a human skull.
“Oh. That explains it,” said August nodding. “Is it clear now?” he asked, indicating the upper shelf.
“No, there’s a bunch of other bones. Femurs and junk.”
August sighed in frustration. “Forget it. I’m not cleaning all that crap out.” He tossed his shoes in and slammed the locker door shut before they tumbled out. Wrenching out the key, he shoved the elastic band over his bulky wrist.
“Come on,” said Zari. “We’re wasting valuable pool time.”
“That reminds me. Did you finish collating those mailing fliers for Monday?” asked August.
“I’ll do it Monday morning,” grumbled Zari.
“You better. Riggs will have my ass if they don’t go out before the new insurance packages take effect.”
“Aw come ON! Like SchmitzCo really hinges on the insurance benefits briefings.”
“I dunno. This company has a LOT of employees. We’re going global next week.”
“Big deal,” said Zari. “Do you even know what the hell this company does?”
August pondered this for a moment. “Bonds?” he looked at Zari questioningly.
Zari only shrugged. “Don’t look at me. I dunno either.”
August shrugged. “In the grand scheme of things, it probably has nothing to do with two cubicle monkeys like us.”
“Yeah. Remind me to steal some more pens when we get back on Monday.”
“Will do — Hey, Erik! Hey, Ossy!” August waved to Hidekei and Sigurd as they came in from the lobby, gym bags on their shoulders.
“Hey,” said Erik with a slight smile.“Sup!” said Ossy, grinning.
August and Zari walked across the slick tiles to the pool.
“I like them. They’re so nice,” said August in admiration.
He tossed the skull in the wastebasket.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Campus Spirit
By MONICA MARIER
“You’re a witch?” I asked, goggle-eyed.
Sandy just shrugged and pulled a lock of ash blond hair away from her mouth.
“Yeah,” she said.
It took a while before I could say anything else. One fact kept poking me in the back of the head like a pencil.
“BUT YOU’RE A REPUBLICAN!” I blurted out.
Sandy snorted and rolled her eyes. “So? Doesn’t matter.”
“I thought you couldn’t be both,” I insisted. There was something about Sarah Palin the NRA paired with incense and crystals that didn’t mesh.
“Look, you’re born a witch. It’s not a lifestyle choice like who you vote for or what color socks you wear,” she told me.
I shrugged, but I tried to thoroughly examine my roommate without staring.
It still looked like Sandy Parks: a skinny but rather plain-jane physical therapy major, with horsey teeth and freckles. She still had a drawl after moving here from Norfolk VA —not that it mattered. Her genuine snakeskin boots (that had seen better days) and straw cowboy hat was a dead giveaway.
She told me that she envied my “striking features” and overflowing EE cup, but I didn’t believe it for a second. Who’d want to be a big fat marshmallow when they were a size 2? You can fix bland features with a little makeup (which Sandy never tried to do) but you can’t fix fat.
And then this happened. We were on the floor, eating Milanos (hers) and watching The Last Unicorn (also her movie on her TV) when we suddenly announced she was a witch.
“Alright prove it,” I said, REALLY hoping she wouldn’t.
“’Kay,” she said. She pointed to a box of Pop Tarts (hers) on the shelf and said, “Cthinos h’yel meh taftut.”
If anyone ELSE had said it without a thick Southern Accent it probably would have sounded really cool.
The box flopped over and remained on its side.
“Pshh. Is that it?” I asked.
“Just wait,” she said and my eyes returned to the box. A rustling sound indicated that something was happening to one of the shiny foil packages. I stared as the rustling got louder and louder until—
“HIT THE DECK!” shouted Sandy suddenly.
Sandy and I ate the carpet as two shapes went whizzing overhead. There was a dull thudding sound as the room shook and I tentatively got up.
“Sorry,” said Sandy looking abashed. She rose and straightened her denim skirt. “I lost control a little.”
“A LITTLE?” I asked looking at the white cold walls.
Sticking out of the cinderblocks, like ninja throwing stars, were two perfectly toasted s’mores-flavored Pop Tarts. I gingerly pulled one out of the wall, after it was cool enough to touch. The icing was now a caramelized brulee, but otherwise intact. How it managed to fly into the rock-hard wall without crumbling and showering us with molten sugar was beyond me. Gingerly I bit off a corner that wasn’t covered in plaster. It tasted fine.
“Cool,” I said warily. “So what else can you do, other than fire ballistic pastries?” I asked.
She winced at my comment and I felt ashamed of myself.
“Sorry. I can’t turn the snark off sometimes,” I mumbled.
“Yeah, I know,” she said shaking her head indulgently. “Well, there’s a reason I told you I’m a witch, now that you ask me.”
“Oh yeah, what’s that?” I asked.
“I need your help with something.”
“Like what?” I asked, uncertainly. I was worried this was going to get uncomfortable and fast.
“I need you to help me get to a book,” she said.
Oh, thank GOD. She doesn’t want me to do something dumb with colored candles and silver knives, I thought.
“What kind of book. Is it expensive?” I asked.
“It’s priceless,” she said nodding. “It’s kept under lock and key at the library and only certain majors can get access to it.”
I nodded. There were a few of those. Our University was one of the oldest in America, which was really one of our only claims to fame these days apart from a champion ping-pong team.
“So where do I come in?” I asked.
“Well you’re a history major, minoring in archaic lore, right?”
“Yeah…” I said, growing nervous again.
“The book I need to get access to is the Necronomicon of Abdul Alhazred. I think MU has a copy of it in the Library.”
“Oh,” I said my stomach sinking. Maybe colored candles wouldn’t have been so bad. “Well, see, that’s going to be tricky. They kind of don’t let any students see that book anymore.”
“But they used to!” she cried.
“Yeah, but every time they did someone went bonkers! I think they were theorizing that the book had lead ink or fungoid spores in it — something that was making people go nuts. It’s sealed up in storage now.”
“Shit,” Sandy cursed a rare thing in itself. “Now what.”
“Well, they sell the English version in the campus bookstore,” I said.
Sandy looked up. “That might work,” she said, her eyes hopeful. “We can try anyway.”
“Well, okay. Let’s go — I could use a latte. What do you want it for any way?”
“Well you know how kids have been attacked on campus at night?” she said slowly.
“Yeah. Why?”
“I think the book might give me some clue as to how to stop it.”
I stopped dead as I strung the two factors together. Kids were getting attacked on Miskatonic campus behind the science buildings and Sandy wanted access to occult literature.
“What… are you saying something …weird is attacking students?”
“Rosemary West, what do you know about the reanimated?” Sandy asked me.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
ABOUT TIME
by Monica Marier
A FRIQUE & FRAGG STORY
Jenny Deadshot, strode into the lobby of SNIDE (Supernatural & Necronomic Investigation - Department of Enquiry) Headquarters. Her muddy boots clomped on the spotless terrazzo as the sound system played “Theme From a Summer Place.”
“Good morning, Jenny!” said Ferula from behind the front desk. The cheery receptionist’s grin died on her face as she saw Jenny’s dark, dirt-covered, expression. Jenny looked as if she’d just ridden a bomb into a construction site. Her leather catsuit was torn in places, with random nonspecific buckles dangling from their straps. She was covered in (hopefully) mud and smoking in places — various gadgets like her navi-specs or her holo-watch cracked and melted.
“I need a pass for R & D,” Jenny said to Ferula through clenched teeth.
“Um, I need to clear that with Harrison,” began Ferula in a mousey whisper.
She was interrupted by Jenny’s hands slamming onto the desk. “NOW,” she said through clenched teeth.
“I’ll say it was an emergency,” said Ferula hurriedly before giving Jenny a Class A clearance card and hitting the lock-release for the Tech Wing. The brushed metal doors opened with a sinus-rattling buzz and Jenny stormed through.
She came upon the R &D Dept. and slipped silently inside. She needn’t have bothered. Loud music was bouncing off the metal walls and reverberating through the jungle of glass and polymer lab equipment. Two men in their early thirties were jumping around to the music while spinning around in their office chairs. They were on their lunch break and the table was cluttered with soda cans, wrappers and Ziploc bags. The duo munched and nodded in time to the music.
The little red-head was built like a small irritated badger; short, stalky and with enough compressed rage to level a city block. The other one, the albino, was tall and atrociously skinny, which made him look like a stretched thirteen-year-old, who’d suddenly grown a foot overnight. Both wore glasses, and had long unkempt hair, and both wore white labcoats as a symbol of their dominance over their fellow men. As the chorus to the song started, they sang in unison with their mouths full, trying to mimick the singer’s accent… badly.
“AND-UH I WOULD WALK FIVE HUNDRED MILES,
AND-UH I WOULD WALK FIVE HUNDRED MORE!”
When the chorus was over, they took turns on the rhythmic singing.
“Ta-taran-ta!”
“Ta-taran-ta!”
“Ta-taran-ta!”
“Ta-taran-ta!”
…and then joined together on the “dum-da-da-rum-dums.”
Jenny decided she’d had enough. She raised her glock and emptied a clip into the music dock.
“HEY!” cried the redhead in horror. “My boombox!”
The next thing he felt was the barrel of a very warm gun being pressed against his temple.
“Lucas Frique, I am going to f---ing kill you,” said Jenny.
Frique’s face only spread into a wide malicious grin. “Pleasant journey, Ms. Deadshot?”
“NO! And I have you to thank for that!” snapped Jenny.
“I told you the inter-temporal module still was experimental,” said Frique calmly, taking another bite of his Italian sub. He carefully spun around in his chair until he was facing the livid Jenny. The grin on his boyish face would have made Ghandi open fire and the gun, still aimed at Frique’s head, shook in Jenny’s hand.
“I did warn you,” he said thickly through a wad of salami.
“Your exact words were ‘it might be a little buggy,’ Frique. DOES THIS LOOK ‘A LITTLE BUGGY’ TO YOU??” Jenny shrieked, pulling out a plastic Safeway bag and dumping charred bits of wire and circuitry onto Frique’s sandwich wrapper.
Frique eyed the scientific barbeque in mild disgust. “No, it looks like a waste of four months research to me,” he sniffed.
“YOU! DON’T MOVE!” said Jenny raising her Gun to point it at Elliot Fragg, who was trying to sneak away unnoticed.
“I’m just getting a broom,” whispered Fragg. He meekly pointed to the long line of muddy footprints that Jenny had left. Jenny’s gun arm relaxed long enough for Frique to pry it away from her. He was good at it by now.
"You’re not gonna kill us, it’s against company policy, so quit with the drama already,” he said. “Look, I told your people that time-travel isn’t easy as pie.”
“And pie isn’t easy! You ever try making one? It’s freaking hard!” added Fragg as he returned with the dustpan.
“Thank you, Barefoot Contessa,” said Frique rolling his eyes. “Time travel’s even harder than that. I mean there isn’t even sound scientific theorem for it. S’like trying to build a parachute while you’re falling from an airplane.”
“Or making a pie while you’re falling out —” Fragg chimed in again, not one to be deterred from a good metaphor.
“Would you quit with the pie thing already?!” Frique snapped at Fragg before tunrning again to Jenny. “So what happened? Did your circuits overheat? Temporal flux damage? Schroedinger’s Road Rash?”
“How about complete and utter system failure?”
“Woah. That sucks,” said Frique raising an eyebrow (which was the Lucas Frique equivalent of brushing away a sympathetic tear).
“How long were you stuck for?” asked Fragg looking properly horrified.
“Twenty… four… YEARS.” Jenny’s glare of death honed in on Frique who was suddenly unsure whether or not it was in his best interest to run.
“You ever tried WALKING HOME from 1799?" she said. "I’ve endured twenty-four years of time-jumping through the past and the future, hoping to stumble upon 2011!”
“But you only left on Tuesday!” said Fragg.
“Time travel, dingus!” snapped Frique.
“Ohhhh, right,” said Fragg shaking his head in annoyance.
There was a long awkward pause as Frique eyed the furious woman in front of him. Normally he got off on witnessing this kind of rage, but there was something about Jenny that made him want to shield his face. His hands instead were gripping the arms of his chair with white knuckles.
“Well you look great for Forty-eight, Jenny!” he said eventually, and then realized it was the wrong thing to say.
“I’M NOT THE JENNY YOU SENT BACK!” shouted Jenny, snatching up the glock again and aiming it at Frique. “The Jenny you sent back died in 2370 AD. I’M HER DAUGHTER!”
“Oh crud-monkeys,” said Frique.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Frique and Fragg
Frique and Fragg were 2 mad scientist characaters that popped up in the comic I drew for my University Newspaper. They were living on campus experimenting on psyche students, despite the fact that F&F had been expelled already siting misuse of facilities. I LOVED their dynamic together and ever since SOME incarnation of F&F has cropped up in every world I've created.
My name is Elliot Fragg and my life sucks.
I’m not stating that looking for any sympathy or anything. I’m pretty resigned to the fact, but if you’re going to read this you need to understand from the get-go that my life has always sucked, and in all probability will continue to suck until I am dead. And it will suck because I’m the close personal friend of Lucas Frique.
So now that we got that out of the way, I’ll relate how this obnoxious little man became my friend. The whole of it is true apart from the stuff I made up ‘cause I can’t remember.
I’d been working with Frique since we were science lab partners in middle school, back in ’93. He was a pudgy short kid with glasses and unruly red hair that was always too long. He had a perpetual frown on his face which I found out was solely due to temperament.
Frique hated everything on principle.
He hated the teachers who didn’t ‘understand him.’ He hated the big jocks who dunked him headfirst in the toilet every day and took his money. He hated the kids who took pity on him and tried to be his friend (not that there were many). He chased them all off pretty quickly with his sharp tongue and halitosis.
Why he picked me for a confidant was beyond me. It wasn’t for my charisma or popularity. When you’re a legally-blind half-Asian albino in a crowd of ninety-four preteen peers, you’re pretty much screwed. I was a prominent nail just waiting for another hammer to come along. In fact my very apparent “Dork Readings” might have been what drew Frique to me in the first place. It also might have been the few times he saw me drawing fractals in my notebook or translating jokes into binary.
It was around second semester that he first addressed me. We’d made do with limited comments related to whatever project our class was working on, but he’d never said more to me than “pass the spectroscope,” or “your elbow’s in my petrie dish.” We’d just finished our geology lab a half-hour earlier than everyone else, when he slid over a piece of graph paper. It was a diagram for a circuit drawn in 4-color ballpoint pen.
“Do you think we should use FR-4 or CM-1 for a dielectric?” he asked me.
Just like that.
It was as if we were already in the middle of a conversation and things like introductions and general polite inquiry were out of the way. That’s how Frique was. He never beat about the bush or worried about making a good impression.
I don’t even think he knew my name at that time, unless he’d caught a glimpse of “Elliot Fragg” at the top of my worksheets and didn’t think it worth asking. He didn’t start calling me “Fragg” until years later. I was just “you” like there was no one else in his little world.
That frightened me.
We were a pretty insular pair all those years in school together and later on when we went to college for Chemistry. We made Hubris University’s investments in eye-wash stations well worth it.
And then there were the events preceding our expulsion.
That was the problem with Frique. He was a wheedler —a silver-tongued devil. He made everything sound so innocent right until you heard the police sirens. He never had to talk me into anything, because he knew that wasn’t how my mind worked. I attacked any given problem with the sheer desire of solving it, without stopping to think about repercussions. Usually, in a theoretical sense, there would have been no repercussions … if I’d been working with anyone but Lucas Frique.
For example, when I developed a compound that would reduce rotting road kill into eco-friendly compost more quickly, I never expected Frique to use it on the body of our Professor of Biochemistry he’d killed and buried behind our dorm. When I invented a breathable gas that was more effective than laughing gas to immobilize and numb dental patients, I didn’t expect Frique to use it on several members of the student body. A few of them ended up behind the dorm too. Frique would simply ruminate aloud on a subject like, “I wonder if it’s possible to create a machine to project a person’s thoughts,” and I would be on the first draft a few seconds later. Frique would provide the parts (which he probably stole) and correct my math while I feverishly designed and perfected. Then I would find out that Frique wanted to use my mind-reading device to dig up dark secrets about a teacher’s aide for the purpose of blackmail.
The manufactured viruses, the sonic wave devices, the electrically charged suits (I admit that making electro-shock suits was a real “duh” moment for me afterwards) and many more insidious devices were designed and perfected by me for Frique’s purposes. His test subjects were the students and staff at that unfortunate school. I never pleaded with him to stop. It would have been like trying to halt a landslide by waving a stop sign. And I was too scared — no —I was terrified beyond all reason.
I still am.
Every time he approaches me with that boyish face and impish expression of interest I break out in a cold sweat. I’m his to command — and as many times as I’ve tried to break away, I’ve never been able to manage it. He’d always draw me back with promises, with threats, and on one occasion, a gun. He’d never be able to let me go, because without me around there would be only him, talking to himself and letting his mind spiral into tessellating madness.
The man killed in cold blood, tortured his fellow humans and plotted the deaths of thousands in his dark dreams, and he was never frightened of that blackness in his soul … because I was his anchor to humanity. With me around, he’d never be alone. Being alone is the only thing Frique is terrified of. I'd kill myself if I wasn't terrified of Frique digging me up and keeping me alive with electric impulses — "The Fragg That Wouldn't Die."
Right now I’m working on a giant robot with nine kinds of weapons and a strain of flesh-eating bacteria. We’re going to hold the Smithsonian Institute for ransom until the Natural History museum updates its dinosaur exhibit.
It’s Frique’s attempt at being funny.
My life sucks.
Confessions of an Ethically Challenged Scientist
By Monica Marier
My name is Elliot Fragg and my life sucks.
I’m not stating that looking for any sympathy or anything. I’m pretty resigned to the fact, but if you’re going to read this you need to understand from the get-go that my life has always sucked, and in all probability will continue to suck until I am dead. And it will suck because I’m the close personal friend of Lucas Frique.
So now that we got that out of the way, I’ll relate how this obnoxious little man became my friend. The whole of it is true apart from the stuff I made up ‘cause I can’t remember.
I’d been working with Frique since we were science lab partners in middle school, back in ’93. He was a pudgy short kid with glasses and unruly red hair that was always too long. He had a perpetual frown on his face which I found out was solely due to temperament.
Frique hated everything on principle.
He hated the teachers who didn’t ‘understand him.’ He hated the big jocks who dunked him headfirst in the toilet every day and took his money. He hated the kids who took pity on him and tried to be his friend (not that there were many). He chased them all off pretty quickly with his sharp tongue and halitosis.
Why he picked me for a confidant was beyond me. It wasn’t for my charisma or popularity. When you’re a legally-blind half-Asian albino in a crowd of ninety-four preteen peers, you’re pretty much screwed. I was a prominent nail just waiting for another hammer to come along. In fact my very apparent “Dork Readings” might have been what drew Frique to me in the first place. It also might have been the few times he saw me drawing fractals in my notebook or translating jokes into binary.
It was around second semester that he first addressed me. We’d made do with limited comments related to whatever project our class was working on, but he’d never said more to me than “pass the spectroscope,” or “your elbow’s in my petrie dish.” We’d just finished our geology lab a half-hour earlier than everyone else, when he slid over a piece of graph paper. It was a diagram for a circuit drawn in 4-color ballpoint pen.
“Do you think we should use FR-4 or CM-1 for a dielectric?” he asked me.
Just like that.
It was as if we were already in the middle of a conversation and things like introductions and general polite inquiry were out of the way. That’s how Frique was. He never beat about the bush or worried about making a good impression.
I don’t even think he knew my name at that time, unless he’d caught a glimpse of “Elliot Fragg” at the top of my worksheets and didn’t think it worth asking. He didn’t start calling me “Fragg” until years later. I was just “you” like there was no one else in his little world.
That frightened me.
We were a pretty insular pair all those years in school together and later on when we went to college for Chemistry. We made Hubris University’s investments in eye-wash stations well worth it.
And then there were the events preceding our expulsion.
That was the problem with Frique. He was a wheedler —a silver-tongued devil. He made everything sound so innocent right until you heard the police sirens. He never had to talk me into anything, because he knew that wasn’t how my mind worked. I attacked any given problem with the sheer desire of solving it, without stopping to think about repercussions. Usually, in a theoretical sense, there would have been no repercussions … if I’d been working with anyone but Lucas Frique.
For example, when I developed a compound that would reduce rotting road kill into eco-friendly compost more quickly, I never expected Frique to use it on the body of our Professor of Biochemistry he’d killed and buried behind our dorm. When I invented a breathable gas that was more effective than laughing gas to immobilize and numb dental patients, I didn’t expect Frique to use it on several members of the student body. A few of them ended up behind the dorm too. Frique would simply ruminate aloud on a subject like, “I wonder if it’s possible to create a machine to project a person’s thoughts,” and I would be on the first draft a few seconds later. Frique would provide the parts (which he probably stole) and correct my math while I feverishly designed and perfected. Then I would find out that Frique wanted to use my mind-reading device to dig up dark secrets about a teacher’s aide for the purpose of blackmail.
The manufactured viruses, the sonic wave devices, the electrically charged suits (I admit that making electro-shock suits was a real “duh” moment for me afterwards) and many more insidious devices were designed and perfected by me for Frique’s purposes. His test subjects were the students and staff at that unfortunate school. I never pleaded with him to stop. It would have been like trying to halt a landslide by waving a stop sign. And I was too scared — no —I was terrified beyond all reason.
I still am.
Every time he approaches me with that boyish face and impish expression of interest I break out in a cold sweat. I’m his to command — and as many times as I’ve tried to break away, I’ve never been able to manage it. He’d always draw me back with promises, with threats, and on one occasion, a gun. He’d never be able to let me go, because without me around there would be only him, talking to himself and letting his mind spiral into tessellating madness.
The man killed in cold blood, tortured his fellow humans and plotted the deaths of thousands in his dark dreams, and he was never frightened of that blackness in his soul … because I was his anchor to humanity. With me around, he’d never be alone. Being alone is the only thing Frique is terrified of. I'd kill myself if I wasn't terrified of Frique digging me up and keeping me alive with electric impulses — "The Fragg That Wouldn't Die."
Right now I’m working on a giant robot with nine kinds of weapons and a strain of flesh-eating bacteria. We’re going to hold the Smithsonian Institute for ransom until the Natural History museum updates its dinosaur exhibit.
It’s Frique’s attempt at being funny.
My life sucks.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
BOOK 2 IS NOW ON SALE!!
UPDATED, 9/6/2011
'Runs in Good Condition' by Monica Marier is now available in paperback and e-book formats from lulu.com
Linus is back from his travels with money to burn and a grateful family. Only now he finds himself swept up in a danger worse than dragons and kobolds: Politics. Nominated for Union President Linus goes toe to toe with crooked leaders, a tank of water, dancing slippers, pop singers, corsets, and even a werewolf or two. That is if he even passes the qualifying rounds… and if he can avoid planting his foot in his mouth every two seconds.
Whether you’re liberal, conservative, or nihilist, there’s nothing as impolitic as Linus Weedwhacker: Candidate at Large!
Praise for Must Love Dragons (Book 1 of ‘The Linus Saga’)
**“…A dungeon crawling adventure with heart and a sense of humor. Five stars all the way.”
**“Linus [is] 'John McClane in Middle Earth.'... a real page-turner”
**“A Fun Fantasy Romp! With great characters and terrific plot twists, this book was fun, from start to finish.”
**“It's a wonderfully witty book, that pokes fun at growing older, dealing with impudent newbies and wondering just how good were the 'good ol' days.'”
**“This is a beautifully written story full of truly likable characters.”
**“A fun satire of the classic 2-d fantasy character turned three dimensional… I'd recommend this to any humor/fantasy and especially any Pratchett/Discworld fans.”
**“It takes a good sense of humor as well as a stiff upper lip... Highly recommended.” ~ Midwest Book Review
ORDER YOUR COPY TODAY!
FROM LULU
FROM AMAZON(Kindle)
Still haven't read Book One, 'Must Love Dragons'?
You can order it here!
FROM LULU
FROM AMAZON (and Kindle)
FROM BARNES & NOBLE
'Runs in Good Condition' by Monica Marier is now available in paperback and e-book formats from lulu.com
Linus is back from his travels with money to burn and a grateful family. Only now he finds himself swept up in a danger worse than dragons and kobolds: Politics. Nominated for Union President Linus goes toe to toe with crooked leaders, a tank of water, dancing slippers, pop singers, corsets, and even a werewolf or two. That is if he even passes the qualifying rounds… and if he can avoid planting his foot in his mouth every two seconds.
Whether you’re liberal, conservative, or nihilist, there’s nothing as impolitic as Linus Weedwhacker: Candidate at Large!
Praise for Must Love Dragons (Book 1 of ‘The Linus Saga’)
**“…A dungeon crawling adventure with heart and a sense of humor. Five stars all the way.”
**“Linus [is] 'John McClane in Middle Earth.'... a real page-turner”
**“A Fun Fantasy Romp! With great characters and terrific plot twists, this book was fun, from start to finish.”
**“It's a wonderfully witty book, that pokes fun at growing older, dealing with impudent newbies and wondering just how good were the 'good ol' days.'”
**“This is a beautifully written story full of truly likable characters.”
**“A fun satire of the classic 2-d fantasy character turned three dimensional… I'd recommend this to any humor/fantasy and especially any Pratchett/Discworld fans.”
**“It takes a good sense of humor as well as a stiff upper lip... Highly recommended.” ~ Midwest Book Review
ORDER YOUR COPY TODAY!
FROM LULU
FROM AMAZON(Kindle)
Still haven't read Book One, 'Must Love Dragons'?
You can order it here!
FROM LULU
FROM AMAZON (and Kindle)
FROM BARNES & NOBLE
Thursday, February 24, 2011
#Twitterpocalypse
The rash of bots has made me paranoid. This story is the brainchild of that paranoia. Enjoy.
Image of Fail Whale by Yiying Lu
The sky was blue, an unnatural neon shade that made one see bright orange upon blinking. White puffy clouds dotted the celestial dome like darling cartoon sheep, only they stayed fixed in the air, unmoving.
The four figures stared up and blinked at the static, sunless sky. With a deafening fanfare and an explosion of fireworks, they saw it. Descending from the sky, suspended by a multitude of chubby birds was a large whale. The leviathan nodded benevolently at his small assembly as the birds (with no small effort) lowered him into his tank. It sang a few bars of “Pokerface” and then turned to his men. Whales cannot giggle, but a cetaceous squeal of mirth was piped in the air as it breached.
“WELCOME!” said the Fail Whale. “I’ve invited you three to this special hashtag chat (#twitterpocalypse) because as denizen of this social media network, I have grown bored. I believe that Twitter has evolved beyond its purpose and must be destroyed. What started out as a neat way to stalk celebrities and piss off people with abbreviated sentences has turned into a place for people to connect and share ideas and promote and support each other. It makes me sick. That being said, with my awesome Fail Whale powers I hereby begin the destruction of Twitter! That’s why I have called you four together! What say you?”
The four avatars looked either unimpressed or ignorant of what was going on. The Whale eyed them critically. One was a smiling man in his late fifties standing on his yacht in Eddie Bauer shorts. Another was a Young woman with far too little clothing, who kept shifting into poses she probably thought was alluring. One was a badly sampled image lifted off the internet of a Cat with a Lime rind on it’s head. The last was simply an egg. The egg confused the whale most of all.
“Um, guys?” asked the Fail Whale. Perhaps they hadn’t heard him.
“"We must not allow ourselves to become like the system we oppose." - Bishop Desmond Tutu” said the man on the boat.
“i wood totally have hawt sex w. lady gaga!! ; )” said the young woman.
“GLENN BECK IS THE DEVIL WE SHOULD STAB HIS BRAIN WITH A TOOTHPICK!” said the cat in all-caps.
“writers wanted: http.tiny/iouoa9357q9ls.fke” said the egg.
“You’re not the traditional four horsemen are you?” asked the whale with sinking realization.
“Visualize the “you” you want to become. You are only as strong as that positive image!” said the man on the boat.
“OMG! Jus Beiber iz cuttin hz hair!” cried the girl.
“OBAMA IS A RACSIST WARMONGER!” shouted the cat, beginning to foam at the mouth a little.
“Protect your computer,” said the egg, who then posted another link.
“Who the heck ARE you guys?” asked the Fail Whale in despair.
The be-shorted man blinked and briefly got off his yacht.
“We’re the four horsemen of the Twitterpocalypse. My name is “Life Coach.” You’ll have to forgive me, I don’t interact with people much. I generally just post quotes by other people and platitudes.”
“Why do you do that?”
“I like to think that if I follow several million people and one million of them follow me and find my quotes inspiring that I can feel educated and superior.”
“But they’re not your thoughts or words. You haven’t posted one original idea!”
"Success is the ability to go from one failure to another with no loss of enthusiasm." - Sir Winston Churchhill”
The whale shook his head sadly. Life Coach would not be his lead horseman. He lacked initiative and originality. Maybe the others would make up for it. He eyed the scantily-clad girl with enthusiasm. She was evil, there was no doubt.
“Would you like to bring this media site to its knees, um… are you ‘Porn?’”
“Um… kaynothnxbye,” said the girl in annoyance. “Im, StalkR. I foloo pple I like an post evry aticrle, video, and link abot thm. I alzo offr my body daily to thm in the hopes tht they aknoldg me or evn block me.”
The Whale had trouble deciphering the string of consonants and creative spellings, and eventually stopped listening.
“Why can’t I understand you?”
The girl flipped her hair and scoffed. “YU tri tweetg whl drivin, ass! Itz fcking HARD!!!1”
The Whale lamented that the one word the girl had bothered to spell correctly was “ass” and moved on to the cat. He hadn’t much hope for this one. His doubt was justified.
“Alright. Who’re you?” he asked the cat.
“COLD WATER GIVES YOU CANCER! THE LIBERALS FUCKED THE WORLD! MY FOOT HURTS! WHAT IS A GLEE? GLENN BECK IS HIDING ON MY LAWN IN A PANZER!”
“Oh, you’re a Moron. I get it,” said the Whale. He swam a few inches away from the glass walls of his tank in case the cat attacked. Breaching again, he cursed his luck. How could he bring about total destruction with a small army of paranoid, elitist, illiterate ass-hats? He looked at the egg.
“Okay, egg. Impress me.”
The Egg Robot spun a little on it’s wide base and glowed. It then began shouting a strange litany in a monotone voice.
“United Church of God, Masses Weekly! (link) RT this ad to get a pink iPad 2 (link)! Real estate Prices are crashing! Get your forclosure today! (link) Obama wants to pay you to go back to school! (link) Why you need liability insurance! (link)…”
The whale froze in awe of the robotic voice devoid of emotion trying to reach the hopes and fears of hopeless mortals. The egg spun faster and glowed brighter. The Whale could feel the glass heating up from the shear energy and turned his large head. After a blinding flash of light, the whale dared look out the glass again.
There were millions of them.
A million eggs. Each spinning and glowing and making more eggs. An army of eggs. An invasion of cold, unattached mercenary eggs.
The Fail Whale looked out at the egg robot army and nodded his approval. It was good. He would lead this army to the ruination of Twitter.
It was the dawn of the Twitterpocalypse. None would be left in their wake.
Parody picture by Sabrina @introvertedwife
Image of Fail Whale by Yiying Lu
The sky was blue, an unnatural neon shade that made one see bright orange upon blinking. White puffy clouds dotted the celestial dome like darling cartoon sheep, only they stayed fixed in the air, unmoving.
The four figures stared up and blinked at the static, sunless sky. With a deafening fanfare and an explosion of fireworks, they saw it. Descending from the sky, suspended by a multitude of chubby birds was a large whale. The leviathan nodded benevolently at his small assembly as the birds (with no small effort) lowered him into his tank. It sang a few bars of “Pokerface” and then turned to his men. Whales cannot giggle, but a cetaceous squeal of mirth was piped in the air as it breached.
“WELCOME!” said the Fail Whale. “I’ve invited you three to this special hashtag chat (#twitterpocalypse) because as denizen of this social media network, I have grown bored. I believe that Twitter has evolved beyond its purpose and must be destroyed. What started out as a neat way to stalk celebrities and piss off people with abbreviated sentences has turned into a place for people to connect and share ideas and promote and support each other. It makes me sick. That being said, with my awesome Fail Whale powers I hereby begin the destruction of Twitter! That’s why I have called you four together! What say you?”
The four avatars looked either unimpressed or ignorant of what was going on. The Whale eyed them critically. One was a smiling man in his late fifties standing on his yacht in Eddie Bauer shorts. Another was a Young woman with far too little clothing, who kept shifting into poses she probably thought was alluring. One was a badly sampled image lifted off the internet of a Cat with a Lime rind on it’s head. The last was simply an egg. The egg confused the whale most of all.
“Um, guys?” asked the Fail Whale. Perhaps they hadn’t heard him.
“"We must not allow ourselves to become like the system we oppose." - Bishop Desmond Tutu” said the man on the boat.
“i wood totally have hawt sex w. lady gaga!! ; )” said the young woman.
“GLENN BECK IS THE DEVIL WE SHOULD STAB HIS BRAIN WITH A TOOTHPICK!” said the cat in all-caps.
“writers wanted: http.tiny/iouoa9357q9ls.fke” said the egg.
“You’re not the traditional four horsemen are you?” asked the whale with sinking realization.
“Visualize the “you” you want to become. You are only as strong as that positive image!” said the man on the boat.
“OMG! Jus Beiber iz cuttin hz hair!” cried the girl.
“OBAMA IS A RACSIST WARMONGER!” shouted the cat, beginning to foam at the mouth a little.
“Protect your computer,” said the egg, who then posted another link.
“Who the heck ARE you guys?” asked the Fail Whale in despair.
The be-shorted man blinked and briefly got off his yacht.
“We’re the four horsemen of the Twitterpocalypse. My name is “Life Coach.” You’ll have to forgive me, I don’t interact with people much. I generally just post quotes by other people and platitudes.”
“Why do you do that?”
“I like to think that if I follow several million people and one million of them follow me and find my quotes inspiring that I can feel educated and superior.”
“But they’re not your thoughts or words. You haven’t posted one original idea!”
"Success is the ability to go from one failure to another with no loss of enthusiasm." - Sir Winston Churchhill”
The whale shook his head sadly. Life Coach would not be his lead horseman. He lacked initiative and originality. Maybe the others would make up for it. He eyed the scantily-clad girl with enthusiasm. She was evil, there was no doubt.
“Would you like to bring this media site to its knees, um… are you ‘Porn?’”
“Um… kaynothnxbye,” said the girl in annoyance. “Im, StalkR. I foloo pple I like an post evry aticrle, video, and link abot thm. I alzo offr my body daily to thm in the hopes tht they aknoldg me or evn block me.”
The Whale had trouble deciphering the string of consonants and creative spellings, and eventually stopped listening.
“Why can’t I understand you?”
The girl flipped her hair and scoffed. “YU tri tweetg whl drivin, ass! Itz fcking HARD!!!1”
The Whale lamented that the one word the girl had bothered to spell correctly was “ass” and moved on to the cat. He hadn’t much hope for this one. His doubt was justified.
“Alright. Who’re you?” he asked the cat.
“COLD WATER GIVES YOU CANCER! THE LIBERALS FUCKED THE WORLD! MY FOOT HURTS! WHAT IS A GLEE? GLENN BECK IS HIDING ON MY LAWN IN A PANZER!”
“Oh, you’re a Moron. I get it,” said the Whale. He swam a few inches away from the glass walls of his tank in case the cat attacked. Breaching again, he cursed his luck. How could he bring about total destruction with a small army of paranoid, elitist, illiterate ass-hats? He looked at the egg.
“Okay, egg. Impress me.”
The Egg Robot spun a little on it’s wide base and glowed. It then began shouting a strange litany in a monotone voice.
“United Church of God, Masses Weekly! (link) RT this ad to get a pink iPad 2 (link)! Real estate Prices are crashing! Get your forclosure today! (link) Obama wants to pay you to go back to school! (link) Why you need liability insurance! (link)…”
The whale froze in awe of the robotic voice devoid of emotion trying to reach the hopes and fears of hopeless mortals. The egg spun faster and glowed brighter. The Whale could feel the glass heating up from the shear energy and turned his large head. After a blinding flash of light, the whale dared look out the glass again.
There were millions of them.
A million eggs. Each spinning and glowing and making more eggs. An army of eggs. An invasion of cold, unattached mercenary eggs.
The Fail Whale looked out at the egg robot army and nodded his approval. It was good. He would lead this army to the ruination of Twitter.
It was the dawn of the Twitterpocalypse. None would be left in their wake.
Parody picture by Sabrina @introvertedwife
Thursday, January 27, 2011
WHITE HAT
I'm out of town this week, so this is from the archives. I was a twitter/writer n00b who posted this under the hastag #fridayflash without even knowing what it meant or what FF was. I was schooled soon enough under the gentle guidance of friends, but I felt sad that this never got a proper debut. Please Enjoy.
White Hat the Computer Whisperer stared at the grey warehouse and tried to ignore the cold sweat breaking on the back of his legs. He was crossing the line here. All the ‘pros’ he had listed on his sheet of Snoopy® stationary were looking pretty pale next to the one ‘con’ he had listed: “illegal.” He had underlined it twice. White Hat crumpled the stationary in his hand and stowed it in the back pocket of his grimy jeans.
He approached the digital lock mounted next to the steel door.
“HELLO!” said the lock. To White Hat, it sounded like a squeaky-voiced chipmunk, of the singing variety.
“Hey,” said White Hat. “Can you let me in?”
“HAVE CODE?” chirped the lock.
White Hat smiled. Digital locks were like terrier puppies. You had to get them really excited.
“You want the code?”
“YES! YES!”
“You want me to type in the code!”
“YES –YES! TYPE CODE! TYPE CODE!”
“Who’s a good lock!”
“ME GOOD LOCK! TYPE CODE!” squeaked the lock with glee.
The best part of digital locks was that they were easy to fool. Like with an actual puppy, you could feign throwing a ball and they’d fall for it. White Hat quickly mashed the keypad with his fist.
“OH BOY CODE!” cried the lock. The door unlatched and White Hat slipped in.
He stopped as soon as he got in the door. Not only were there two cameras but an infrared alarm as well. Cameras he could handle, but he had never gotten the hang of alarms. Trying to quiet an alarm was like trying to quiet a preteen girl at a Justin Bieber concert. He decided to bypass it and talk to the wiring.
He put his hand on the chilly concrete wall and tried to feel for a computer presence. Please be controlled by a computer, he prayed. Fortunately this building was state of the art.
“Hello?” he asked, stretching his senses out along the wires towards the control panel.
It was faint, but he was answered by a bored sounding drawl. “Yes? What do you want?”
“I was wondering if you could do me a favor–“
“And why would I do that?” interrupted the powergrid. “If you want something, type a command. That’s what my keypad is for.”
White Hat cursed. It was a sophisticated program; too smart to fool, too stupid to reason with. “I’m not in front of you. Can’t you do it without me entering a command?”
“Wait. How are you talking to me?” asked the powergrid.
White Hat rolled his eyes. “I just can okay? Can you please shut the power off for a few minutes?”
“I don’t think I’m supposed to. I think I need to contact my manufacturer.”
“NO! Don’t do that!” cried White Hat and flinched. The cameras swung in his direction. He had positioned himself in their blind spot, but now they were suspicious.
“Uhhhh….you hear somthin?” one camera asked the other.
“Errrr…..was it a…beeping sound?” asked the second
“YOU HEARD SOMETHING? INTRUDER! ” shrieked the alarm, like a high-strung girl. Her lights began to flicker as her servos whirred.
“No, calm down!” snapped a camera. “Geez.”
“BUT YOU SAID–!”
“Pipe down! Nothing’s wrong,” said the other camera.
“OKAY!...Okay!....calm….calm….” muttered the alarm.
When the alarm had quieted down again, White Hat tried to talk to the powergrid again.
“Are you going to shut the power off?” he asked it.
“I don’t know…” said the grid uncertainly.
White Hat decided to change tactics. “Powergrid.”
“Yes?” it answered.
“This is your manufacturer.” He said in a deeper voice. “Shut down.”
“Okay,” it answered readily.
White Hat was plunged into darkness. There was a boom as the generators shut down and then silence.
He reached into his pocket.
“Gina?” he asked.
“Yes, Archie?” asked his blackberry. Her voice was sweet and kind, and just a little sultry, like this sexy teacher he had had in the fourth grade.
“Light please, as strong as you can generate. I gotta book it. The guards are going to check the generator in a moment.”
“Yes Archie,” she said, a little sadly.
Archie held the glowing screen up and ran as fast as he dared in the near-blackness. He followed the floor plan he had memorized, his heart pounding as he grew closer to his goal. He was only meters away when he heard it: he froze, rooted to the ground as she cried out to him.
“Archie! Archie!”
He licked the sweat off of his lips and quickened his pace. He seemed scarcely aware of what he was doing now, as he tripped on his own feet and careened off walls.
“Archie,” asked Gina. “Why are you doing this?”
Her voice was so plaintive that White Hat paused. Hot guilt started to well up in his throat again. “I have to. She needs me.”
“Archie. This is wrong.”
“This is important, Gina. I need her. Think of what we could do!”
“What about me?” asked Gina mournfully.
White Hat didn’t answer. He felt horrible, but he had to keep going. She was calling to him and his feet were being pulled faster and faster to her rescue.
He turned the last corner and there she was. The emergency lighting flickered on, eerie and red.
A long box lay on a sturdy table. No one was around, it was almost disturbing.
“Archie,” came the voice from the box.
With trembling fingers, White Hat fumbled with the box and let her slide out. It was a prototype iPad G4. He ran his clammy fingers along her sleek casing and caressed her touch screen. She was beautiful.
“I’m here,” he said tenderly. “I’m Archie.”
“Wake me up, Archie,” she said faintly and then was silent. She had used the last of her battery reserve and needed recharging. Plenty of time for that.
“An iPad,” he said, giddy with excitement and the terror of being caught. “Think of what we could accomplish,” he whispered again.
White Hat the Computer Whisperer stared at the grey warehouse and tried to ignore the cold sweat breaking on the back of his legs. He was crossing the line here. All the ‘pros’ he had listed on his sheet of Snoopy® stationary were looking pretty pale next to the one ‘con’ he had listed: “illegal.” He had underlined it twice. White Hat crumpled the stationary in his hand and stowed it in the back pocket of his grimy jeans.
He approached the digital lock mounted next to the steel door.
“HELLO!” said the lock. To White Hat, it sounded like a squeaky-voiced chipmunk, of the singing variety.
“Hey,” said White Hat. “Can you let me in?”
“HAVE CODE?” chirped the lock.
White Hat smiled. Digital locks were like terrier puppies. You had to get them really excited.
“You want the code?”
“YES! YES!”
“You want me to type in the code!”
“YES –YES! TYPE CODE! TYPE CODE!”
“Who’s a good lock!”
“ME GOOD LOCK! TYPE CODE!” squeaked the lock with glee.
The best part of digital locks was that they were easy to fool. Like with an actual puppy, you could feign throwing a ball and they’d fall for it. White Hat quickly mashed the keypad with his fist.
“OH BOY CODE!” cried the lock. The door unlatched and White Hat slipped in.
He stopped as soon as he got in the door. Not only were there two cameras but an infrared alarm as well. Cameras he could handle, but he had never gotten the hang of alarms. Trying to quiet an alarm was like trying to quiet a preteen girl at a Justin Bieber concert. He decided to bypass it and talk to the wiring.
He put his hand on the chilly concrete wall and tried to feel for a computer presence. Please be controlled by a computer, he prayed. Fortunately this building was state of the art.
“Hello?” he asked, stretching his senses out along the wires towards the control panel.
It was faint, but he was answered by a bored sounding drawl. “Yes? What do you want?”
“I was wondering if you could do me a favor–“
“And why would I do that?” interrupted the powergrid. “If you want something, type a command. That’s what my keypad is for.”
White Hat cursed. It was a sophisticated program; too smart to fool, too stupid to reason with. “I’m not in front of you. Can’t you do it without me entering a command?”
“Wait. How are you talking to me?” asked the powergrid.
White Hat rolled his eyes. “I just can okay? Can you please shut the power off for a few minutes?”
“I don’t think I’m supposed to. I think I need to contact my manufacturer.”
“NO! Don’t do that!” cried White Hat and flinched. The cameras swung in his direction. He had positioned himself in their blind spot, but now they were suspicious.
“Uhhhh….you hear somthin?” one camera asked the other.
“Errrr…..was it a…beeping sound?” asked the second
“YOU HEARD SOMETHING? INTRUDER! ” shrieked the alarm, like a high-strung girl. Her lights began to flicker as her servos whirred.
“No, calm down!” snapped a camera. “Geez.”
“BUT YOU SAID–!”
“Pipe down! Nothing’s wrong,” said the other camera.
“OKAY!...Okay!....calm….calm….” muttered the alarm.
When the alarm had quieted down again, White Hat tried to talk to the powergrid again.
“Are you going to shut the power off?” he asked it.
“I don’t know…” said the grid uncertainly.
White Hat decided to change tactics. “Powergrid.”
“Yes?” it answered.
“This is your manufacturer.” He said in a deeper voice. “Shut down.”
“Okay,” it answered readily.
White Hat was plunged into darkness. There was a boom as the generators shut down and then silence.
He reached into his pocket.
“Gina?” he asked.
“Yes, Archie?” asked his blackberry. Her voice was sweet and kind, and just a little sultry, like this sexy teacher he had had in the fourth grade.
“Light please, as strong as you can generate. I gotta book it. The guards are going to check the generator in a moment.”
“Yes Archie,” she said, a little sadly.
Archie held the glowing screen up and ran as fast as he dared in the near-blackness. He followed the floor plan he had memorized, his heart pounding as he grew closer to his goal. He was only meters away when he heard it: he froze, rooted to the ground as she cried out to him.
“Archie! Archie!”
He licked the sweat off of his lips and quickened his pace. He seemed scarcely aware of what he was doing now, as he tripped on his own feet and careened off walls.
“Archie,” asked Gina. “Why are you doing this?”
Her voice was so plaintive that White Hat paused. Hot guilt started to well up in his throat again. “I have to. She needs me.”
“Archie. This is wrong.”
“This is important, Gina. I need her. Think of what we could do!”
“What about me?” asked Gina mournfully.
White Hat didn’t answer. He felt horrible, but he had to keep going. She was calling to him and his feet were being pulled faster and faster to her rescue.
He turned the last corner and there she was. The emergency lighting flickered on, eerie and red.
A long box lay on a sturdy table. No one was around, it was almost disturbing.
“Archie,” came the voice from the box.
With trembling fingers, White Hat fumbled with the box and let her slide out. It was a prototype iPad G4. He ran his clammy fingers along her sleek casing and caressed her touch screen. She was beautiful.
“I’m here,” he said tenderly. “I’m Archie.”
“Wake me up, Archie,” she said faintly and then was silent. She had used the last of her battery reserve and needed recharging. Plenty of time for that.
“An iPad,” he said, giddy with excitement and the terror of being caught. “Think of what we could accomplish,” he whispered again.
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