Desdemona

Last night and this morning, my cat is a love cat. Some days, she is a despise, no-touch cat. It bothers me a great deal just how much this says about my relationships with women.

I think it really fully hit me the night Desi ran out the front door and disappeared. I searched for her for 30 minutes. There I was out in the middle of the night, distraught, hunting for a cat that did not want to be found.

It suddenly occurred to me just how similar to my relationship (at the time) this was.

Thanks, Life, for the metaphors.

To the Time Machine! - part 23

"Over-Incarcerated"


The Past
The Creek

The Women's Dressing Room


"Oh, man," groaned the Demeritress, "I feel like I've been shot at and missed, and shit at and hit." Elsbeth had a way with words. She sat with her head in her hands, eyes closed, a pained expression on her face. "So much pain," she grunted.

"She's right," said Stegall, wincing in the bright light that surrounded them. "My head feels clogged in all the wrong places. What's wrong?"

"Besides being held prisoner?" Germ asked.

"This wasn't supposed to happen. We took precautions," Mo-Tron whined. "We drank. And drank and drank and drank. Time travel was not supposed to hurt."

"Loyalty," Jernigan concluded brightly.

"What?" Stegall squinted up at the Surgeon General.

"I surmise that all of you feel disoriented and, for lack of a better term, hungover, yes?" asked SSSG Jernigan.

There was a general grumble of agreement.

"Obviously," grumbled Elsbeth.

"All this, despite having consumed liquids prior to departure," added Jernigan.

"Stop talking like Spock," Mo-Tron whined.

The SSSG frowned, but continued, "I know it's hard to believe, but we've journeyed back to a time before the loyalty chip, when life was all about Ch---"

"Don't say it!" Elsbeth cut her off. "Not the damned 'C' word!"

"Choices!" Jernigan finished, frowning at Els.

"Urrrgghh," Elsbeth gurgled and grimaced.

Jernigan ignored this. "Your loyalty chips are no longer receiving live updates from the Imperial servers," she explained, "because there are no Imperial servers. They haven't been invented yet." She paused for dramatic effect, but her fellow prisoners were considerably less impressed than she'd hoped. So she pressed on:

"We will remain loyal, of course, because the implants alone are self-sufficient, but our brains will take some time to adjust to not having a live feed of new content," she explained. "That means no new updates, instructions, or humorous chain emails with kitty pictures."

"How will we ever survive?" Elsbeth quipped.

Lorma Doom scowled. She had to get out of here! Lorma got along with Elsbeth like cats got along with water.

Turning to the only entrance to the makeshift cell they found themselves in, Lorma beat her fists again on the heavy door and shouted.

This time, her bellowing produced results. The door burst open and the Dossey burst through it. Five girls and one guy jumped back in surprise. Lorma narrowly missed getting smashed between the door and the wall behind it.

"You," Dossey sputtered and pointed. "Are you a doctor?"

"Possibly," Jernigan replied with hesitation. "Who wants to know?"

"Political Officer Spitler's been injured," Dossey explained hastily.

"And?"

"The Emperor bids you save him, if you can," Dossey answered.

"If I can?" Jernigan sniffed. "Of course I can."

Dossey and two guards hustled the surgeon general away.

The heavy door slammed shut behind them.

"Maybe we can dig our way out," Germ thought out loud.

"I think we're in deep enough already," said Elsbeth.




Later

"Step back from the door," came a voice from the other side.

The door swung open. On the other side, flanked by two intimidating guards was an awkward, bespectacled, pasty, young man.

The man was Security Chief LeTrent. Recently promoted from Necktie Tier, he had a lot to prove.

"Guard, I protest being interred with the females," Germ piped up. "I request to be moved to the men's dressing room."

"Not that I care," LeTrent replied, surveying the room full of prisoners, "but the male holding cell was destroyed in the plant attack."

"What are we being charged with?" Elsbeth demanded. "I have a right to know."

"You've not been charged," LeTrent answered.

"Then you have to release us," retorted Elsbeth, joining Lorma at the cell entrance. "You can't hold us indefinitely."

"Incorrect," LeTrent replied. "It is true citizens must be charged with a crime in order to be held, but you are not citizens. Under the Empire's charter, you have no rights. Officially, you've been designated 'enemy combatants.'"

"Just because we're not citizens, we have no rights?" Elsbeth cried.

"Of course," LeTrent scoffed. "Otherwise, what would be the benefit of citizenship?"

"I don't think he knows why we're being held," Stegall said, also approaching the door.

"Alright, time to go," LT said to his guards.

"Back away from the door, all four of you," a guard said.

"Where are you taking us?" Stegall asked.

"Not us," LeTrent said, and pointed at Lorma, "just you."

"Oh, right, the black girl," Lorma said.

"You're black?" LeTrent asked.

"What about the rest of us?" Germ asked.

"You're not black," Lorma told him.

"No, I mean, are you just going to leave us here?" Germ elaborated.

"You'll each get your turn," said LeTrent, and turned to go.

"This is racial profiling," Lorma muttered as they took her away.

The door slammed shut behind them, leaving our time travelers alone again.



To be continued!

Gratitude Day 2009

co-written by Cathey and Andy

CARY - Today saw a rare meeting of the innermost circle of Imperial officials for the traditional Thanksgiving feast at the Emperor's Domicile.

The evening's meal was prepared by Helen the Felon. The banquet consisted entirely of special "Gratitude Feast" pills. This particular feast included the following for each guest: a turkey pill, a cranberry sauce pill (prevents UTIs), stuffing pill, pumpkin pie pill, sweet potato pill, and a beverage of his/her choice.

RFS Cathey attempted to impale one of the pills on his plate with his fork with no success. "What is this?" he asked. "Where's the food?"

"This is the food," Helen told him, dishing out a healthy helping of pills to Political Officer Spitler, who eyed them warily. "The Imperial Dietary Council mandated that all citizens and minions eat this healthier alternative to traditional Thanksgiving food." Then she added, "Sorry."

"What?" Emperor Andy scowled. "Those rules don't apply to me. Or my table!"

"A man should control what is on his own table," Spitler agreed.

"Sorry," Helen explained, "but if you don't eat it, you go to jail, and they feed you the turkey pill anyway; all on the government dime. Sorry."

"We should remember what this holiday is about," Fleet Admiral Turmel spoke up.

"Food," Andronicus agreed, hungrily eyeing the cornucopia of pills on his plate.

"Begging the Emperor's pardon," Turmel said, "but I was suggesting that we remember the first Gratitude Day, which was between clones and originals."

"Clones helped humans in the Dark Times and then became second class citizens," Master Assassin Rockel 2.0. "Now, most clones are forced to live on reservations."

"Oh, give it a rest, 2.0," Cathey said. "You're doing just fine from your clone casinos."

Rockel was visibly upset. His targeting optic was blinking red. And to make matters worse, he no longer required human food. There was really no need for him to be here. He certainly had nothing to be thankful for.

"Perhaps we should change the subject to something less controversial?" Turmel suggested.

"He's right," agreed Cathey. "Hey, Rockel, I heard you ex-wife got engaged."

Rockel's robotic eye twitched. A twitch glitch, perhaps.

Andy stopped trying to skewer his pill meal, and looked up at Cathey and Rockel. "I seem to recall very clearly ordering my favorite master assassin to exterminate her several years ago." Now, Andy's eye began to twitch, too. "I'm a little surprised to hear she is still alive."

"Oh, she's engaged, so she's as good as dead," Cathey said dismissively.

Rockel shattered the drinking glass in his hand.

"What's the matter?" Cathey asked Rockel. "Hard pill to swallow?"

"Let's talk about something else," suggested Helen.

"Fine," said Rockel. "Cathey, I noticed you no longer have that obnoxious camera strapped around your neck. Aren't you supposed to be the Royal Fotografy Supervisor now?"

"Oh, that?" Cathey said. "That was a childish dream. I've got a real career now. A sure-fire scheme."

"I'm afraid to ask," Spitler said, "but what is it?"

Cathey leaned back and plopped his feet up on the table. Strapped to his feet were what looked like balloon snow shoes or inflatable tennis rackets.

"I present the latest revolution in footwear technology," he proclaimed. "Jesus Boots!"

When no one immediately applauded, he decided some explanation was needed. "They let people walk on water," he added.

"That will never work," Turmel stated, his mouth full of turkey pill.

"Now is the time to get in on the ground floor, people," Cathey told them. "I'm looking for investors. This is going to be the next big thing."

"You look ridiculous," Rockel told him. "I mean, more than usual."

"Let's go test them right now if you don't believe me," Cathey retorted, trying to pull his Jesus Boots off the table so he could stand up. "Emperor, where is your swimming pool?"

"Let's talk about something else," Andy quickly changed the subject.

"How about this climate change?" Turmel asked. "Is everyone ready for the Ice Age?"

"For the last time, the Ice Age is a hoax," Andronicus said between gulps of pills. "The Earth is getting hotter. It's the Plutonian heat rays cooking us."

"Not that global warming junk again," Rockel rolled his cybernetic eyes. "You're in Ice Age denial, my liege."

"Denial is a river in Egypt," Andy said. "And it is going to dry up thanks to global warming."

Helen spoke up. "You told me global warming was just an excuse to get a swimming pool and cool off," she said.

"Silence!" Andy barked.

"Sorry," Helen said.

"Let's talk about something safe," Spitler suggested.

"Religion!" Turmel piped up.

"OK, what do you think about this 2012 business?" asked Emperor Andy.

"The Mayan calendar expires at the end of 2012," Rockel explained. "When it does, the world is going to end."

"That 2012 is a hoax," Helen said. "The world isn't ending until Jesus comes back."

"Jesus is coming back?" Cathey asked excitedly. "Maybe he can help me with my Boots!"

"Let's just talk about something we can all agree to disagree on," Andy said. "Politics."


The moral of this Gratitude Day story: Don't Sweat the Fall Stuff.

Cat Song

Please don't vomit in the car
Please don't throw up in the car
We've got a long trip
We have to travel far
Please don't vomit in the car!

Panda Moanium

Read: A Letter to the Editor

A Bard Day's Night, Part 2

Continued from Part 1


"Forget not my scheme," Shakespeare spoke in a low voice. Rockel could just barely make out what the bard said. "The first thing we do, let's kill all the lawyers."

Some of the hostages, presumably the lawyers among them, gasped in terror.

"Hold. What keeps Burbage and Kit?" Shakespeare bellowed. "They've been absent for ever and a day."

"Beats me, boss," replied a thug. Then, under Shakespeare's burning glare, corrected himself with haste, "I mean, I know not."

Just then, two more goons entered, dragging a hostage between them. "We found a straggler. He was peeing on Burbage and Chris--er, Kit," one reported. "He claimed they slipped on the wet floor and knocked themselves out."

"You," Shakespeare said accusingly, and approached the new hostage. "What do they call you?"

"My name is Mockel," the hostage replied.

"Mockel?" Shakespeare raised an eyebrow. "An unfortunate moniker." He gestured toward some cowering hostages. "Put him with the others."

The goons shoved Mockel down with the other prisoners. Mockel looked down at his bracelet. He'd had it ever since he'd emerged from the cloning vat. Its origin was a mystery.

Imprinted on the bracelet was one word, "WWMARD?" He had no idea what it meant, but he often tried to pronounce it during times of trouble. The truth was, just saying the word to himself gave him strength.

"Wwwwmmmaaarrddddd," he growled.

"What was that?' Shakespeare said, turning at the sound.

"You must be Shakespeare," Mockel said, rising to his feet. "I've read your folio."

Shakespeare 2.0 froze in his tracks. He stiffened and turned to face his accuser. "Who dareth?"

"Who has two cybernetic thumbs and is really pissed off he had to come all the way over to this coast to fix other people's mistakes?" was the reply. "This guy!"

It was Rockel 2.0. He dashed behind one of the Players, and thumb-gouged out the poor sap's eyes before drop kicking the blinded baddie to the floor.

"End that wretch," Shakespeare commanded the stage. The King's Men moved between Shakespeare 2.0 and Rockel 2.0. They aimed their machine guns at the assassin.

Darkness! The overhead lights went out, dousing the room in darkness.

What most people don't realize is that Rockel's bloodstream is populated by nanites, microscopic robots that repair his systems and transfer extra strength to various parts as required. however, since Rockel 2.0 is a first generation clone (isn't that a contradiction in terms?), his nanites still have a few bugs, if you will excuse the term, and they do not always repair him correctly. they often try to fix things that are not broken, and often do more harm than good.

According to RFS Cathey, a former partner and handler for the Master Assassin, Rockel 2.0's nanites may even manifest their will in the form of speech heard only by The Rockel. While 2.0 always denied such claims, Cathey reported that the assassin often spoke to thin air, to himself, or seemed to talk to people not present. Sometimes, he even slipped up and said, "We," instead of "I."

When he was peeing earlier, Rockel was deploying several hundred nanites to infest and subvert the security system and electrical grid of the building. Now, they shut down the lights on his mental cue.

"Hey, who turned out the lights?" one of thugs asked.

"You whoreson dogs!" Shakespeare screeched in the dark. "Shoot him!"

The lights came back on in time for the King's Men to see Rockel's arms retracting, their weapons clasped in his hands.

The master assassin twisted, smashed, and ripped the weapons apart.

"Hey, those were expensive!" one goon protested.

Rockel's thigh holster sprung open and quick as a wink he drew his massive revolver and fired. The goons were down for the count before they could count to three.

"Curses!" Shakespeare snarled.

"I thrashed your thespian thugs," Rockel taunted. "Your run is coming to an end."

"Mayhaps," Shakespeare said, "but not mayday." He pulled a scabbard off what Rockel took to be his forearm. Instead, the Bard unveiled a short, fat lance which blazed white hot, hummed, and vibrated everyone's teeth and hurt the eyes to look directly at it.

"Coil shuffler activated," a computer voice emanated from the glowing weapon. "Full charge, ready."

"How do you like my clamorous harbinger of blood and death?" Shakespeare laughed, and shook the shimmering spear at him.

Rockel dived out of the blast's path. The blue stream of light passed so close to him that it singed his hair.

He could also feel the familiar tug of an interdimensional rift. That could mean only one thing. The coil shuffler was a weapon capable of opening portals. Or more likely it would simply remove its target from this universe and deposit the victim who knows where. And from the smell of sulfur, Rockel guessed it was nowhere he wanted to get stranded.


To be continued!!

This is Just to Warn You

You have eaten
the plums
that were in
my icebox

and which
I was definitely
saving
for breakfast

My revenge
will be delicious
so sweet
and so cold.