"Come on, don't be so morose," said the vampire to Robocop. "I'm sure that all you need to do is focus and--"
"The last thing I need to do is focus," he told the vampire. "Do you know what it is like, to be a machine? Purely a machine, and not anything else?"
"I don't like it when you talk in those terms," stated the vampire. "I am a being of life beyond life, and lives beyond lives, and I see the same thing with you, Murphy. This is why I have come to commune with you in your solace. To see if there may be an opportunity for us together."
His side armament flared for a second but he brought it back under control. "Don't call me Murphy," he told the vampire. "You know that was an 80s satirical 'laff', making fun of corporations and the establishment in general, right? It was sly, and they harped on a lot about how Murphy was this tragic victim that was turned into a machine by assholes."
"It was GOOD!" claimed the vampire spreading its arms, to show how good it had been. "All my children loved Robocop from the 80s!
Don't you feel like those assholes have turned you into a machine too?" sang the vampire, whose voice was as though silk and cushions were passing your reclined and relaxed pose. "Let me place this down now," it said, carefully lowering an old candle between them, and lighting it with a quiet snap of fingers. "This is the oldest candle in the universe," said the vampire, "which I have now lit between the two of us."
He computed the mess that must be peoples' brains for loving things from childhood and did a cross analysis with the sort of 'easy-fit' mantra that seemed to be contemporary corporate America's response to the horrible slimy tongues and teeth it was faced with, and which placed very incredible demands upon it (Corporate America).
"Say you're a vampire," he said to the vampire from the hollow wax beyond their candid candle, "Say you see come across a rectangle in a sweaty desert that feels really, really sad, and is being forced into being a up-turned rectangle no matter what it tries."
"It's nonsense," said the vampire immediately. "This fucking shape is pretending to be a tortoise."
.
Later that night his neural battery was given a gentle polish by an excitable young woman who quickly ran away as fast as she could after doing the polish. In her merry escape, she had dropped her card for her book club.
The rest of the environment remaining static, he studied the books she had been reading.
Saturday, September 28, 2013
Friday, September 13, 2013
to ber8te
The kid opened the doors and slammed scalding coffee into Detective Mills'...areas important.
"Now follow me," said the kid.
"I shouldn't be here," said Mills. There, in the middle of the precinct, in the middle of a crime scene, with horrid and probably acid rain falling upon his being, with squad cars moaning in and out and strobing infrequent but sharp red and blue, with the same fucking taste of coffee he had smelled circa 1995, when Somerset had first met him, after they'd had a few conversations about 'morality' over a few whiskey nights, drawn over a few weeks.
"My mom just got killed near where you are, Mills," said the child, "and I am going to make you find her! You jerk. Walk!"
"What are you? Some type of hacker?" said Mills. He had learned all about computers in his long time under witness protection (as a cop), and evil hackers who can employ children in order to get away with their deeds.
There was more thunder. And more rain.
"Mills," said the child. "I just spent three fucking days in your office pretending to be conscious for you." He was crying. "The cops...they just hovered around, as though they thought nothing was wrong. And your boss...he thinks I'm some type of a transient. Lingering in the office."
The puddles around Mills' pants and sleeves welled up, and he wanted to touch each one as though it were a warm whirring water spout.
Mills picked himself up, and he was much taller than the kid. He picked up what was left of the coffee from 1995. "I'm sorry, kid," he said.
"But I just did a whole night of patrolling and catching all sorts of criminals."
The warm whirring water spouts fell off of Mills' special shoes, whose leather then bore no possible traces of said whirlypool. Only thunder crackled and only the coldest rain, in sleek drizzles began to pelt him.
"You saw the girl I smashed into the wall, right," said Mills, "like so much spaghetti bolognese?"
A look of malice entered the boy's eyes. "I don't think so."
"I know you did. I did it!" he yelled. "Straight into the prison wall, spaghetti bolognese!"
The child recalculated his own position, and placed himself near the dark hole. "That was just you trying to think logically why your old Robocop movie isn't as gory-realistic as the new PG-13 2013 Robocop trailer, my dear David Mills. It was you drooling into your youtube.
And I had to find someone. Someone nearby who I felt could care enough."
"I didn't care," said Mills. "I didn't care enough. And I don't care."
"Nor did I," cried the child. "The last thing I told my mother was that I wished she was my lunch box. So she could replace my shitty meal whenver I opened her with a good one compared to my friends!'"
"Your mother gave you what she knew you needed," said Mills, reaching out into the rain.
"That's what a cop would say," said the child, slipping away.
"Heh," laughed Mills. "Not a detective, huh?"
"You're becoming creepy. I'm going to disappear into the dark tunnel soon," said the kid. "And I hope you will seek me, detective."
The rain became slightly colder, slightly icier, forming icicles around Mills' gun.
"So at the end there," he nodded, and smiled. "Will there be another box or something? Is this what it is about? Me finding a box, and Playstation fanboys make fun of me?"
"After watching you for three days, I'm pretty sure any type of boxes are a big no-no," said the kid, sort of shivering, or laughing. "I tell you what.
You find the killer of my mother, and I will stand there ensuring no type of 'shape' or point ever meets you again."
Then the child quickly vanished/disappeared into the dark tunnel.
"Now follow me," said the kid.
"I shouldn't be here," said Mills. There, in the middle of the precinct, in the middle of a crime scene, with horrid and probably acid rain falling upon his being, with squad cars moaning in and out and strobing infrequent but sharp red and blue, with the same fucking taste of coffee he had smelled circa 1995, when Somerset had first met him, after they'd had a few conversations about 'morality' over a few whiskey nights, drawn over a few weeks.
"My mom just got killed near where you are, Mills," said the child, "and I am going to make you find her! You jerk. Walk!"
"What are you? Some type of hacker?" said Mills. He had learned all about computers in his long time under witness protection (as a cop), and evil hackers who can employ children in order to get away with their deeds.
There was more thunder. And more rain.
"Mills," said the child. "I just spent three fucking days in your office pretending to be conscious for you." He was crying. "The cops...they just hovered around, as though they thought nothing was wrong. And your boss...he thinks I'm some type of a transient. Lingering in the office."
The puddles around Mills' pants and sleeves welled up, and he wanted to touch each one as though it were a warm whirring water spout.
Mills picked himself up, and he was much taller than the kid. He picked up what was left of the coffee from 1995. "I'm sorry, kid," he said.
"But I just did a whole night of patrolling and catching all sorts of criminals."
The warm whirring water spouts fell off of Mills' special shoes, whose leather then bore no possible traces of said whirlypool. Only thunder crackled and only the coldest rain, in sleek drizzles began to pelt him.
"You saw the girl I smashed into the wall, right," said Mills, "like so much spaghetti bolognese?"
A look of malice entered the boy's eyes. "I don't think so."
"I know you did. I did it!" he yelled. "Straight into the prison wall, spaghetti bolognese!"
The child recalculated his own position, and placed himself near the dark hole. "That was just you trying to think logically why your old Robocop movie isn't as gory-realistic as the new PG-13 2013 Robocop trailer, my dear David Mills. It was you drooling into your youtube.
And I had to find someone. Someone nearby who I felt could care enough."
"I didn't care," said Mills. "I didn't care enough. And I don't care."
"Nor did I," cried the child. "The last thing I told my mother was that I wished she was my lunch box. So she could replace my shitty meal whenver I opened her with a good one compared to my friends!'"
"Your mother gave you what she knew you needed," said Mills, reaching out into the rain.
"That's what a cop would say," said the child, slipping away.
"Heh," laughed Mills. "Not a detective, huh?"
"You're becoming creepy. I'm going to disappear into the dark tunnel soon," said the kid. "And I hope you will seek me, detective."
The rain became slightly colder, slightly icier, forming icicles around Mills' gun.
"So at the end there," he nodded, and smiled. "Will there be another box or something? Is this what it is about? Me finding a box, and Playstation fanboys make fun of me?"
"After watching you for three days, I'm pretty sure any type of boxes are a big no-no," said the kid, sort of shivering, or laughing. "I tell you what.
You find the killer of my mother, and I will stand there ensuring no type of 'shape' or point ever meets you again."
Then the child quickly vanished/disappeared into the dark tunnel.
Now because of it is because Friday the 13th, we release the following issue: "T to 2 minus 10 Seconds to Lunch #eight"
I can't work inside cubicles, I'm just not used to it.
I know some people are used to it. And they're also used to 'desk space'. And they all want co-workers and co-partners, and someone that they need to deal with. They enjoy that sort of capsule like space moment.
"I've been beyond," man, I tell the boss as he comes into work. Spiderman's boss, I tell him I'm beyond all that shit. Don't really care anymore.
I watch him settle down in his beady little office with my beady little eyes. Heh. That's not just a mishap in my expression of prose -- this dude really has an office full of beads. I once tried to slice an orange against this guy who was clearly a porn channel for water cooler conversation:
"What's up with the beads in this boss's room, yo?" I asked, earnestly, filling my Sunkist bottle with cool, cool water.
Dude just walked away, ignoring me.
I thought we were going to make fun of the boss's obsession with beads.
.
Finally around twelve thirty, petty officer Charles walks in, dragging some petty whore into the jail, and he slams her straight into wall, and she splashes like so much spaghetti bolognese.
.
At 12:34, Charles sits in the desk in front of me and writes 'notes', apparently. He looks at me at 5 to 10 second intervals, as though I am supposed to hover over his desk and grade his fucking homework or something. At 12:45 I finally can't deal with it and tell this pompous fuck what I fucking think of him.
"You know they keep records of your books," Charles, "I tell him."
"Yeah. Cos of the Library."
At 12:49 Charles loses dietary control and must exit to unknown location. Nobody has told me where the fucking restrooms are. I laugh over at one of the other lesser detectives that has been watching me all these hours: "If only this were Detroit 1-8-7, huh?" I laugh at him.
He laughs back at me. "You wouldn't last one second in Detroit."
Charles returns and I pick up my coat. "It's time to go...officer," I tell him.
"There's no way you can go out of this," he replied. He seemed as though he was suffering from a type of vertigo...or vertebra. Whatever it was, it wasn't strong. I took my coat and walked down, out of the police precinct.
Charles followed me all the way down and out, and into the streets. It was pouring. So I led him to a coffee place that was unique and special to only my special taste. "You wait here, Mills," I told him, and I'll be out again with your *coffee* that is made for *your* taste.
I know some people are used to it. And they're also used to 'desk space'. And they all want co-workers and co-partners, and someone that they need to deal with. They enjoy that sort of capsule like space moment.
"I've been beyond," man, I tell the boss as he comes into work. Spiderman's boss, I tell him I'm beyond all that shit. Don't really care anymore.
I watch him settle down in his beady little office with my beady little eyes. Heh. That's not just a mishap in my expression of prose -- this dude really has an office full of beads. I once tried to slice an orange against this guy who was clearly a porn channel for water cooler conversation:
"What's up with the beads in this boss's room, yo?" I asked, earnestly, filling my Sunkist bottle with cool, cool water.
Dude just walked away, ignoring me.
I thought we were going to make fun of the boss's obsession with beads.
.
Finally around twelve thirty, petty officer Charles walks in, dragging some petty whore into the jail, and he slams her straight into wall, and she splashes like so much spaghetti bolognese.
.
At 12:34, Charles sits in the desk in front of me and writes 'notes', apparently. He looks at me at 5 to 10 second intervals, as though I am supposed to hover over his desk and grade his fucking homework or something. At 12:45 I finally can't deal with it and tell this pompous fuck what I fucking think of him.
"You know they keep records of your books," Charles, "I tell him."
"Yeah. Cos of the Library."
At 12:49 Charles loses dietary control and must exit to unknown location. Nobody has told me where the fucking restrooms are. I laugh over at one of the other lesser detectives that has been watching me all these hours: "If only this were Detroit 1-8-7, huh?" I laugh at him.
He laughs back at me. "You wouldn't last one second in Detroit."
Charles returns and I pick up my coat. "It's time to go...officer," I tell him.
"There's no way you can go out of this," he replied. He seemed as though he was suffering from a type of vertigo...or vertebra. Whatever it was, it wasn't strong. I took my coat and walked down, out of the police precinct.
Charles followed me all the way down and out, and into the streets. It was pouring. So I led him to a coffee place that was unique and special to only my special taste. "You wait here, Mills," I told him, and I'll be out again with your *coffee* that is made for *your* taste.
riding through the slum
So this is just me trying to be funny while listening to 'Riders in the Storm' by the Doors, and sort of just being a little funny with all of it. Sorry to anybody who is Hardcore into Doors (though most of you will die sooner than me), but it was just being funny.
And me just trying to see how well I can do the 'rhyming'. Let me know when I failed.
Thank you.
I also advise you to listen to the song while reading the lyrics, in order to be able to criticize in a complete manner. Thank you again.
------------------
Riding through the slum x 2
Into this house we're grown
in two, our second loans,
like a pendulum that's swung
by Edgar Allen Poe,
yeah, still riders in a slum x 1
There's a killer on the loam.
His brain is squealing about a Toad.
Take a long holiday...
Forget your past girlfriend...
If she gives your lamb a ride,
you'll be accused of homicide as
The Killer on The Road...(yeah)
Grrl, you gotta love your mags.
Grrl, you gotta love your mags.
Take him by your sniper stand,
MAKE HIM UNDERSTAND
Headshot was your second guess,
all life will never end.
He's gotta understand ;)
And me just trying to see how well I can do the 'rhyming'. Let me know when I failed.
Thank you.
I also advise you to listen to the song while reading the lyrics, in order to be able to criticize in a complete manner. Thank you again.
------------------
Riding through the slum x 2
Into this house we're grown
in two, our second loans,
like a pendulum that's swung
by Edgar Allen Poe,
yeah, still riders in a slum x 1
There's a killer on the loam.
His brain is squealing about a Toad.
Take a long holiday...
Forget your past girlfriend...
If she gives your lamb a ride,
you'll be accused of homicide as
The Killer on The Road...(yeah)
Grrl, you gotta love your mags.
Grrl, you gotta love your mags.
Take him by your sniper stand,
MAKE HIM UNDERSTAND
Headshot was your second guess,
all life will never end.
He's gotta understand ;)
Sunday, September 1, 2013
not nine
I return to the office sharply at nine o'clock, and am greeted by the comforting sight of all of the officers working away at their designated desks, solving crimes. Charles is not there, he's not here, yet. I put an orange I had been saving upon Charles' table, and type a note on his Notepad: "I'm sorry I called you petty. I know we're supposed to be partners."
I then open the diary file we'd been working on, and type a little further: "This morning, a sack of flour was dumped in front of my door. You can't imagine how unexpected this kind of hit is to a person's psyche. You wake up, expecting to find some interesting and possibly new stuff to look into, but all you're doing is looking at flour powdered all over your doorstep. With a finger-scrawled note saying 'BAKE HER'. And it wasn't even a sack. It was a box. A box of flour that littered my doorstep at an alarmingly discomforting angle."
That's about all I have in my heart to write into the diary for now, and so I go to my own desk to check my email. Mother, this morning, is surprisingly silent. I feel I may have hurt her feelings, so I write a short note to apologize in case I had done so, and I only realize upon sending the email that I'm apologizing for sending her some email.
I have to go to a seminar at 9:30 about coping with loss. I'm not against it. Some of the personalities there are very encouraging and colorful. Unlike me. I have no color.
I open my box of crayons and begin to illustrate 'The World', as it relates to me. Everything begins to take shape. Her narrative switches to the past, and now she begins to have some proper shading.
I then open the diary file we'd been working on, and type a little further: "This morning, a sack of flour was dumped in front of my door. You can't imagine how unexpected this kind of hit is to a person's psyche. You wake up, expecting to find some interesting and possibly new stuff to look into, but all you're doing is looking at flour powdered all over your doorstep. With a finger-scrawled note saying 'BAKE HER'. And it wasn't even a sack. It was a box. A box of flour that littered my doorstep at an alarmingly discomforting angle."
That's about all I have in my heart to write into the diary for now, and so I go to my own desk to check my email. Mother, this morning, is surprisingly silent. I feel I may have hurt her feelings, so I write a short note to apologize in case I had done so, and I only realize upon sending the email that I'm apologizing for sending her some email.
I have to go to a seminar at 9:30 about coping with loss. I'm not against it. Some of the personalities there are very encouraging and colorful. Unlike me. I have no color.
I open my box of crayons and begin to illustrate 'The World', as it relates to me. Everything begins to take shape. Her narrative switches to the past, and now she begins to have some proper shading.
Saturday, August 31, 2013
l8r
We land at the murdered person's house and find that she is killed in a ritualistic manner. This person...this 'politician' who stood outside with several chicken industry protestors had had her neck broken, and then, very deli...deliberately, they drew a nice fat 7 across her breasts. That's what these clowns do, because they know I'm back.
"It's the same thing over and over again, Frank! Let's just go back to the office."
Spiderman's fucking boss is obviously mine, at the office, and he is yelling at me. "I can't hire you if you're instigating the murders," he yells. "I mean, are you seeing a fucking pattern here?" he yells again.
"Se7en", I reply. "That's a pattern."
"They're making fun of you kid. You're no detective."
I turn back and look at my email. My mother is sending encouraging messages. "Keep a positive heart, and you'll be right as rain," she writes, and I wish I could tell her how much I miss her (my wife, not my mom).
I write carefully back. "I'm a detective, again now, mom. I can't think about her. Please don't send so many emails."
Petty officer Charles is now assigned to me. I ask him if he knows how I can improve my typing. "You have any typing games, Charles?"
We write a small diary together, imagining the psyche of the people who'd like to taunt me.
.
Near home, there is an old woman who is usually pretty cool to talk with. She...she *lives* in a box. When we first met, I told her how fucking offensive that is to me, and she just did a finger thing like saying "not important". I speak to this older woman in the box about what happened to my wife, and she just listens to me.
"You really have a hang-up," she said one day.
"It's the same thing over and over again, Frank! Let's just go back to the office."
Spiderman's fucking boss is obviously mine, at the office, and he is yelling at me. "I can't hire you if you're instigating the murders," he yells. "I mean, are you seeing a fucking pattern here?" he yells again.
"Se7en", I reply. "That's a pattern."
"They're making fun of you kid. You're no detective."
I turn back and look at my email. My mother is sending encouraging messages. "Keep a positive heart, and you'll be right as rain," she writes, and I wish I could tell her how much I miss her (my wife, not my mom).
I write carefully back. "I'm a detective, again now, mom. I can't think about her. Please don't send so many emails."
Petty officer Charles is now assigned to me. I ask him if he knows how I can improve my typing. "You have any typing games, Charles?"
We write a small diary together, imagining the psyche of the people who'd like to taunt me.
.
Near home, there is an old woman who is usually pretty cool to talk with. She...she *lives* in a box. When we first met, I told her how fucking offensive that is to me, and she just did a finger thing like saying "not important". I speak to this older woman in the box about what happened to my wife, and she just listens to me.
"You really have a hang-up," she said one day.
a8e
"Welcome back to homicide, detective."
There were new things in the police these days. Computers. People who use computers, and people who feel like they're good at it. They showed me how to receive email, and I saw how my mom had sent way too many...It was my fault. I should have been there for her, and I should have been there when...when she was feeling those troubles and messaging me.
I walk around new york city, trying to get my pants blowed up in the subway winds. Any...shaking, unstable tremor...hah! It gets me right back to her. And I have slowly learned to appreciate how the ground shakes beneath my feet. When the ground shakes beneath my feet, that is her, her smile, and she lives.
And I live. New York City in 2013. Didn't we leave for the same reason? Let's walk into a public library.
For Somerset, that was pretty much it.I requested his presence several times in the clinic, but they said that he was done, and not going to come anymore. I can see his point of view.
Heh, I mean, after all, wasn't that always his point of view? Seeing the other person's point of view?
I still can't eat anything that comes in a box. I can't fucking open my fucking furniture. A clever fuck in the clinic told me I am quadratically challenged. I'd tell these guys who monitor me, and maybe induce them to play something melodic as I find books, but I know I'm no Somerset. I *KNOW* that.
My cellphone rings in the middle of Chaucer's Tales. I look up apologetically and try to find the precinct's bulletin FUCKING board! Then, oh, 'just check your email'.
Finally find the email and can shut it down. Famous politician killed, theatrically. Heh. I get into to the car and tell the petty officer, Frank, to drive to the murder scene.
"Step on it son," I tell Frank. "Gotta go, Serpico."
There were new things in the police these days. Computers. People who use computers, and people who feel like they're good at it. They showed me how to receive email, and I saw how my mom had sent way too many...It was my fault. I should have been there for her, and I should have been there when...when she was feeling those troubles and messaging me.
I walk around new york city, trying to get my pants blowed up in the subway winds. Any...shaking, unstable tremor...hah! It gets me right back to her. And I have slowly learned to appreciate how the ground shakes beneath my feet. When the ground shakes beneath my feet, that is her, her smile, and she lives.
And I live. New York City in 2013. Didn't we leave for the same reason? Let's walk into a public library.
For Somerset, that was pretty much it.I requested his presence several times in the clinic, but they said that he was done, and not going to come anymore. I can see his point of view.
Heh, I mean, after all, wasn't that always his point of view? Seeing the other person's point of view?
I still can't eat anything that comes in a box. I can't fucking open my fucking furniture. A clever fuck in the clinic told me I am quadratically challenged. I'd tell these guys who monitor me, and maybe induce them to play something melodic as I find books, but I know I'm no Somerset. I *KNOW* that.
My cellphone rings in the middle of Chaucer's Tales. I look up apologetically and try to find the precinct's bulletin FUCKING board! Then, oh, 'just check your email'.
Finally find the email and can shut it down. Famous politician killed, theatrically. Heh. I get into to the car and tell the petty officer, Frank, to drive to the murder scene.
"Step on it son," I tell Frank. "Gotta go, Serpico."
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