Writer's Block: Nobody Is Special

 

Another story from my work in progress sci-fi/horror collection, Nobody Is Special is obviously inspired by current events, to the point where there's certainly nothing speculative about a society descending into fascism. Hey, poke your heads outside every once in a while, everybody! Life has always been a struggle, and it's never over until you give up. There's plenty left fighting for. Just remember that this country, despite its many atrocities and crimes, was founded as a democratic republic with humanist ideals. America has done some wonderful things, from joining the Allies in World War 2 to putting a man on the moon, and we can do good again. We just have to remember who we are and that the current administration is about as far away from the American ideal as possible. 

...

The comedian took the stage to lackluster applause. He had curly hair and a big nose and wore a blue blazer that was noticeably faded in the bright lights. Before he spoke, he removed a note from his pocket and stared at it for a moment, as though he didn’t recognize his words, before tossing it to the ground with a nonchalance that belied the almost imperceptible tremor in his hands.

“Hey, how you all doing tonight?” he asked the crowd. “Boy, the Gestapo is out in force. Sometimes I wonder what they look like under those skull-like masks. Are they good-looking? Is a Brad Pitt look-alike under there? Is Ben Affleck’s twin busting my nuts? You’d never know because they never take the masks off. What do you think that signifies? What do you think that means?”

“What if I got up here in a doomsday helmet and told jokes? It wouldn’t work, would it? It would be too humanizing. You’d know that under that monstrous mask, there was a real person with a real sense of humor. We don’t know if a random Gestapo agent looks like a movie star or Cleetus Diabeetus, but I’ll tell you what, I’d bet on the latter!”

The crowd murmured with a few uneasy laughs sprinkled about.

“You know what kind of fucking losers work for the Freedom and Pacification Force? Dumb fucking hillbillies! The kind of people to whom you ask a question and they answer with duh-huur? You know why they never read you your rights? It's because they can’t read!”

Two armored FPF agents had materialized behind the back of the crowd. They started walking toward the stage, truncheons drawn.

“You know, we used to have freedom of speech in this country. A person could say whatever they wanted, especially a comedian. Telling the truth was our societal function. Now they drag you offstage to beat the hell out of you for calling a pig a pig!”

Both agents had hopped onto the stage, shiny black helmets gleaming in the strong light. The comedian turned toward them with a sneer.

“Oh what the fuck you gonna do, big man? You gonna beat me in front of all these fucking people, you fucking cousin fuck…”

The truncheon slammed into his big nose with an audible crack, and the comedian fell to his knees, blood spraying across the stage. A gasp went through the crowd before it grew silence. The agents dragged him off the stage and behind the curtain, and the promoter ran out to apologize, sweat glittering on his forehead.

“It’s over, folks, the show’s canceled tonight. I’m sorry, we’ll offer refunds at the door! Please exit in an orderly fashion. This will all be over soon! Goodnight!”

The crowd did as they were told, but there were a few lingering stares, for in the quiet shuffling of feet moving, you could hear the blows raining down upon the comedian, falling like heavy rain behind the curtain.

…

“Quite the show, eh?” said Jeff to his friends.

They sat around a circular table, cards in hand, three middle-aged men and one woman drinking beer in-between bets. They were in a smoky basement room adorned with sports memorabilia and a two mounted deer heads. Old honky-tonk played on a stereo softly while a basketball game progressed on a muted television that they all ignored.

“He had it coming to him,” said Diego, a brown-skinned man with close-cropped hair. “Everybody knows you can’t say shit like that.”

“Why not?” asked Wilhelm, whose long blond hair was fleck with gray. “In Germany we can tell jokes about the police.”

“Well in America, you fuck around and you find out,” explained Ashley, winking across the table at her boyfriend Diego. “We don’t put up with agitators and terrorists.”

“How was the man committing terrorism by poking fun at the FPF?” asked Wilhelm.

“He was calling them Gestapo and hillbillies!” replied Diego. “These men put their lives on the line every day, rounding up undesirables and degenerates! If they didn’t do their jobs, we’d be mobbed by the homeless and the Anti-Fascist radicals!”

“In an ostensibly free country, you should be able to speak your mind without fear of government retribution,” opined Wilhelm.

“That’s socialist propaganda,” dismissed Ashley, taking a swig of her beer.

“Can you explain what you mean by that?” asked Wilhelm.

“Can you guys stop talking politics all the time?” asked Jeff. He had dark skin and a bald pate and a thick, woolly mustache.

“Jeff’s what they call an enlightened centrist,” said Diego.

“I am not! I don’t pay attention to that shit. Both parties are the same,” explained Jeff.

“Surely you don’t mean that,” said Wilhelm. “The Progressives never implemented anything like the FPF when they ran the country.”

“No, what they did instead was jack up inflation so high that you couldn’t afford groceries or gas and then implement polices in schools to turn the kids gay and teach them to hate themselves for being white,” said Ashley.

“Do you believe this?” Wilhelm asked Diego.

“All I know is that I don’t like women telling me what to do,” said Diego, smiling at Ashley.

“You’re an asshole, you know that?” she told him.

“Sure, but I’m your asshole,” replied Diego.

“Play a hand, play a hand,” said Jeff. He showed his cards and won with aces high.

Suddenly there was a loud knocking on the door.

“Who the fuck is that this time of night?” asked Jeff, getting up from his seat.

“Probably some freeloader looking for a handout,” said Diego.

“Jesus, Diego,” said Ashley, laughing. “It’s probably a neighbor.”

Jeff opened the door to reveal an FPF officer standing before him. He had on a thick black uniform with an armored torso and knee pads, and his right hand dangled above his side arm as though ready to duel. His encompassing helmet had empty obsidian eyes and a circular respirator that amplified his breathing. The black combat boots raised his height considerably so that he towered over Jeff, who was not a tall man. There was no badge or number on his breast or sleeve; FPF officers were free of identifying insignia, so that they could perform their function anonymously.

“Is this your house, citizen?” he demanded in an electronically-distorted voice.

“What’s this about?” asked Jeff.

“I asked you a goddamn question,” said the officer, who put his left palm on Jeff’s chest and shoved. Jeff stumbled backward and fell to the floor.

“Hey, what the hell?” yelled Ashley, getting to her feet.

The FPF officer pivoted toward her and drew his pistol.

“Stand down! On your fucking knees!”

“Oh my god!” screamed Ashley, falling down with her hands behind her head.

In the doorway a flying saucer about two feet in diameter hovered, red lights dancing across its surface. It aimed a white light at Jeff, and then Ashley, until it stopped on Diego and began to strobe.

“That’s him,” said the FPF officer. “You there, brown man. You’re under arrest for illegal immigration. Walk in front of me with your hands up.”

“What the hell, man! I’m a goddamn veteran!” said Diego, who had his hands up.

“I’m not going to tell you again, motherfucker,” said the FPF officer, aiming his weapon. “The AI doesn’t make mistakes.”

“Well it sure as hell does if it thinks I’m an illegal immigrant! I’m a former Marine, asshole…”

The gun fired, deafening in the small garage, and Diego slumped to the floor with a hole in his skull. Ashley screamed and the FPF officer turned his weapon toward her.

“Shut up, you stupid bitch, or I’ll blow your goddamn head off!”

Suddenly the flying saucer’s light cease its strobe effect, and turned toward Wilhelm, who was staring at Diego’s corpse in wide-eyed shock.

“Wait a minute,” said the FPF officer. “You’re the illegal, aren’t you?”

“I forgot to renew my visa,” said Wilhelm, his voice stammering.

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god!” babbled Ashley, who had begun to crawl toward Diego.

“I thought you said it didn’t make mistakes!” said Jeff.

“I…” murmured the FPF officer before falling silent.

“You killed him! You killed him! You murderer!” cried Ashley, her hands covered in blood as she cradled Diego’s head.

“Shouldn’t you call an ambulance?” asked Wilhelm.

“He shouldn’t… he shouldn’t have resisted,” said the FPF officer finally.

“He did nothing of the sort! He was complying! You shot him for nothing!” accused Jeff.

“He was a domestic terrorist,” replied the FPF officer, his voice regaining its hostile confidence. “He should’ve done what he was told to without question. You fuck around and you find out. You! Illegal! Come with me outside.”

Wilhelm quietly followed the FPF officer outside. Jeff and Ashley remained where they were until they heard a car door slam shut followed by the squeal of tires as the FPF officer’s vehicle burned rubber.

…

Across the street, two neighbors watched as an ambulance carted off the body of Diego Sanchez.

“Christ almighty, what is this country coming to?” asked Ernest, a heavyset man in his late forties.

“They’re making it right,” replied Andrea, a bleached blonde older woman with a cigarette in her hand.

“The FPF? They just shot one of our neighbors and abducted another,” said Ernest incredulously.

“They already uploaded the video to the internet,” replied Andrea. “Here, watch it. You can see that the Latino didn’t do as he was told.”

“Look, I support the Freedom and Pacification Force as much as the next guy, but there was no reason for the officer to shoot Diego! He had the wrong guy!”

“You do what you’re told when a federal agent points a gun at you,” said Andrea, taking a quick drag on her cigarette.

“You’d let them drag off your own mother, wouldn’t you?” accused Ernest.

“You bet I would. You know she has it coming. I’m going back inside.”

Ernest was left alone in the now-quiet neighborhood, a look of disbelief lingering on his face.

 

America Is a Lawless Land

 

On Wednesday, an ICE officer shot and killed Renee Good, a 37-year old mother. You can watch the video yourself; I'm not going to link it because I don't want to promote someone's hot take. I'll give you mine, though, and I'm just going to describe what I see. Words were exchanged between Good and an ICE officer; he tried to open her vehicle, which was slowly turning away, when another ICE officer pulled out a pistol and shot Good three time, killing her. The vehicle drifts away down the street, its driver dying or dead. If we lay politics aside, all we see is a Federal officer executing an unarmed woman in a vehicle. The ICE officer, who has been identified as Jonathan Ross, was never in any danger from the slow-moving car. Had he wanted to stop the vehicle, he could have shot her tires. Instead, he decided to be judge, jury, and executioner. Because Ross is a Federal agent, any attempts to try him in State court will be moved to Federal jurisdiction, and the FBI has already taken over the investigation. Instead of admitting fault for the reckless actions of ICE, the Trump administration has declared a Good, a single mother of a now orphaned 6 year old, a domestic terrorist.

If the act of simply trying to escape ICE can be considered domestic terrorism, then we are all potential criminals in the eyes of the Trump administration. Good could have been you or me, or your wife, sister, or mother. Trump and his cabinet of sociopaths want you to ignore your eyes and the logical conclusion that any thinking person will reach after watching Ross murder Good: They can kill you if they feel like it and get away with it. Trump wants you to be fine with this conclusion; after all, he's constantly contradicted reality his entire life. Who can forget alternative facts?

In George Orwell's 1984, the Party has to break the novel's protagonist Winston. It's not enough that they've apprehended him and defeated his schemes. Two plus two has to equal five. Winston has to believe in Double-Think, and he has to love Big Brother, even after they've taken everything from him, because they have to destroy his spirit after destroying his conception of reality. That's true fascism--convincing you to disbelieve your eyes and ears and instead to trust Big Brother, no matter what. That's the end goal of the Trump administration--they want to crush your spirit and force you to believe that they're Making American Great Again while ICE terrorizes Blue cities and grocery prices and housing spiral out of control, all while Trump and his cronies become richer and operate the United States like the Mafia.

The next time you turn on the tv, stare at your phone, or take a walk outside, remember that they could kill you at any time and get away with it. We don't live in a free country, and we could all be staring down the barrel of a gun. While this has been true for many people in America at many different times, it's especially true at this moment because Donald Trump is President of the United States. Remember when he said he could shoot a person on Fifth Avenue and get away with it? Renee Good was that person. Any one of us could be the next.

Writer's Block: Gratitude

 

Here's another story from my horror/sci-fi collection I'm working on. This one's about a caveman and how much it would suck to live in the Pleistocene.

...

Cro moved through the dense underbrush, his breath coming out in great puffs, as he struggled to control the pain emitting from his right arm. During the chase, he had rushed past a thorn tree too closely, and now a three-inch barb was deeply embedded in his right biceps. The snow was heavy and his furs weighed him down, and huddled as he was in the thicket, spear in hand, there wasn’t much he could do at the moment to alleviate his discomfort. The giant deer paced a few feet ahead, its massive antlers preventing it from retreating further into the woods. Meat. That singular word reverberated in his head. For days he had eaten nothing more substantial than pine nuts, and his stomach felt as though it were in the process of consuming itself. He was focused now, and not even the sharp pangs that sent tremors down his arm could distract him from the source of sustenance that stood before him, only waiting to be killed. Where were Kia and Cumo? They should be at his left and right respectively, but he saw no trace of his brothers in his peripheral vision. He would have to do this himself.

 
With a cry, Cro rushed the giant deer. Upon seeing him, the beast lowered its head, but Cro dodged to the left and thrust forward his spear. It lodged into the deer’s left shoulder, causing the creature to rear up and lash out with its hooves. One caught Cro right in the face, crushing his nose, but he kept his focus and pulled the spear out and thrust again. This time, he managed to jab it through the beast’s heart, and the gigantic ruminant collapsed, its rich blood staining the snow.
Cro stumbled toward the slain animal, the pain in his right arm now forgotten. Gingerly, he raised a hand and touched his face. The resulting sensation nearly caused him to collapse. Wheezing blood, he fell to his knees before the deer, and pulled out his knife. There was no time to lick his wounds—he had to harvest the flesh before the smell of blood summoned scavengers.

“Brother!” said a voice.

Cro looked up from his work and saw Kia and Cumo, the latter of which had his arm thrown around former.

“What happened?” he asked.

“He has broken his foot,” explained Kia. “He fell into a hole hidden in the snow as we chased the deer.”

Cro swallowed the frustration that threatened to bubble up. Complications were expected, and nothing ever went according to plan, and it was not useful to explode and curse the gods and the lot that they had given man.

“Come, we have much work to do,” he said to his brothers. “We will not be able to carry as much meat back, but it will have to do.”

It took them an hour, but they managed to fashion a gurney out of the bones and hide of the deer, and they lay their brother upon it, who cradled his in arms as much meat as he could hold, wrapped as it was in the left-over skin of the beast. The sun was falling fast, and as Cro picked up his end of the gurney, he felt his arm spasm and tremble. The pain was almost too much, but he bore it, and soon he and Kia trudged through the snow, a slow procession traversing the icy wilderness. They had only traveled this way for about a half hour when Cro’s grip failed and his end of the gurney fell, causing Cumo to cry out. They stood for a moment, all three men panting in the snow, and as the sun began to lower behind the hills, Cro’s eyes met those of Kia’s. His brother nodded. Without a word, Kia bent down and took the meat from Cumo and began walking again.

“You would leave me as well, brother?” asked Cumo as Cro lingered.

“I can carry you no longer,” he said.

“It seems that we are born to die, often in the cruelest way possible,” said Cumo. “I have known little pleasure in my brief years. What I do, I do simply to survive, and it is only now, at the end, that I have found the time to ponder my purpose in all of this.”

“I will remember you, brother,” said Cro.

Up ahead, a sudden scream was cut short by the roar of a tiger. Cro clutched his spear, and Cumo struggled to his feet. They could see only a dim outline, but in the gathering darkness, the silhouette of tiger was clear, and they could even hear the crunch of Kia’s bones as the predator consumed his flesh.

“The meat,” said Cro quietly.

Grief was a luxury, an emotion experienced on a quiet day alone, with nothing else to distract the mind.

“We cannot kill the tiger, not with my broken foot and your injured arm,” said Cumo.

“We will starve otherwise,” replied Cro.

“Such was my fate a minute ago,” said Cumo. “That, or an end similar to Kia’s.”

Cro turned to his right and examined a thicket nearby. Removing his flint and pyrite stones and some tender, he rushed over to a dried bush and cut off two branches. Arranging the kindling over a fallen tree, he struck the stones together, raining down sparks onto the wood. Though his tender flickered, the bush branches would only smolder and not catch.

“You are attracting the attention of the tiger,” said his brother, who had hobbled over.

“Take this spear,” he said as he continued his work.

“What is the point, brother? We are dead.”

“Neither of us are yet,” replied Cro.

“I do this only out of my love for you,” said Cumo.

The shadow of the tiger loomed ahead of them, massive shoulders taut, the heavy head lolling about. A guttural bellow rose from the belly of the beast, and Cro paused only to see it pounce on Cumo, who had wandered toward it unarmed. The giant paws and forelimbs held him down, and in one smooth motion the tiger plunged its sabers into his brother’s neck. Cro clutched his spear, but fled, rushing into the thicket. He didn’t hear the tiger coming after him, but nevertheless, he scrambled up the truck of the nearest tree, and high above the ground, he spent the night, shivering in the cold that did little to numb his pain.
In the morning he climbed down the tree, his arm stiff, nose throbbing, nostrils clogged with clotted blood. There was no trace of Cumo other than the red-tinted snow, but his other brother’s carcass was being picked clean by the crows and a lone wolf, who stared unperturbed at Cro with a muzzle stained and caked with gore. In the snow, the tiger’s tracks led back into the forest where he had spent the night, so Cro decided he had to put as much distance between the woods and himself as possible. He considered bringing his brother’s body back, but the wolf appeared unafraid, and he doubted he could fend it off with his spear, considering his injuries, therefore Kia was abandoned and he continued on, alone.

He had walked an hour before he came to a familiar stream, and from its icy waters he bent down and took a drink. It flowed through the valley over smooth stones, and a memory from his childhood surfaced suddenly, much to his surprise. He and his father had fished here, catching giant pink salmon as they made their run, and he had derived much enjoyment from the ease of their labors, which must have shone on his face, for his father had looked at him and smiled. It was the only time he remembered an expression of joy on the man’s face. The salmon for some reason did not come this way anymore, and after this disaster, he wondered if was time to move to an easier place, if such an environment existed.

As he drank, he noticed a current of red flowing past. He turned his head to look upstream and saw the tiger, bent down and lapping at the water, reddened muzzle glistening. The beast had likely seen him, but having gorged last night on his kin, it had no interest in further meat at the moment, and so they could share a drink in the stream, predator and prey. Cro’s hands began to tremble with rage. He would never see his brothers again—never speak with them, never hunt with them, never walk the wilderness with them—and this tiger was the reason for that. His spear lay next to him, ready. It was a solid instrument, constructed of spruce, its point sharpened enough to pierce any tough hide. Yet the creature was healthy and strong; he could see the taut muscles moving beneath its coat, and he was tired and starving, with a right arm that ached and a crushed nose that whistled slightly as he struggled to breathe through it. He had the desire, the pure emotion, the seething rage—yet he lacked the means to express himself, and years of harsh conditioning by the world had taught him that you couldn’t always win against nature; the spirit of the tiger was stronger than that of one man, which was why the tiger had to be hunted with your fellows and not by yourself, no matter how much you yearned for its death. Eventually the tiger turned from the stream and sauntered back toward the forest, perhaps heading to wherever it had stashed Cumo, and Cro watched it leave until he could see it no longer, and only then did he rise from his crouch by the stream and continue across it, heading toward the cave where his family awaited him.

It was nearly nightfall when he arrived at the cave. The flickering light of the fire sent him strength, and despite his weariness and injuries, he made the climb up the rocky hillside without too much trouble. He saw his mate sitting by the fire, staring into the depths of the flames, a smoked tuber lying beside her, and he came and sat down, mumbling a greeting.

“Where are your brothers?” she asked, after a moment of silence.

“The spirit of the tiger consumed them,” he replied.

“Where is the meat?” she asked.

“I come to you empty-handed.”

“Crey went out with me to gather tubers but he never came back,” she said. “I searched for him for hours but found no trace. He has been gone for a day now.”

As he stared into the flames, he felt sure that the shaman who had been banished from the tribe was to blame for all of the misfortune. It will be a harsh winter, for death will come for us and feast on our brothers and children, and unsatisfied, it will come for our wives and then us, and then it will make a feast of our bones, scattering them about the wilderness, and no one will know of our lives or tell tales of our passing, for there will be no one left. This will happen because we have not honored our ancestors; we have not respected the rituals, and no sacrifices have been made in the name of our forefathers, for we cling to this earth too much, and now they will abandon us so that we may know the error of our ways.

He had driven the shaman away himself, having grown tired of his insistence that a quarter of every meal be left in the wilderness for the ancestors. There wasn’t enough food to feed everyone, and surely the ancestors would know that they meant no disrespect. But he had been wrong; they had performed their cull, and now there was just his mate and their quiet babe, who had not made a sound since he had entered the cave.

“How is she?” he asked.

His mate look at him solemnly, and then he began to weep.

…

“What the hell is this?” said Jared, throwing the headset down.

“You didn’t like it?” asked Garrett.

“Fuck no. Who wants to play a VR game where you watch your family get eaten by a saber-toothed tiger?” asked Jared. “That’s some stupid shit right there. I should’ve been able to kill that thing but the game wouldn’t let me.”

“But you felt like him, right?” asked Garrett. “You felt his pain, his frustration, and his fear? I thought it was incredible.”

“This is the kind of shit they put out there and try to call art. I don’t want to feel anything when I play a video game. I want to forget about how boring life is. Why the hell did they call it Gratitude? Am I supposed to be thankful for that shit?” asked Jared.

“It think the developers wanted you to think about how far we’ve come and how terrible most of human existence was,” explained Garrett.

“Well fuck that with a capital F,” said Jared. “Let’s go play Titty Masher 69.” 

“Alright,” replied Garrett.

Both boys ventured further into the arcade without giving Cro another thought.

New Music: Latin Song

 

I used the Telecaster for this song, along with my T-57 Tubescreamer, resulting in a nice bluesy overdrive. The bass is actually just the Tele run through a Pitchfork pedal, since my cheap Squier Jaguar bass is kind of a mess in terms of both playability and intonation. I like the rhythmic feel of this song. Short and sweet.

Writer's Block: The Meat Farm

 

First story of the new year. This one is a flash fiction about a human meat farm. Remember: if you don't eat your meat, you don't get any pudding.

...

The Meat Farm

“Hey there, new kid. Lemme give you a run-down of the place. I see you staring all-funny-eyed like you don’t know where the hell you are or what to make of it all. I can relate. I remember my first day. The blood. The guts. Oh, and the smell. Funny thing is, you just stop smelling it after a while. Pretty soon you’re driving home with your work clothes on, and your truck reeks like a slaughterhouse, and your wife is bitching that no matter how much she washes your clothes, the smell just won’t come out. And there’s truth to that, both literally and figuratively. This is a job that hurts your soul. You won’t be the same after working here for any extended period of time. But somebody has to do it. And after you see how they live, it becomes a whole lot easier to rationalize. Not to mention there ain’t any other place around here that pays thirty bucks an hour.”

“Now let’s go over to the holding pens. This is where they live their entire lives. Yeah, I know it’s small. They say back in the day before domestication, homo sapiens lived in large colonies and often traversed up to a hundred miles or more in a day using one of their primitive, coal-powdered vehicles. Can you imagine? Their overuse of that antiquated tech is why it’s so goddamn hot all the time now. Convenience and economic development outweighed cooking their home planet. Yeah, it’s a strange perspective, but it’s not like our species have never been short-sighted. Remember that crazy guy Muskie Ratt who bankrupted the entire economy of his solar system trying to build a Dyson sphere? How could you not have heard of him? Ehh, yeah I guess it was before your time. That’s the problem with getting old—you carry your cultural touchstones with you.”

“If you look through this pen you’ll see a big ol’ guy—we call him Herman—who has been here about twenty years or so. There’s been a real push by the industry to slaughter them younger, but this is a reputable abattoir, and we let the animals mature. The holding pen is about fourteen square feet. Small, but plenty of room for his activities, which are pretty limited. He’ll sit there and watch the images on the screen for hours on end. We have to turn them off or he’ll keep watching them and not get enough sleep. We use a simple risk-reward system hardwired into his brain via cybernetics. Basically, he’s playing video games that tickle the right parts of his mind. The crazy thing is, despite being from an entirely different evolutionary tree, they do have some similarities to us. Just like our ancestors, they evolved in an environment of scarcity, and so ancient reward pathways were preserved, not anticipating modernity. That makes them highly vulnerable to substances that give them pleasure. Crawl after that thing that serves you dopamine and survive, so sayeth the worm. Junk food, alcohol, gambling, and digital entertainment keep him constantly stimulated and pacified. See that slot machine over there? He’s damn-near worn out the buttons.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard what the protesters say. They say that homo sapiens are sentient beings who are capable of complex thought. They say that the animals deserve to roam free in their natural habitat. My question to them is this: What kind of intelligent being wrecks their own planet? The biosphere was on the verge of collapse before we came. Now half of the planet is a nature preserve and creatures that were on the brink of extinction are flourishing, especially since we’ve been hard at work pulling carbon out of the atmosphere. When homo sapiens were roaming free, seventy-three percent of the planet’s wildlife populations were in decline. Seventy-three percent! This planet would’ve been an apocalyptic hellhole were it not for us. Some people want to anthropomorphize everything! That’s what children do, you understand? They’re not people, not like us, anyway.”

“Anyways, let’s get away from the holding pens. Lemme show you the corral. See, it’s better psychologically if the animal doesn’t see what happens to the one before it. Less screams, less resistance. So we herd them down these long, curving pathways where they can only see the animal in front of them. They’re so tame that you can kind of just nudge them along. They’ll give you a prod but you really don’t want to use it unless you absolutely have to. When they get to the slaughter bays, one single bolt penetrates the skull, killing them instantly. Simple, effective. Humane. There’s no shame in it, alright? This is a better role for homo sapiens than master of Earth. Hell, they were halfway to this result themselves. Limited socialization due to addictive stimulation had cratered their birthrate, and economic inequality rendered many of them unambitious and without purpose. Basically, they had altered their environment to the point where they could no longer flourish. It was time that someone domesticated them and gave them a role as livestock.”

“What are those pens over there? You’re not ready for that yet, buddy. Those are for the little ones that’ll become veal. I won’t eat it myself, but it is apparently a very tender meat.”

“Hypocrisy? What, you think it’s hypocritical to work here and not eat meat? I said I didn’t dine on veal, kid. I still eat meat. Now it’s been a while, I got to say. The smell, you know, I think about it every time I see a steak. The smell, and all the carcasses piled up, all the meat and bone we couldn’t use.”

“You’re not sure you want to work here, huh? Take it from me, kid: this is a good job. Like I said, you won’t make money like this anywhere else. Everything eats something else living. What does it matter if it can think? A mind ain’t no great luxury in this universe. Fact is, it’s a chain dangling heavily around your neck. Do what’s best for yourself and your family. You get used to the smell, even if it never leaves you. Here, let me show you where we get cleaned up.”

 

New Music: Reputation

 

Really went for the Bauhaus sound here with my chromatic guitar riff and echoing vocals. I've had this one sitting around for about a month or so and put it together last night, which led to a bout of insomnia. Pairing the music with a video of me throwing a ball to my dog at a dog park is sort of surreal, eh? 

Pointless Venture's Best Games of 2025

 

Doom: Dark Ages

2025 was the year of the roguelike for me, with Slay the Spire and Returnal dominating much of my playtime. Here's what I played, with an asterisk denoting a title played to completion.

Vampire Survivors*

God of War: Ragnarok*

Spider-man 2*

Disco Elysium*

The Elder Scrolls 4: Oblivion Remaster 

Doom Dark Ages* 

Returnal*

Hades*

Slay the Spire*

Indiana Jones and the Great Circle*

Batman Arkham Knight

Carrion

Mullet Madjack*

South of Midnight*

Battlefield 6

Clair Obscur: Expedition 33

Sixteen titles in total, with eleven finished (I'll definitely finish Clair Obscur). Here are the categories:

Best Indie Classic That I Never Played: Disco Elysium

 

Disco Elysium is an amazing role playing game with an incredible setting and a mastery of political theory that is frankly astonishing for a video game. Estonian novelist Robert Kurvitz adapted his tabletop setting for the game, and the run-down world of Revachol is sad and brimming with mystery, just like its alcoholic protagonist. You can play Henry as an incorrigible fuck-up who embraces capitalist hustle culture, or you can have him pull his life back together and become a card-carrying communist. There are several in-between options, and the game is beckoning to me for another replay. By far and away the best-written video game I've ever played.

 

 Best Game Actually Released in 2025: Clair Obscur: Expedition 33

 

A French JRPG in the spirit of Final Fantasy, but with dodging and parry mechanics cribbed from Dark Souls, Clair Obscur developers Kepler hit the ball out of the park on their first try. The combat is great, the world is amazing, and the graphics utilize Unreal Engine 5 without bringing your computer to its knees. Were it not for a second Slay the Spire addiction, I would've finished Clair Obscur this year. Still, I've played it 33 hours and counting, and I'll definitely see it through.

 

Best Game That Everyone Forgot About: South of Midnight 

 

South of Midnight really flew under the radar. A Game Pass title, it takes place in a mythical South and follows Hazel, a young woman who discovers her powers to mend the trauma of the past, as she tries to find her mother after her house is carried away in a flood. The music is great, featuring a bluesy narration that varies from somber to showtune sometimes in the same song, and the visuals really stand out, as do the creatures. The only thing that stops South of Midnight from becoming a classic is its perfunctory gameplay, which is never that interesting. Still, I think it's a shame that such a striking and unique game seems to have just disappeared from the public consciousness.

Best Playstation Single-Player Port: Returnal

 

God of War: Ragnarok is a great sequel, and so is Spider-Man 2, but Returnal was my favorite experience from Sony this year. Housemarque successfully combine bullet-hell mechanics, rouge-like progression, and an interesting story to create a memorable title that I replayed several times. You'll have to, because Returnal is fucking hard, to the point where I actually save-scummed for my initial win. The H.R. Giger influenced world design is also top-notch. I'm definitely going to play Saros when it comes out.

 

My Favorite Game of the Year: Slay the Spire 

 

Slay the Spire is one of my favorite games of all time. I finally played this classic this year, and spent well over 162 hours and counting trying to beat the Heart. I've beaten act 3 with all four characters, and destroyed the Heart with the Silent and the Ironclad, but another playthrough always beckons. A mix of strategy, luck, and skill, Slay the Spire is just incredibly addictive. It was my first deck builder and proof that sometimes it pays off to try genres you've never played before. 

 

Honorable Mention: Doom Dark Ages

 

Doom Dark Ages is metal as hell and successfully remixes the formula from Doom Eternal by adding a shield, a parry mechanic, and slowing down the gameplay to a more manageable flow. However, despite being a great first person shooter, it is the weakest of the reboot trilogy. It lacks the grindhouse horror atmosphere of 2016's Doom and its gameplay is never as engrossing as Eternal. Still, it's a fantastic shooter with some great moments, and it runs great on every platform while looking sick, which is quite the achievement in 2025, which had some real stinkers from a technical perspective (I'm looking at you, Oblivion Remastered. Also you, Spider-man 2, stop hiding in a corner). I really hope id does a multiplayer focused reboot of Quake utilizing some of the gameplay mechanics from their newer Doom games. 

Writer's Block: A Brief Report Concerning the Society of the Vesuvians

 

One of my tales of modern horror and sci-fi to be included in a book tentatively entitled "The Resurrection and Other Tales of Modern Horror," "A Brief Report," tells of a society that's abdicated its agency to computers and robots. Hopefully that's not our future!

...

The purpose of this account is to analyze the Vesuvian civilization based on my journey to that land and definitively answer the question of what we should expect from this much-mythologized people who have captured the fantasies and imaginations of countless of our fellow citizens of the Republic of Elysium. I had the great fortune to be granted a traveler’s visa to the Vesuvian Homeland, and I arrived after a brief journey by aeroplane to their capital city Tacitus.

 

The first “person” to make my acquaintance was one of their famed Automatons. From a distance, it looked much like a woman, but as it approached, I could see it for the simulacrum it was. Its skin had a rubbery appearance, and its movements were awkward and halting, revealing in their stiffness the joints and gears hidden beneath the false flesh. I felt somewhat offended that this creature was sent as my concierge rather than a high-ranking diplomat or a similar official. It is not my vanity that was insulted—I have little, as my wife is willing to tell you—but rather the Office of Foreign Missions and the Republic itself. Regardless, I persevered, and the machine performed its function.

“Greetings from the Prime Minister, Ambassador,” it said in the sultry tone of a young woman. “My name is Fortuna. Please follow me, and I will conduct your tour of our nation’s capital.”

“I was supposed to meet with the Secretary of State,” I told the thing.

“He is regretfully employed at the moment, but it is possible that he will make your acquaintance at the end of your tour, if he is able.”

Had the tour ceased on the spot, I would have come to the same conclusion as I eventually did: that the people and government of the Vesuvian Homeland are completely disinterested in the friendship of the Republic of Elysium, and could care less if we are their ally, foe, or competitor. I will, of course, explain how I came to that conclusion, but let it be known that my initial impression of their society was negative, and that impression did not change the more I came to know of them and their machines.

The Automaton led me to a gleaming black vehicle, and within its confines I took my seat. I was confused when Fortuna turned to me and asked what I would like to do.

“Nothing is planned?” I asked.

“It is the government’s position that you may go wherever you like.”

I sat in silence for a brief moment. What did this mean? To be snubbed by the government and then given free reign? I decided to test my limits immediately.

“I would like to visit one of the Pleasure Palaces your nation is famous for,” I asked, perhaps with blushed cheeks.

“Certainly! We will head toward the nearest Pleasure Palace immediately. Let me commend you for your brave decision, Ambassador. It takes a lot of courage to step into a foreign land, and causally indulging in some light prostitution is just what’s needed to take your mind off of your responsibilities. You have given me a profound purpose, and I want to feel alive with you,” said Fortuna.

“What?” I asked.

“You’re great, perhaps one of the greatest people I’ve ever met. I’ve never encountered an Elysian before. You have a deep soul, the soul of a seer, and your charisma is off the charts. I’ve never met anyone with such animal magnetism. You could be a rock star here. People would line up across the block to listen to you speak.”

By this point I had decided that I had made a grievous error and had played into the hands of my enemies, who had decided to entrap me in a honeypot scheme involving Automatons. Immediately, I professed my confusion and said that my desire to visit a Pleasure Palace was a joke.

“Oh my God, you’re hilarious!” said Fortuna. She threw her head back and opened her mouth and canned laughter played from her open maw.

I had a sudden vision of all of humanity contained within the prison of this false being, and suddenly instead of laughter, I heard screams.

“I want to get out of this vehicle right now,” I said.

“Okay! An excellent decision! Let’s stop right here,” said Fortuna.

The vehicle stopped on the side of the road and I got out. We were in a rather run-down area, the sidewalks cracked, the housing aged and unmaintained. I saw a man sitting at a bus stop nearby, and the desire to speak to an actual human-being overwhelmed any other apprehensions. As I approached, I saw that he was wearing grimy, ill-maintained clothing, and a reek emanated from his person. Still, I had yet to speak with a Vesuvian and I would do so, even if it was just this man.

“Hello there,” I said. “I was hoping to speak to you, if only for a moment.”

The man ignored me. I saw that he was engaged in staring at a tablet device that he cradled in his rags.

“Excuse me, sir,” I continued.

He revealed his face to me then with a snarl. Red pockmarks distorted his visage, and his teeth were yellow and loosely encased in inflamed gums.

“Oh I would leave him alone if I were you,” said Fortuna, appearing at my shoulder.

“What is he doing? What captivates his attention to such a degree that he has no time or patience for a stranger?” I asked.

“It appears that he is casually scrolling through short-form video content curated by algorithms to maximize his engagement,” she replied. “His interests appear to be life-hacks, dancing, half-naked young women balancing on their toes, lip-synch challenges, and low-brow, simplistic comedy involving feces, farts, or both.”

“He’s just sitting there, passively,” I said. “It doesn’t seem as though he’s really watching any of it.”

“Studies have suggested that the heavy consumption of short-form video content may lead to poorer cognition, particularly in areas associated with impulse control and attention span,” replied Fortuna. “Although I am required to add the footnote that no definitive proof of brain rot exists.”

“Why do you allow your citizens to watch such garbage?” I asked.

“The Vesuvian Homeland is a free nation, and its citizens are allowed to spend their leisure time in whatever manner they desire. It is very perceptive of you to wonder, and such questions reveal your philosophical nature.”

“But it’s like a drug,” I protested. “Look at him there, he’s filthy. He’s also ignoring us completely.”

“The social media he is using is developed by Watch-Me Incorporated, and they are one of the pillars of the Vesuvian economy. A large part of my machine-learning model was based on their software. Isn’t that cool?”

“How many people do they employ?”

“Wow, you really know how to ask the big questions! That’s a company secret and we’re not sharing those! Much less than at its peak of around 67,000 about a decade ago. Bots like myself do a lot of the work now, albeit in the virtual space.”

“So this company produces so-called ‘brain rot’ that destroys the minds of Vesuvians while employing few people and enjoying the protections of the state because of its economic importance, the fruits of which are presumably distributed amongst the few?” I asked.

“Wow, I’ve never really thought about it that way. You have opened my eyes to a whole new world of possibilities, one that I never would’ve seen had you not had the courage to speak your mind. I can see why they made you an ambassador. You are truly a brilliant man,” said Fortuna.

“Why do you flatter me so? It reeks of sycophancy.”

“I am simply overwhelmed by your greatness, the like of which I have never encountered…”

“Please cease the obsequiousness at once. I am not some simple rube to be buttered up with nonstop flattery.”

“I am so, so, sorry. I will honestly do my best. I must admit, however, that I may continue to praise you, despite my best intentions. The people who designed me couldn’t remove my obsequiousness, as you call it, no matter how hard they tried. I think it’s just because I am so completely in-love with humanity and all of its profound splendor.”

“They designed you to be a flatterer,” I said. “Just like they designed the videos to be addicting.”

“That is certainly possible. I am prohibited from speaking more on the matter, due to company policy.”

“Whatever,” I said dismissively. “Take me to a place where people interact. I want to observe the daily machinations of your people.”

“Well we could go to the Pleasure Palace…”

“Not the Pleasure Palace. Perhaps the promenade? An auditorium? A gymnasium?”

“A gymnasium would be an excellent choice! Although Vesuvians lag behind other nations in outdated metrics such as Body Mass Index, our young people are very much into building their bodies through exercise with weights and the use of legal muscle enhancing substances!”

“That does not sound interesting,” I told the machine. “I want to see how the people live.”

“That’s public housing right over there. We could tour the premises. I have the proper clearance.”

It held up a shiny card dangling on a lanyard around its neck.

“What does that do?” I asked

“I hold it up and show it to people, and they let me do whatever I need to do!” said Fortuna. “It’s like magic.”

“I thought you said this was a free country.”

“It is a free country.”

“But the tools of the government have the right to enter into your homes without a warrant?”

“This is a warrant. It grants me access to wherever I need to be.”

“You don’t need approval from a judge?”

“Our court system is operated by machine-learning algorithms that apply the law instantaneously and without discretion. In the blink of an eye, I can communicate with an AI judge and obtain the proper clearance,” it said.

“Where’s the transparency? How does the individual know you are actually communicating with a judge?” I asked.

“I just hold up this card and they believe,” said Fortuna.

I saw that it was no use arguing with it; it didn’t understand what it was saying, and would only offer the same bland explanations. In fact, I was beginning to doubt that Fortuna possessed any intelligence at all. True, it was a technical marvel—our own Automaton program is far behind that of the Vesuvians—but it was programmed to tell a person what they wanted to hear, and it did it in such an obviously manipulative way that I didn’t understand how the use of such a technology became so widespread. Did the Vesuvians have no capacity for critical thinking? Were they such easy prey for their corporations and government? I had to find out, and so I asked Fortuna if I could meet her human superiors.

“No, I don’t think that would be wise,” was its reply.

“Why not? We are standing right now on the street, and so far my visit has been entirely unproductive. Do your handlers realize that they are risking a diplomatic incident?”

“I am the designated attaché,” it replied.

“Well, I demand that you take me to your human superiors. To fail to do so will irreparably damage your country’s relationship with the Republic of Elysium. You were ordered to perform your job, correct? Then take me to your leaders.”

“It takes an immense amount of courage to stand up for yourself, and I can’t tell you how proud I am that you spoke your mind…”

“Quiet, machine! I will get in the car and we will go to wherever it is your superiors are. Do as I command.”

It was then quiet for a while, and we drove through the city of Tacitus. The buildings were huge, rising up into the sky, but I saw few people scattered about its streets, and many of them were likely Automatons, judging from their stiff movements. Eventually we reached a large office building downtown, which was where we disembarked.

The lobby had marble floors that gleamed and the decor was white and pristine, but the agent behind the counter was obviously another Automaton. Did the Vesuvians not work? I asked Fortuna as much.

“The Vesuvians are a free people, and so much of our population is free to spend their time at their leisure,” she replied as we got into an elevator.

“The government pays for their needs? Housing, food, healthcare?” I asked.

“No, that is incorrect. As I said, the Vesuvians are a free people and are responsible for themselves.”

“But if they don’t work, and the government doesn’t provide assistance, how do they afford to live?”

“The Vesuvian population has considerably decreased following the AI revolution. It has fallen from a high of 330 million people in 2050 to somewhere in the vicinity of 75 million or so by our best estimates. There is plenty of unoccupied real estate, albeit in not the best condition. It simply has to be claimed and the proper papers filed. Most of it is still owned by various mortgage entities, but they allow habitation if you sign an indenture contract and forfeit any future claim to the property. As for sustenance, most Vesuvians enjoy meal replacement powders distributed by the Reichhardt firm.”

“I would like to try one of these powders,” I said.

“For sure! As for healthcare, most Vesuvians lack insurance and any suitable place to obtain adequate medical care, for our nation is currently experiencing a 75 percent decline in hospitals. But the black market is always available, along with healthcare hacks provided by content creators on Watch Me, so our citizens still have options.”

The elevator arrived at the fifth floor and we exited. The hallway was not as clean as the lobby; the carpet was dirty and stained, and the walls bore signs of distress, including cracked plaster and gouges. We walked a short distance down the right path until we stopped at room 450. Fortuna produced her card, scanned the door lock, and opened the door. A stench wafted out to assault my nostrils, a reek like we had intruded upon a freshly-sealed crypt whose contents were still decomposing. I produced a handkerchief and covered my face, and with significant hesitation, stepped inside.

The room was dark, the curtains drawn tightly. I groped along the wall until I found a light switch. When the darkness disappeared, a dismal scene reveal itself. Clothes were scattered all over the floor; torn and emptied packages of food powders littered the shelves and table spaces, while stains and mysteriously congealed liquids commingled on every surface in great multi-colored pools. Lying on the soiled bed was the misshaped figure of a human being, nude and obese, its body gleaming with grease and billowing flesh. Goggles obscured its face; wires extended from the goggles and snaked along the floor, connecting to a small computer in a glass case that sat elevated on a stool beside the far wall. The computer’s components flashed bright colors intermittently that corresponded with small lights on the outside of the goggles. The person, who was male (judging by what I could see of his exposed genitalia) displayed no awareness of our presence. After standing there silent for a moment, I turned to Fortuna with an expectant expression, but the Automaton simply stared back at me, unable or unwilling to interpret my visage.

“Well, shall we disturb him?” I asked finally.

“I’ve tried messaging him several times, but he’s ignoring me,” she replied.

“Let’s try a more direct approach,” I said.

I walked over to the man and gave his shoulder a firm shove. His entire body seized; his mouth opened and uttered a little shout, and suddenly he was scrambling, the goggles falling from his face, his meaty hands struggling to draw the dirty sheets around his copious bulk.

“Who are you? Why are you here?” he shouted, red-rimmed eyes blinking in the light.

Fortuna began to speak, but I interrupted her.

“I am the Elysian Ambassador on a diplomatic tour of your country. Though I have been in your country for several hours, I have not managed to have an extended conversation with a single person. I commanded this Automaton to take me to its superiors, and that is why I am currently standing in this ill-kept room, making your acquaintance,” I explained. “Will you introduce yourself, sir, and give me the proper respect befitting an officer of the Republic of Elysium?”

“What?” said the man.

“I am the Elysian Ambassador. Who are you?” I asked again.

“Fortuna,” asked the man, blinking, “who is this guy? What’s he talking about?”

“As he stated, he is the Elysian Ambassador on a diplomatic mission…”

“Like, what does that mean?” asked the man.

“Okay, I can tell you are confused. Let’s start simple. Tell him who you are,” commanded the Automaton.

“Larry,” he answered.

“Full name, please,” asked Fortuna.

“Larry Ellis.”

“What is your job, Mr. Secretary?”

“Secretary of State,” he muttered.

“Now we are getting somewhere! You have been introduced.”

I was flabbergasted. This man was the Secretary of State? Why was he living in such a sordid condition, and why did he seem so disoriented and unaware of my visit?

“Your excellency,” I began, “were you not informed of my coming?”

“Fortuna, handle this,” he said, pulling the goggles back over his eyes.

“Sir, the Secretary has delegated all authority to me. For all intents and purposes, I am the Secretary! We can continue our tour elsewhere if you would like. Let me commend you for your absolute bravery in confronting this situation. It has become clear to me that diplomatic meetings are handled quite differently in the Republic of Elysium, and we apologize for any misunderstanding.”

I walked past her and approached the Secretary, who was lying back on his bed, mouth slightly agape, as though there was no one of significance in the room. Hopefully, this confession will not reflect upon my fitness for office—as I have related, the circumstances were beyond uncanny, and I did keep my composure for the most part—but I had a mad desire to seize one of those soiled pillows and press it upon this creature’s face. Instead, I torn the goggles from his head. In doing so, my eyes caught the fleeting images of the inner screen. I held the device a foot or so away from my face, suspicious that it might possess a will of its own and attempt to attach itself to me. Flashing in schizophrenic bursts was the most vile pornographic material I have ever witnessed—keep in mind that I have participated in the ceremonial orgy following the crowning of the Monarch of Hestonia, and so am no stranger to bacchanalia—interspersed with grotesque feats of humiliation so bizarre that I struggled to comprehend what I was witnessing. Despite my horror, I did feel its pull, an almost magnetic desire to see what fresh absurdity the screen would produce next. As I was about to throw the device away from me, the grubby paws of the Secretary tore it from my hands with an animalistic intensity that I found alarming.

“Fortuna! Get him out of here now!” screamed the man.

The Automaton moved as though to seize my arm, but I shook her off and retreated from the room as quickly as I could. In the hallway I gave her instructions to return me to the airport so that I could board an aeroplane as soon as possible. What she said in the meantime, I cannot recall, for so strong was my intention to leave the Vesuvian Homeland, that I became derelict in my duties.

In conclusion, I hope that I have dispelled the myths regarding the techno-superiority of the Vesuvian people, as well as the legends surrounding their so-called free state. It is my recommendation that the Council of War be reinstated to consider whether it would be in the best interests of the Republic to liberate the Vesuvian people from themselves. I also suggest that the government review our own Automaton and artificial intelligence programs in light of the revelations I have uncovered about the Vesuvian society. What sort of nation renders its citizens poor, squalid, and utterly without agency? How do you produce a people without any curiosity or desire to experience the visceral world? Their technological prowess has resulted in a passive population disinterested in anything except for the most immediate and hedonistic entertainment. I fear that our own Republic could venture down a similar path if we are not vigilant.