Hands sweaty, breath quickening, you realize your anxiety is getting out of hand. The presence of a polycephalic dog should be enough to spawn anxiety such as this, but deep in your heart, you know this isn't the case. Doc's fine. Doc's no problem in fact. Your dreams of bellow-neck women are no problem. Even the thugs from UPMC are no problem. These are all challenges in the physical world and can therefore be addressed directly with running shoes, knives, boltcutters, lockpicking tools, garden hoes, pens, pencils, high-speed internet, whips, chains, cyanide toothcaps, attack raccoons, or any combination thereof.
The problem is Jeffy. The problem has always been Jeffy. Charming though she is, he's always been somewhat of a dominating supervisor. She came on strong to you the first day you were hired, and you've been dealing with his tongue-and-cheek advances ever since. But whose tongue? And whose cheek? At first you thought you knew, but now you're not so sure. The sodium lights blaze through the crooked blinds, creating one stripe of pale orange across Jeffy's bangs, another across one eye and the bridge of the nose, another across the other eye and check, and down, and down. Your eyes follow the topography of shadow stripe down Jeffy's face and neck.
Shit. What a dilemma. Reality hits you. You're horny as fuck, and you know if you take Jeffy home you'll end up having sex. And it'll be complicated. And there'll be drama. And it'll be messy. And it'll be sloppy. And it'll be exciting. And it'll be hot. So fucking hot.
Shit. You realize the long silence has gone waaaaay past awkward o'clock, and all you're doing now is trying to mask your excitement/fear/anxiety by taking deep breaths. Something has to happen now. Once again, you weigh your options, numbered:
1. You say whatever you have to say right there in front of Doc.
2. You insist on taking Jeffy someplace neutral, perhaps with lots of people around.
3. You take Jeffy back to your house and tell her your theory on raccoon-dog conspiracies.
4. You tell him in the kitchen.
5. You tell her in your room.
6. Jeffy on top.
7. You on top.
In the bathtub.
On the floor.
Against the wall.
Shit. No, not shit, like actual feces. Just shit. As in, make the goddamn decision already.
"Actually," you say, "My place it is."
Jeffy's mouth breaks into a quizzical smile, which you can see perfectly by the light of a pale orange stripe. "Seriously?" he says.
"Seriously," you say, "Right now, before I change my mind." There's no bother to lock the door, because with Doc there, anyone would be a fool to try to rob the place.
You bike down the alleyways, despite the higher chance of running into enlarged raccoon gangs or killer cyber-deer. It beats dodging traffic on Butler Street. Up 54th Street, up and up, and still up, and you're always thankful in moments like this that you don't ride a fixie. You lock your bikes to the bottom of the stairs at the top of the hill, where the road ends for vehicles and can only be continued by those pedestrians fearless enough to trek the stairway through the woods. This is the only way to get to your house, and it keeps the riff-raff out. Unfortunately, it's also a life-threatening endeavor every time you need to go home or leave the house. The woods are notoriously a haven for all kinds of creatures who may or may not want to kidnap you and eat you for dinner or plant cyborg parts into you in the name of science. The stairs are also overgrown with foliage and littered with broken glass.
Your leatherman has a battery-operated forcefield though, and you were smart enough to charge it up at the shop. Jeffy carries a taser and a switchblade. You climb the stairs quietly and get to the top without incident. "Great," you think, "that'll just mean double-unluck on the way down I guess."
Your home, as it were, is actually a half-finished house overlooking Lawrenceville. Someone paid an architect a hell of a lot of money several years ago to design this place, and then the money ran out, and the hill started collapsing down into 53rd Street, and the house was abandoned. The first time you saw it, you thought it was the most magical place in all of Pittsburgh. You finished the upper floor so that it's habitable all year round, but in the spring and summer you pretty much spend your house time on the still bare framed first floor, with the windowless exterior walls and the view of the whole city.
"I never get sick of this view," Jeffy says, "So, is there something you wanted to tell me about the raccoons?"
As you lean in close enough to feel Jeffy's breath on your face, you realize that of all the words poised on your tongue ready to come out, none of them have anything to do with raccoons.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Saturday, May 23, 2009
CHAPTER NINE
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!
You want to throw up. You don't know how long you've been staring at this blank page, or when you regained "consciousness."
You've got the slipps, you've got the slipps bad.
Jeffy is shaking you. "Sophie, Christ! Get a fucking grip!" He's shaking you so hard that you're pony tail has come undone and your black hair seems to crystallise in a million intricate sculptures as you pull yourself back into the crazy fucking daydream that is your reality.
The slips were a newly descovered in the last ten or so years, though they likely existed as early as 2012. Ever since technology started altering the human world rapidly enough that people couldn't keep their daydreams in check by crossreferencing them with the basic rules of reality.
There was a time that seeing a flying zombie robot ment you were daydreaming or crazy, and then you could wake up. Now-a-days that might just mean that somebody designed a zombie robot that flies. Pretty much nothing is impossible, which means the only thing to seporate dream from reality is continuity. It can happen to anybody (especially a writer) but it's still embarassing as all hell.
You've calmed down some--at least you're breathing steadily.
"You weren't picking up your cell," said Jeffy. "I let myself in. You were slipping pretty bad huh?"
"What?" All your taxadermied animals are gone. "Oh, no. Not bad," you say. "Sometimes when I'm really into a story."
Jeffy looks at your blank screen. "You look real deep in there." There's a toothpick lolling inbetween Jeffys lips. "Do you slipp like this a lot?"
"Nah," you say a little two quickly. "What's with you fucking pols anyway? Why do you ask so many fucking questions? What are you doing here?"
Jeffy lifts his hands smiling a bit at your tuff-girl act. "I'm just here to check the mutts for bio-tags before you incinerate em'."
You're still dizzy and watching him think you're cute makes you want to spit. "They're in the Bell Jar."
Jeffy smirks and swaggers off, letting his but twitch in those spandex pants--gun, flashlight, and mace hanging from his hips.
You shut off your screen and keyboard, and rub your face.
"Sophie?" calls Jeffy.
"Duchebag?" you call back.
"There aint no muts in here sweety."
You graon and march over and peer into the Bell Jar. He's right. The thing is empty. You turn toward jeffy and jump despite yourself.
It's Doc. He's doubled in size, and you instantly realize what happend to the other dogs. Jeff looks over toward Doc. "Oh, here's one."
Doc sticks out his toungh, sniffing--weighing his options.
"Letts pop this guy in the tank, gas em', and do that autopsy."
You shake my head. "I don't think it's that simple."
"What do you mean?"
Right now you're afraid for Jeffy's life. You also don't want to talk about this stuff in front of Doc for some reason. You hear youself say, "Let's talk someplace else," even though you don't really want to, but you're choices are limited.
Jeffy perkes up emeadately. "How about your place."
You shake your head.
"Why not? Scared somethings going to happen?"
You shake your head. "Racoons."
You want to throw up. You don't know how long you've been staring at this blank page, or when you regained "consciousness."
You've got the slipps, you've got the slipps bad.
Jeffy is shaking you. "Sophie, Christ! Get a fucking grip!" He's shaking you so hard that you're pony tail has come undone and your black hair seems to crystallise in a million intricate sculptures as you pull yourself back into the crazy fucking daydream that is your reality.
The slips were a newly descovered in the last ten or so years, though they likely existed as early as 2012. Ever since technology started altering the human world rapidly enough that people couldn't keep their daydreams in check by crossreferencing them with the basic rules of reality.
There was a time that seeing a flying zombie robot ment you were daydreaming or crazy, and then you could wake up. Now-a-days that might just mean that somebody designed a zombie robot that flies. Pretty much nothing is impossible, which means the only thing to seporate dream from reality is continuity. It can happen to anybody (especially a writer) but it's still embarassing as all hell.
You've calmed down some--at least you're breathing steadily.
"You weren't picking up your cell," said Jeffy. "I let myself in. You were slipping pretty bad huh?"
"What?" All your taxadermied animals are gone. "Oh, no. Not bad," you say. "Sometimes when I'm really into a story."
Jeffy looks at your blank screen. "You look real deep in there." There's a toothpick lolling inbetween Jeffys lips. "Do you slipp like this a lot?"
"Nah," you say a little two quickly. "What's with you fucking pols anyway? Why do you ask so many fucking questions? What are you doing here?"
Jeffy lifts his hands smiling a bit at your tuff-girl act. "I'm just here to check the mutts for bio-tags before you incinerate em'."
You're still dizzy and watching him think you're cute makes you want to spit. "They're in the Bell Jar."
Jeffy smirks and swaggers off, letting his but twitch in those spandex pants--gun, flashlight, and mace hanging from his hips.
You shut off your screen and keyboard, and rub your face.
"Sophie?" calls Jeffy.
"Duchebag?" you call back.
"There aint no muts in here sweety."
You graon and march over and peer into the Bell Jar. He's right. The thing is empty. You turn toward jeffy and jump despite yourself.
It's Doc. He's doubled in size, and you instantly realize what happend to the other dogs. Jeff looks over toward Doc. "Oh, here's one."
Doc sticks out his toungh, sniffing--weighing his options.
"Letts pop this guy in the tank, gas em', and do that autopsy."
You shake my head. "I don't think it's that simple."
"What do you mean?"
Right now you're afraid for Jeffy's life. You also don't want to talk about this stuff in front of Doc for some reason. You hear youself say, "Let's talk someplace else," even though you don't really want to, but you're choices are limited.
Jeffy perkes up emeadately. "How about your place."
You shake your head.
"Why not? Scared somethings going to happen?"
You shake your head. "Racoons."
Chapter 8
The art of animal magnetism, whether welcome or inappropriate, is a practice learned and layered, developed over many years of creature husbandry and strategic manipulation of various beasts. When pursuing your undergraduate degree at Pitt as an adolescent (after preschool AP Classes and the trading of your recess credits for internships and work credit at the local vet labs and animal-dependent sustainability courses on the outskirts of Lawrenceville and Morningside), you deleted every useless bit of information on the topic of Confrontation with Animatronic/Radioactive Cyborg Beasts, except for one. From Barnyard in Your Backyard: A Beginner's Guide to Raising Chickens, Ducks, Geese, Rabbits, Goats, Cyborg Dogs, Sheep, and Cows in Pittsburgh by Gail Damerow:
"The dark can be an especially dangerous place, especially when pure blackness is punctuated with the glowing eyes of the undead Eunuch Raccoons of the Allegheny. But the likelihood of survival in such a situation has been increased exponentially by Eternal Mayor Luke Ravenstahl's creation of a revolving curfew center for nocturnal animals. The revolving curfew center, which involves welcoming delinquent night creatures into a new neighborhood every month as a means to keeping these raccoons, opossums and roaches off the street and providing a nurturing work environment for them to make pies, may be coming to your neighborhood soon! Don't forget to check your internal calendar and ready your homestead for visitors--you never know how many manicotti you'll need when the weasels show up! Brought to you through partnership with UPMC."
You reach for the light switch and dial 311 in the same motion, but only your phone call goes through, as a chilled, scaly tail impedes your motion to light the room. You swat it away and flip the switch--mandatory speaker phone kicks in: "Hello, You've reached the Offices of Eternal Mayor Luke Ravenstahl. If you are calling about food stamps to feed unexpected guests, press one... ." You hang up.
The stretched necks of now-visible raccoons resemble Popoids, a crunching, expanding and contracting toy similar to Legos you remember from your childhood. The starving bandits stand around a wooden trunk bookended by the head and rear of a New England Alligator, whose tail was probably what kept you from turning on the light, you think. Each raccoon holds a piece of official mail with your address, today's date, and your name. You, obviously their host, haven't kept track of the days and nights, and since your city-approved squat is stuck in the in-between of two neighborhoods and is debatably in neither and both at the same time (depending on government handouts and take-backs), you feel you've been both cheated and blessed, though you're not sure of the latter.
Doc knows this. Don't ask yourself how, but he has already told the raccoons, who refused to leave your grounds and accept refuge in more up-and-coming neighborhoods (like Lincoln-Lemington and North Perry), that we cannot provide for them. The alligator, obviously just a modern-day pack horse/oven, awaits instruction from the raccoons, who hurriedly begin pouring into the alligator's trunk your pie and pastry flour, Earth Balance and fruit.
"I can't handle anymore roommates right now," you tell the raccoons. "And aren't you all still pissed about our past?"
The raccoon with the longest, slinkiest neck shrinks back to a normal size, reaches into the alligator's trunk, and pulls out a shoofly pie.
"A shoofly pie?"
The raccoon nods and holds it up as a peace offering.
"That's about as expected as a raccoon riding a bicycle."
You look around the room and notice all the miniature frames and 12-inch wheels eschew, evidence that the kitchen is also now a bike workshop for your guests. Do you need this right now, at this time in your life?
You take the pie from the raccoon and shake his still-evolving hand. There's no suspicion here--you just eat the pie and laugh at how absurd it all is. The University, the Health Care, The Immortal Mayor, the hospitality of your guests, who should still probably want to kill you.
"Hey, did you dissect those other chimeras yet?"
"What? Where is that voice coming from?" you ask. "Jeffy?"
"Yeah," she says, letting herself in from the kitchen window. The raccoons all sniff at her ambiguity, or maybe its her authority that has them interested. You don't know--either is a new smell and worth the interest.
"I called 311 and, uh, requested your home address," she says. "This is one of the finest city-approved squats I've ever seen! Can I get the tour to see if, ah, the wiring in your bedroom is up to code?"
"I've got to feed these raccoons, Jeffy. There's no time for inspection. And what the fuck do we do with this alligator?"
The long-necked raccoon, answering your question, flips a switch behind the alligator's left front leg, and the reptilian parts retract back into the trunk, pushing out another pie from an enormous coin slot, this time berry. The raccoons all rush up to the pie and wave us off. Doc joins them, as another pie slides out from the trunk.
"Look, we're either going to fuck tonight or we're going to dissect those chimeras," Jeffy says. "It's your choice. But I really do have to inspect your wiring, if you know what I mean."
"Wait, don't you think that this whole scene is a bit pointless? I already knew you want to fuck me. Is any of this even necessary for the story?"
"Story, what story?"
"The dark can be an especially dangerous place, especially when pure blackness is punctuated with the glowing eyes of the undead Eunuch Raccoons of the Allegheny. But the likelihood of survival in such a situation has been increased exponentially by Eternal Mayor Luke Ravenstahl's creation of a revolving curfew center for nocturnal animals. The revolving curfew center, which involves welcoming delinquent night creatures into a new neighborhood every month as a means to keeping these raccoons, opossums and roaches off the street and providing a nurturing work environment for them to make pies, may be coming to your neighborhood soon! Don't forget to check your internal calendar and ready your homestead for visitors--you never know how many manicotti you'll need when the weasels show up! Brought to you through partnership with UPMC."
You reach for the light switch and dial 311 in the same motion, but only your phone call goes through, as a chilled, scaly tail impedes your motion to light the room. You swat it away and flip the switch--mandatory speaker phone kicks in: "Hello, You've reached the Offices of Eternal Mayor Luke Ravenstahl. If you are calling about food stamps to feed unexpected guests, press one... ." You hang up.
The stretched necks of now-visible raccoons resemble Popoids, a crunching, expanding and contracting toy similar to Legos you remember from your childhood. The starving bandits stand around a wooden trunk bookended by the head and rear of a New England Alligator, whose tail was probably what kept you from turning on the light, you think. Each raccoon holds a piece of official mail with your address, today's date, and your name. You, obviously their host, haven't kept track of the days and nights, and since your city-approved squat is stuck in the in-between of two neighborhoods and is debatably in neither and both at the same time (depending on government handouts and take-backs), you feel you've been both cheated and blessed, though you're not sure of the latter.
Doc knows this. Don't ask yourself how, but he has already told the raccoons, who refused to leave your grounds and accept refuge in more up-and-coming neighborhoods (like Lincoln-Lemington and North Perry), that we cannot provide for them. The alligator, obviously just a modern-day pack horse/oven, awaits instruction from the raccoons, who hurriedly begin pouring into the alligator's trunk your pie and pastry flour, Earth Balance and fruit.
"I can't handle anymore roommates right now," you tell the raccoons. "And aren't you all still pissed about our past?"
The raccoon with the longest, slinkiest neck shrinks back to a normal size, reaches into the alligator's trunk, and pulls out a shoofly pie.
"A shoofly pie?"
The raccoon nods and holds it up as a peace offering.
"That's about as expected as a raccoon riding a bicycle."
You look around the room and notice all the miniature frames and 12-inch wheels eschew, evidence that the kitchen is also now a bike workshop for your guests. Do you need this right now, at this time in your life?
You take the pie from the raccoon and shake his still-evolving hand. There's no suspicion here--you just eat the pie and laugh at how absurd it all is. The University, the Health Care, The Immortal Mayor, the hospitality of your guests, who should still probably want to kill you.
"Hey, did you dissect those other chimeras yet?"
"What? Where is that voice coming from?" you ask. "Jeffy?"
"Yeah," she says, letting herself in from the kitchen window. The raccoons all sniff at her ambiguity, or maybe its her authority that has them interested. You don't know--either is a new smell and worth the interest.
"I called 311 and, uh, requested your home address," she says. "This is one of the finest city-approved squats I've ever seen! Can I get the tour to see if, ah, the wiring in your bedroom is up to code?"
"I've got to feed these raccoons, Jeffy. There's no time for inspection. And what the fuck do we do with this alligator?"
The long-necked raccoon, answering your question, flips a switch behind the alligator's left front leg, and the reptilian parts retract back into the trunk, pushing out another pie from an enormous coin slot, this time berry. The raccoons all rush up to the pie and wave us off. Doc joins them, as another pie slides out from the trunk.
"Look, we're either going to fuck tonight or we're going to dissect those chimeras," Jeffy says. "It's your choice. But I really do have to inspect your wiring, if you know what I mean."
"Wait, don't you think that this whole scene is a bit pointless? I already knew you want to fuck me. Is any of this even necessary for the story?"
"Story, what story?"
Chapter 7
You head towards home, where an extended family of raccoons have recently taken over, a rather embarrassing situation for someone of your profession. During the day, when you're usually out anyway, they don't bother you, but once the sun's gone, you have to be too, or they will attack. You know this because you tried to negotiate a peaceful coexistence with them the second night of their stay. They said no and bit you, purportedly because their first day there you tazed each of them while they slept, bagged them and dropped them in a heap in Schenley Park.
You underestimated their memory capacity, and now for the last few weeks you've been producing some mystifying sea foamy pus. You've also been couch hopping at night. Unfortunately, you're running out of hospitable friends, and apparently your place holds some charm for the raccoons apart from food. Though you never find any scraps when you're home during the day, they must be bringing their own, because you've sterilized the place of all things edible or once edible, and they haven't shown any sign of moving out.
Pretty soon you're going to have to resort to asking Jeffy for a place to crash. You don't want to. Although, this might be a good opportunity to stop her drooling over you with your own sticky discharge. The pus. From the bite-wounds. No, it'll never work. Even as a host for rampant infection, you're unbearably attractive.
When you and Doc arrive at your house, it is just about raccoon o'clock. You pray to the god of snake-dogs, who you concede is whichever devious college kid created Doc and his siblings (assuming they are of the same litter, of course), that Doc isn't full and pacified from the dog treats and the stuffed fox, then push open the door.
You overestimated your memory capacity, because the raccoons are significantly larger than you remember them being. By the light coming in from the porch you can make out maybe five enormities huddled together on top of the kitchen counter. They seem to be deliberating over whatever is in the center of their circle. Doc isn't lunging ferociously at the pack of intruders, so you nudge him towards them. He slithers up to the group and sniffs. The raccoon nearest him turns its glowing eyes and lets its head fall towards him, its neck lengthening. More glowing eyes creep out from under the table, behind the counter and through the doorway to the living room as Doc and the raccoon sniff each others' faces.
All those eyes are floating towards you, and now so are the heads of Doc's new acquaintance and its discussion group.
You underestimated their memory capacity, and now for the last few weeks you've been producing some mystifying sea foamy pus. You've also been couch hopping at night. Unfortunately, you're running out of hospitable friends, and apparently your place holds some charm for the raccoons apart from food. Though you never find any scraps when you're home during the day, they must be bringing their own, because you've sterilized the place of all things edible or once edible, and they haven't shown any sign of moving out.
Pretty soon you're going to have to resort to asking Jeffy for a place to crash. You don't want to. Although, this might be a good opportunity to stop her drooling over you with your own sticky discharge. The pus. From the bite-wounds. No, it'll never work. Even as a host for rampant infection, you're unbearably attractive.
When you and Doc arrive at your house, it is just about raccoon o'clock. You pray to the god of snake-dogs, who you concede is whichever devious college kid created Doc and his siblings (assuming they are of the same litter, of course), that Doc isn't full and pacified from the dog treats and the stuffed fox, then push open the door.
You overestimated your memory capacity, because the raccoons are significantly larger than you remember them being. By the light coming in from the porch you can make out maybe five enormities huddled together on top of the kitchen counter. They seem to be deliberating over whatever is in the center of their circle. Doc isn't lunging ferociously at the pack of intruders, so you nudge him towards them. He slithers up to the group and sniffs. The raccoon nearest him turns its glowing eyes and lets its head fall towards him, its neck lengthening. More glowing eyes creep out from under the table, behind the counter and through the doorway to the living room as Doc and the raccoon sniff each others' faces.
All those eyes are floating towards you, and now so are the heads of Doc's new acquaintance and its discussion group.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
CHAPTER VI
… but you don’t want to think about that right now, so you step outside for a smoke to clear your head. Encroaching deadlines alone make you want to vomit and a gorge rises in your throat. The light of the setting sun feebly penetrates layers of chemtrail goo, the downtown skyline glows neon with UPMC holograms, and the Allegheny laps against the concrete pillars that support your little corner of paradise.
No thoughts, now. Just sensations.
Relaxed at last, you allow yourself to wonder what the hell you’re going to do with Doc if the Zyklon D doesn’t finish him off. Sell him on eBay? What with the hyperinflation, the thirty thousand dollars left in your account won’t even cover tomorrow’s chili-soy dog or your next pouch of tobacco (which, what with the targeted taxation, costs about twice as much as a 4-pack of hollow-tipped tracking bullets) but of course there’s no way you can afford to ship him. Maybe you can barter him for a Primanti Bros. sandwich. Maybe he’s already dead.
Nope.
“You win, Doc.”
He slithers out of the Bell Jar and zips around your office, scattering documents and overturning makeshift furniture.
Beep. Another message from Jeffy.
“Sophie, for Christ’s sake, get back to me. Psychotropics scan came back negative; as for fields and shit, the Cathedral’s so rife with esmog I didn’t even bother. I did find something interesting on that five-headed fucker’s corpse, though: subdermal biotag, same kind UPMC implants to keep tabs on their ‘patients’. Check the ones you took back with you to see if they have ‘em, too. I need to communicate with you in a purely professional capacity about this shit, and if you’re not interested in doing your job I’ll find someone who is. Ciao.”
Every year at finals time the Cathedral gets evacuated for one reason or another (usually a simple dirty bomb or biotoxin hoax) but this instance has more loose ends sticking out of it than the head-stump of that cyborg chimera. As your curiosity grows, your personal financial and literary crises fade into irrelevance.
Doc knocks over a rack of taxidermy you use for target practice, unhooks his jaw and tries to gobble one of the smaller specimens, which you find oddly inspiring. Had Doc been asked, “Do you want to live?” you know what he’d have answered. You promise yourself that, no matter how weird things get, you’ll deal with it somehow and triumph.
You can autopsy the chimeras and report back to Jeffy, chill him out, later tonight. There’s something you have to do first, though, something it occurs to you Doc can actually help you accomplish. You grab your gear, lower the drawbridge, whistle for Doc to follow and hit the streets.
No thoughts, now. Just sensations.
Relaxed at last, you allow yourself to wonder what the hell you’re going to do with Doc if the Zyklon D doesn’t finish him off. Sell him on eBay? What with the hyperinflation, the thirty thousand dollars left in your account won’t even cover tomorrow’s chili-soy dog or your next pouch of tobacco (which, what with the targeted taxation, costs about twice as much as a 4-pack of hollow-tipped tracking bullets) but of course there’s no way you can afford to ship him. Maybe you can barter him for a Primanti Bros. sandwich. Maybe he’s already dead.
Nope.
“You win, Doc.”
He slithers out of the Bell Jar and zips around your office, scattering documents and overturning makeshift furniture.
Beep. Another message from Jeffy.
“Sophie, for Christ’s sake, get back to me. Psychotropics scan came back negative; as for fields and shit, the Cathedral’s so rife with esmog I didn’t even bother. I did find something interesting on that five-headed fucker’s corpse, though: subdermal biotag, same kind UPMC implants to keep tabs on their ‘patients’. Check the ones you took back with you to see if they have ‘em, too. I need to communicate with you in a purely professional capacity about this shit, and if you’re not interested in doing your job I’ll find someone who is. Ciao.”
Every year at finals time the Cathedral gets evacuated for one reason or another (usually a simple dirty bomb or biotoxin hoax) but this instance has more loose ends sticking out of it than the head-stump of that cyborg chimera. As your curiosity grows, your personal financial and literary crises fade into irrelevance.
Doc knocks over a rack of taxidermy you use for target practice, unhooks his jaw and tries to gobble one of the smaller specimens, which you find oddly inspiring. Had Doc been asked, “Do you want to live?” you know what he’d have answered. You promise yourself that, no matter how weird things get, you’ll deal with it somehow and triumph.
You can autopsy the chimeras and report back to Jeffy, chill him out, later tonight. There’s something you have to do first, though, something it occurs to you Doc can actually help you accomplish. You grab your gear, lower the drawbridge, whistle for Doc to follow and hit the streets.
CHAPTER V (that's Latin for "5")
You put a collar-cuff of the right head of the one mutt as the more doggish head sniffs you and the snakish one flicks out it's tongue. The second mutt the slithery one, only has front legs and they look pretty useless. He's eight foot long like a dachshund from hell, and has unhooked his jaw, pushing a hunk of dog biscuit into himself whole. When his mouth re-closes his ears perk up and he sort of wags his whole body. You put a shock-collar on him, but you only chain the bigger (the one with two heads)--betting that he's the dominant one of the two.
In the end you're wrong: On the way down toward the lobby you run into the other three mutts--two of which fall in line right after DOC (the name you decided to give the dachshund-ish mutt). When the last dog (a behemoth with five heads that was unable to leave the main study area due to its bulk) decides to make a stand, Doc rears up, displaying cobra like fins made of razorblades. Three of the heads seemed intimidated, and before the others could convince them otherwise Doc struck--just a nip on the flank, but enough to make that half the beast turn limp quicker than DOC could retract his fangs.
For that you give Doc a second treat. When you dial Jeffy on your work-cell the behemoth is already dead (pretty impressive). If a kid could make these you'd think he could handle a dumb written final. Whatever.
"Hey Sophie," Jeffy says over the cell. Jeffy's a poll, but he's alright. "Don't need any backup do you?" Jeffy's teasing.
"Shove it. But clear any civilians away from my truck, I'm walking out with some live ones," you say.
"Got it."
The crowd gasps as you walk out with 4 mutts (three un-chained (you love that)). You stroll toward your truck where Jeffy is leaning casually. You use your cell to open the back door and throw the last doggie treat in the back. "What took you so long?" Jeffy asks with a wink, as you shut the door behind the scampering/slithering hounds. Jeffy is a female-male sex-gender. You don't know what his sexuality is, except that he seems to want to jump your bones. Not your type though.
"Is that a gun in your pocket," you say. This wouldn't be funny except Jeffy wears spandex instead of the standard police-issue trousers, and he stuffs them with a sock. Maybe it still isn't funny. You think about this, before saying. "All the ones in there are cold, the janitors can clean em up, but you might want to get the Pitt cybernetic professors out here and see if they recognize the work."
"Fucking kids these days." Jeffy shakes his head.
"You might also want to check for psychotropic chemicals and waves," you add, thinking of the woman at the sea. You're already in the drivers seat.
"Ok," Jeffy says. Lifting up a notepad, "Could you to give a personal number in case we have any follow up questions?" he smirks.
"Five-five-five, five three one, eight hundred, eight," you say and slam the door (if somebody doesn't think that's funny they are obviously too mature (you should tell them to type that number in a calculator, flip it upside-down, and join the club)). You look in the rear-view mirror and snicker at Jeffy who is hurriedly typing digits into his notepad.
###
Back at the pound you through the Mutts in the Bell Jar and turn on the juice. There's supposed to be a ten-day waiting period, but nobody ever comes for ones like these, and this guy sure isn't going to.
The pound's a cozy enough place--a little man-made island in the Allegheny River, with a pretty serious fence and a drawbridge. You live here, you keep up the place. Sometimes you get an intern to help out, but they quit quick.
That's fine with you. You prefer the company of howling mutts echoing amongst concrete and white tile. It helps you write (most of the time). You've been having a little blockage with the "true drama" stories you've been commissioned to do by ol' Buggz. That slice of life crap always gets you down, but you're not a quitter. You sit at your desk and cue your cell to project a screen and key-pad.
It's at least a half hour of staring into space before Jeffy calls the pound business line. You let it click to message and listen as you go check the Bell Jar brand gas box.
"Hey Sophie," Jeffy says to the machine. "Looks like you gave me some bum digits. I'm just calling because It turns out Pitt hasn't had a cybernetics branch for years."
You shrug to yourself and unbolt the viewing hatch. Jeffy Just wanted an excuse to call you. Who gives a fuck about Pitt Cybernetics?
"If you have any ideas keep me in the loop."
You slide open the hatch. The poisonous gas clears, and three dogs lay dead on the cement floor, and one looks very happy.
It's Doc, wagging his body--black tongue lolling about. The message machine beeps and you slam the hatch shut. You double the gas and triple the length of the session, before going back to your desk.
You stare at the blank screen for another ten minutes, when something sneaks into your consciousness. It's the woman with the neck, and the beach...
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Chap IV
Ah, a pocketful of Universal Dog Treats. Some say that diamonds are a girl's best friend—but forget all that poppycock. Those clichés are only truth for the people who can afford them, or strive hard enough to realistically fake it. Unruly dog-leopard-snake-creature beasts know not the language that birthed everyman's token response—Dogs: Can't live with 'em, can't avoid stepping in their poop in the hallway after the new roommate neglected taking his parka-liner pooch for a walk. You know the saying, right?
Universal Dog Treats, No Bake Version–Author Unknown
One pound of fresh, never frozen ground beef
Vegetable Oil
Two cups of Vital Wheat Gluten
One quarter cup of shredded, fresh raw ginger root
A dozen garlic bulbs
Two cups of oats
Begin by pulling out your garlic crusher and pulverizing the garlic. Let it marinate in the raw meat as it festers gnats and promotes seemingly unsolicited growth of fly eggs into larvae; this adds protein and crunch, which is important for taming dogs of the Cerberus variety, a group in which this episode's nearby beast would most definitely have been classified. Darwin's "Origin of Species" could never have documented such genetic gumbo.
After the meat has collected enough wriggling, infantile insects, toss it all into a lightly oiled skillet (preferably cast iron) on high heat; let the meat brown, then add the ginger and stir.
Once the mixture is cooked completely through, mix in the oats to absorb excess liquid, and then the gluten. Gluten adds a rubbery, raw flesh appeal to the biscuit, which makes it suitable for all situations a dogcatcher might find himself in. Cut the now-solid glob into various-sized chunks, but do make sure that none of them are too large to fit, at minimum, five in a regulation-sized pant pocket. Sure, other dog catchers are going to smell the treats from across the floor at the pound, and they'll definitely make you feel as if you're walking around with sacs of frog legs on your person, but just remember who'll get the best commission in the Once Volatile, Now Domesticated Dogs and Otherwise Uncategorized Creature category.
The scene played out like a bad sci-fi story: One breath ended in the middle of a suspenseful scene, the next started with two pacified dogs, owners of an undetermined amount of faces and scales, waiting attentively on the hallway floor for orders.
"I'd tell you to sit, but I'm not sure who's qualified to give commands around here."
The three-headed beast's two outer heads opened their eyes wide in comprehension, revealing the middle to be a prosthetic addition to enhance fear and confusion when confronted with too many options in deciding where to pet a dog with too many petting combinations. As if the glue had worn off with the left and right heads' admittance to playing tri-headed tricks, the middle head fell off to reveal a tangled mess of wires beneath.
"I didn't need to take Wiring Beneath Fur: An introduction to Mammalian Cyborg Design to see that one coming," you say to yourself, because no one else could possibly be listening right now. "It's time to find out who's been signing up for extra time in the cyborg lab this month…"
Universal Dog Treats, No Bake Version–Author Unknown
One pound of fresh, never frozen ground beef
Vegetable Oil
Two cups of Vital Wheat Gluten
One quarter cup of shredded, fresh raw ginger root
A dozen garlic bulbs
Two cups of oats
Begin by pulling out your garlic crusher and pulverizing the garlic. Let it marinate in the raw meat as it festers gnats and promotes seemingly unsolicited growth of fly eggs into larvae; this adds protein and crunch, which is important for taming dogs of the Cerberus variety, a group in which this episode's nearby beast would most definitely have been classified. Darwin's "Origin of Species" could never have documented such genetic gumbo.
After the meat has collected enough wriggling, infantile insects, toss it all into a lightly oiled skillet (preferably cast iron) on high heat; let the meat brown, then add the ginger and stir.
Once the mixture is cooked completely through, mix in the oats to absorb excess liquid, and then the gluten. Gluten adds a rubbery, raw flesh appeal to the biscuit, which makes it suitable for all situations a dogcatcher might find himself in. Cut the now-solid glob into various-sized chunks, but do make sure that none of them are too large to fit, at minimum, five in a regulation-sized pant pocket. Sure, other dog catchers are going to smell the treats from across the floor at the pound, and they'll definitely make you feel as if you're walking around with sacs of frog legs on your person, but just remember who'll get the best commission in the Once Volatile, Now Domesticated Dogs and Otherwise Uncategorized Creature category.
The scene played out like a bad sci-fi story: One breath ended in the middle of a suspenseful scene, the next started with two pacified dogs, owners of an undetermined amount of faces and scales, waiting attentively on the hallway floor for orders.
"I'd tell you to sit, but I'm not sure who's qualified to give commands around here."
The three-headed beast's two outer heads opened their eyes wide in comprehension, revealing the middle to be a prosthetic addition to enhance fear and confusion when confronted with too many options in deciding where to pet a dog with too many petting combinations. As if the glue had worn off with the left and right heads' admittance to playing tri-headed tricks, the middle head fell off to reveal a tangled mess of wires beneath.
"I didn't need to take Wiring Beneath Fur: An introduction to Mammalian Cyborg Design to see that one coming," you say to yourself, because no one else could possibly be listening right now. "It's time to find out who's been signing up for extra time in the cyborg lab this month…"
Chapter III
And even more tightly when you tase her voice(s)box. This is the opposite effect you were shooting for.
"So it seems," she choruses (though the choir seems somewhat diminished), "you do not want to live."
You still do not know what to say. You weigh your options:
1) Apologize for the attack, excuse it as panicked indecision, and inquire as to the woman's origin and intent.
2) Come up with a biting retort.
3) Maintain silence and hope she reads it as cool unconcern.
4) Peel her fishfingers from your hand and run.
4 seems like the obvious choice, but where to run? Where are you? Did the Cathedral of Learning turn into a beach? Are there still chimeras running at you? What percentage imagination are they? You make a mental note to investigate your surroundings once you've made this decision.
2 also seems good--not practical, perhaps, but gratifying. No, this is no time for indulgence, and besides, you'll probably botch it. Your capacity for clever discourse is buried beneath a river of hormones at the moment. In fact, let's rule out talking altogether. Scratch 1. 3 it is.
The woman is gone. And, as if she had been holding a conch shell to your ear, so is the sound of the ocean. You would have noticed that, though. Maybe you can't hear the ocean anymore because the barking has gotten a lot louder. Or closer.
You look to your left. There's a snake-dog sprint-slithering towards your foot and another mid-bound, its three faces pointed straight at you. It is three, two seconds away. The door latch behind you won't move. Cursing fate for designating you a key holder rather than a knock knower, you plunge your hand into your pocket as you fall.
"So it seems," she choruses (though the choir seems somewhat diminished), "you do not want to live."
You still do not know what to say. You weigh your options:
1) Apologize for the attack, excuse it as panicked indecision, and inquire as to the woman's origin and intent.
2) Come up with a biting retort.
3) Maintain silence and hope she reads it as cool unconcern.
4) Peel her fishfingers from your hand and run.
4 seems like the obvious choice, but where to run? Where are you? Did the Cathedral of Learning turn into a beach? Are there still chimeras running at you? What percentage imagination are they? You make a mental note to investigate your surroundings once you've made this decision.
2 also seems good--not practical, perhaps, but gratifying. No, this is no time for indulgence, and besides, you'll probably botch it. Your capacity for clever discourse is buried beneath a river of hormones at the moment. In fact, let's rule out talking altogether. Scratch 1. 3 it is.
The woman is gone. And, as if she had been holding a conch shell to your ear, so is the sound of the ocean. You would have noticed that, though. Maybe you can't hear the ocean anymore because the barking has gotten a lot louder. Or closer.
You look to your left. There's a snake-dog sprint-slithering towards your foot and another mid-bound, its three faces pointed straight at you. It is three, two seconds away. The door latch behind you won't move. Cursing fate for designating you a key holder rather than a knock knower, you plunge your hand into your pocket as you fall.
Monday, April 20, 2009
CHAPTER II
There is no explanation.
A thick fog and the sound of the ocean's surf fills the corridors.
A figure stands in front of the elevators. You approach it cautiously and your grip tightens around the taser. You're taking tiny steps, making sure to approach silently, but you know the figure hears you. It is a woman. A tall woman without a neck.
You stop.
Her neck grows, slowly expands like the bellows of an accordion.
"Where have you come from?" she asks in a chorus of voices.
Her neck shrinks and again, it rises and expands.
"Do you want to live?" she asks. The sound of the surf seems so close now. Behind you.
You do not know what to say.
"Take my hand," she says. She reaches out and instead of fingers, anchovy growths, tentacles twice as long as any finger. "Take it. There is no time."
You hear barking. You hear thunder. The surf.
You reach out. Her tentacles wrap around your hand, tightly.
A thick fog and the sound of the ocean's surf fills the corridors.
A figure stands in front of the elevators. You approach it cautiously and your grip tightens around the taser. You're taking tiny steps, making sure to approach silently, but you know the figure hears you. It is a woman. A tall woman without a neck.
You stop.
Her neck grows, slowly expands like the bellows of an accordion.
"Where have you come from?" she asks in a chorus of voices.
Her neck shrinks and again, it rises and expands.
"Do you want to live?" she asks. The sound of the surf seems so close now. Behind you.
You do not know what to say.
"Take my hand," she says. She reaches out and instead of fingers, anchovy growths, tentacles twice as long as any finger. "Take it. There is no time."
You hear barking. You hear thunder. The surf.
You reach out. Her tentacles wrap around your hand, tightly.
Chapter 1
--It's a small room with no circulation--for air or for the stale stacks of paper that prove to you (without a doubt) that writing can be learned but not taught.
MFA manuscripts dress the hard wood table and you realize that a good book (which this (and all of these) is (are) not) is the only real diploma for a fictioneer. These stories are boring and unrealistic. After all, the real world is exciting, and you promise yourself that if you make it out of this alive, you'll write a completely realistic semi-autobiographical piece about your life as a freelance writer and DOG CATCHER (gotta pay those bills).
It's DOG CATCHING that got you in this pathetic little shit-hole up five floors in the world's second tallest educational building. Some kid wanted to get out of taking his finals and released a pack of chimera mutant mutts in the building. Not the store-bought variety either. Part Pit Bull, part snake, and part imagination, most of ‘em have at least two heads to bite you with, and their claws cut deep gouges into the solid stone steps.
It shouldn't have been be a big deal, but you came underprepared.
Your flamethrower's out of juice, you only have 14 irradiated hollow tipped tracking bullets which you saved because they cost a hundred times more than they ought to and you’re low on cash.
Five mutts are still out there and walking. Your heartburn was making you regret the chili-soy dog you had for breakfast but it's wearing off. You're a professional--you can do this. You take out your taser and put it on its max setting, grab your collar-cuffs and chain. You've decided to do this the "humane" way--It's cheaper. You take a deep breath, warm up with a little tai chi, and kick open the door.
MFA manuscripts dress the hard wood table and you realize that a good book (which this (and all of these) is (are) not) is the only real diploma for a fictioneer. These stories are boring and unrealistic. After all, the real world is exciting, and you promise yourself that if you make it out of this alive, you'll write a completely realistic semi-autobiographical piece about your life as a freelance writer and DOG CATCHER (gotta pay those bills).
It's DOG CATCHING that got you in this pathetic little shit-hole up five floors in the world's second tallest educational building. Some kid wanted to get out of taking his finals and released a pack of chimera mutant mutts in the building. Not the store-bought variety either. Part Pit Bull, part snake, and part imagination, most of ‘em have at least two heads to bite you with, and their claws cut deep gouges into the solid stone steps.
It shouldn't have been be a big deal, but you came underprepared.
Your flamethrower's out of juice, you only have 14 irradiated hollow tipped tracking bullets which you saved because they cost a hundred times more than they ought to and you’re low on cash.
Five mutts are still out there and walking. Your heartburn was making you regret the chili-soy dog you had for breakfast but it's wearing off. You're a professional--you can do this. You take out your taser and put it on its max setting, grab your collar-cuffs and chain. You've decided to do this the "humane" way--It's cheaper. You take a deep breath, warm up with a little tai chi, and kick open the door.
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