… 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.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
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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