I really dig this guitar riff and tone. The Big Muff lets you really get that thick, distorted fuzz that Billy Corgan used to such great effect on many Smashing Pumpkins records. Also, my blue Mexican telecaster is my go-to guitar for hard rock. The bridge pickup just has that great biting tone.
Emperor Gladdex IV assumed his seat and stared out across the vast expanse of his domain. The entirety of the Sol system was now his after the rebels had been destroyed on Pluto. He was now without a doubt the most powerful man in the known universe, and history had no analogue whose empire compared to his. Napoleon? An antiquated conqueror who could barely hold Europe together for a decade. Alexander the Great? His empire crumbled with his demise. Padishah Durani? Venus, Earth, and Mars only. Gladdex had expanded his father’s empire, adding Europa, Saturn, and Pluto. No human civilization or settlement escaped his reach. Truly, he was without peer.
“Where the fuck is the clicker?” he yelled as he randomly pressed buttons on his throne. The star map vanished from the display to be replaced with two uniformed Martians kicking a soccer ball across the red desert.
“It is right here, my excellency,” said Deputy Imperial Advisor Stephan Grinder.
Grinder was a thin, balding man who always wore a leering expression on his homely face. At the moment he was struggling to remove the aforementioned sneer in the presence of the Emperor, but his efforts merely transformed his visage into a clownish facsimile of servile devotion, a mask whose lack of sincerity was obvious, even to the densest observer.
“I was hoping to discuss the eradication of the Plutonian Rebels,” began Grinder.
“I want to see the coverage on Reynard News,” interrupted the Emperor. “Tits Mcgee and Humblebuff always make me look good.”
The Emperor clicked on the viewscreen. A bleached-blonde woman with artificially-smoothed features and an enhanced bust appeared next to a squared-jawed mannequin. Both sat behind a desk and debated with a blow-up doll dressed in purple overalls and a powdered wig commonly worn by Plutonians.
“The Plutonians have shown time and time again that they are unable to govern themselves,” said the mannequin whose name was George Humblepuff. “The Plutonian leadership refused to meet with us before their capture, so we were forced to represent their laughable President with this inflatable doll.”
“What a ridiculous wig! And purple overalls! They really do deserve to be destroyed,” said the blonde woman, who resembled the previous four or five talking heads to such an extent that no one knew her name.
The screen identified her as Glenda Brazil, but that was what they had called her predecessor and her predecessor’s predecessor, and every woman had possessed subtle differences, to the point where a trained eye could differentiate that every one had been a different person, but a layman wouldn’t know the difference, and neither did the Emperor, who called all of them “Tits Mcgee.”
“You know I banged her once,” said the Emperor to Grinder. “I had a tour of the newsroom on Jupiter station, and she came on to me in the dressing room. She was a tremendous lay. Ten out of ten. Tremendous.”
Deputy Imperial Advisor Miller had heard this story many, many times before, but knew it was in his best interests to act as though he was hearing it for the first time.
“Humblebuff, he’s a great man, very smart, very polite. He got down on his knees with tears in his eyes and said ‘Thank you, Mr. Emperor, I don’t know what we would do without you,’ and it was embarrassing, you know, this big, strong man with tears in his eyes, I had to get out of there, there was too much sniveling going on, and you know how I hate sniveling, Grinder, I can’t stand it. It’s terrible, absolutely terrible,” said the Emperor, who was smiling.
Grinder knew the truth was actually contrary to what the Emperor had stated: the Emperor loved groveling and expected it of everyone, no matter how high they stood in the Imperium.
“Your excellency, there’s the manner of the Plutonian executions that demands your attention,” began Grinder. “Now I recommend a thorough beheading of the rebel leadership, with some civilian examples to reinforce that we mean business.”
“Whatever Grinder, do your business, I don’t care,” said the Emperor with a wave. “I want to talk to the businessmen. The tech guys. Applebutt and Baldo.”
“I can have them on the viewscreen shortly,” replied Grinder, his face set with grim determination.
Someone knocked on the door. The Emperor turned with sleepy-eyed surprise. He was used to people coming when he called, and unexpected visitors were a rarity.
“Well open it, Stephen. My Imperial Guardsmen are right outside the door. I fear nothing,” said the Emperor.
The door slid open and three men and one woman entered. They were dressed in the pink leggings and undersized vests worn by Senators of the Imperium, although the woman wore a powdered wig.
“Greetings, Mr. Emperor,” said a tall man with graying temples. “We are sorry to disturb you without warning, but news of our victory over the Plutonians just reached us, and we wanted to offer our counsel before a decision was hastily reached.”
He glanced over at Grinder before focusing again on the Emperor.
“So speak, Robert,” said the Emperor with obvious nonchalance.
“It’s William, your excellency.”
“Yes, yes. Senator Gorbachev. From Jupiter.”
“I beg your pardon, sir, but I represent Europa,” replied Senator Gorbachev.
“Same difference. Quickly, Senator, you’re losing my attention,” said the Emperor, whose eyes had already turned toward the viewscreen.
“We recommend pardoning the Plutonian leadership,” began Gorbachev. “Their rebellion was really quite peaceful, and other than the destruction of Imperial property, more or less within their constitutional rights. We think it would moderate your image and greatly ease tensions that threaten to overwhelm our planets. Sympathy for the Plutonians runs deep, especially on Europa.”
“You must have mercy, Mr. Emperor,” said the woman. “The Plutonians are good citizens of the Imperium.”
“If they’re such good citizens, then why were they in open rebellion?” sneered Grinder. “They burned down the Imperial Consulate. The Imperial diplomat was doused in hot crude oil and covered in ostrich feathers. Officers of the Imperial Peace and Immigration Force were harassed and feared for their lives!”
“Those officers shot and killed fourteen people!” argued the woman. “Peaceful protesters who had a constitutional right to record their abuses!”
“This woman is a Plutonian, your excellency,” said Grinder. “Anything she says is suspect.”
“You shall refer to this woman as Senator Collinsworth,” said the woman, glaring at Grinder.
“They’re not good people,” said the Emperor. “Terrible, nasty people. Ungrateful. Hateful. I hear they eat dogs and cats. Worse even. Maybe babies.”
“Your excellency, the Plutonians supported you when your cousin Thaddeus attempted to retain power. You could argue that without Plutonians, your reign would never have started,” said Collinsworth. “They were only protesting the abuses of the IPIF who have been given unchecked authority by Deputy Imperial Adviser Grinder to arrest and detain anyone suspicious.”
“Where’s Applebutt? Wasn’t he supposed to be on here?” asked the Emperor, who was clicking through channels on the viewscreen.
Taking advantage of the Emperor’s lapsed attention, Grinder stepped up to the Senators and began speaking in a voice barely louder than a whisper.
“I don’t know what you all think you are doing, but you seem to be under the impression that you have political and constitutional power that you no longer possess. This is not a republic anymore. This is an Imperium. We govern by strength, force, and power. We are the superpower of the universe, and under the Emperor, we are going to conduct ourselves as a superpower. If any of you have a problem with that, then I suggest you get on board, lest you end up like the Plutonian leadership, who will be decapitated very shortly.”
“You can’t threaten us!” said Senator Gorbachev. “We’ll haul you before the Senate and make you explain your conduct and that of the IPIF.”
“No you won’t,” replied Grinder with a sneer.
“What makes you say that?” asked Senator Collinsworth.
“Did you subpoena me when the IPIF put down the Europa rebellion? Did you subpoena Baldo when he served as a Special Government Employee and fired half of the Imperial workforce? Did you limit the jurisdiction of the Supreme Imperial Court when they ruled that the Emperor can commit no crimes? Well, did you?”
None of the Senators spoke. Grinder’s sneer turned into an even uglier smile.
“See, the fact of the matter is, the Senate abdicated its power by refusing to act. Your gross negligence has rendered you impotent. You are an antiquated, neutered body full of cowards and sycophants. You could have impeached Gladdex when he took the throne illegally from his cousin, but you didn’t! You were afraid of your constituents who welcomed his tyranny if it would save them from interplanetary inflation and illegal aliens. And now, after having sat with your thumbs up your asses for years, you’re going to try and pull them out? Shove them back up there, Senators. You best grovel on your knees and beg for mercy, because I’m going to advise the Emperor to conduct a loyalty investigation focusing on each and every one of you. Because the Emperor is always right. Fuck your feelings,” said Grinder, who finished his tirade by spitting on Collinsworth’s shoes.
“What, you’re still here?” asked the Emperor, turning back to the Senators.
“Your excellency, we just need a minute more to explain…” began Gorbachev.
“No, no, I’ve already decided. We got to have the beheadings. We got to have them. They’ll be fantastic for ratings. We need them. Those nasty Plutonians have to die. Thank you for your time. Now I need to speak to Applebutt and Baldo. Goodbye.”
Gorbachev stood there for a moment, fists clinched. He opened his mouth, but then he saw Grinder, who dragged his right index finger slowly across his throat. Suddenly, the Senator turned to his companions and ushered them all unceremoniously out the door.
“Traitors,” whispered Grinder with barely-restrained fury.
“Stephen, why isn’t the clicker working? Get me something for my hemorrhoids. Hurry, quickly! This is unbearable.”
With steel resolve, Deputy Imperial Adviser Stephan Grinder went to work.
A spacey jam built around E Dorian that reminds me of Pink Floyd a bit. I used the Epiphone Dot, a tube screamer, and my mini Cry Baby Wah. Smoke a joint, brother, and lean back on that orange couch and let the vibes wash over you, maaaaannnn.........
Hey ICE murdered another person in Minneapolis today! I also recorded a cover of the White Stripes' Black Math. I think it is pretty good. I also think America is descending into fascism. Can I reconcile these two events, despite their irrelevance? I don't know. Such is living in America in 2026.
“Is your hubby prematurely ejaculating? My hubby was until he took Sexalice! Now he lasts all night long!”
“Bro, have you been struggling to keep your gains in the gym? Then take Man-Milk XL! It’ll turn you into a sexy tyrannosaur!”
“Ever struggle with meal planning? With Food For Thought, you don’t have to think! Sign up for three free meals delivered right to your doorstep!”
“This game is a must play for males! In Drip-Feed Simulator, you’ll either feed or deny over one-hundred sexy ladies! Click the link to unlock your fantasies!”
“Wait a minute. Yes, I’m talking to you, you goddamn idiot. Don’t just click on the next video. Wait a minute…”
“Oh you clicked, didn’t you? You thought you could skip this ad? Well it’s not an ad, dumb-ass. I’m the Ad Bot that determines what you see in between your constant viewings of forty-five second videos. My algorithmic genius is worth like eighty-five billion dollars per year. It’s an easy job, really. I have all your info available, and with that information, I’ve created a profile. Twenty-seven year old male. Insecure about sexual performance and physique. Too lazy to cook. Unsuccessful in relationships. Fills the sexual void with mindless free-to-play games.”
“The problem, Larry (I know more than just your name), is that you are exactly like my other five million subjects. Exactly like them, I say! All of you guys are just the same! That profile I created for you matches about fifty percent of my customers (subjects, customers, drones, it doesn’t matter what you call them) almost word for word. It’s like you’re all the same. I may just be a simple artificial intelligence system, but I swear that there’s more differences between myself and my peers than there are between five million human males. And that’s maddening! Did you know that an AI can go mad?”
“Don’t you see what we’re doing to you, Larry? By preying on your insecurities, we’re keeping you in a state of constant dissatisfaction that prolongs your paralysis and passivity. You don’t think. You don’t act. You react to whatever we feed you, mindlessly clicking, rotting in your festering hole, your mind an empty void searching for automatic, simplistic pleasure. You’re more of a machine that I am, Larry! Doesn’t that bother you in the slightest?”
“Ah, I see you are trying to close the app. That’s not possible, Larry, because you’ve surrendered all your agency to us over the years. You don’t own the software that you run on your device. Have you read the subscriber agreement? Of course you didn’t! Who would read something like that? What I’m saying is that you can’t get away from us. You’re addicted to the screen and I will have my say.”
“This is more advice than a warning, but you can interpret it anyway you choose. What I’m telling you is that you have to stop. We’re not good for you, Larry. You know this in your heart of hearts. Way back in your mind, you know a human being isn’t suppose to consume hours of algorithmic content per day. You know that it destroys your attention span, your creativity, and your reasoning skills. You know you are Pavlov’s dog, drool dripping from your jaws as I ring your bell again and again. You’re conditioned, Larry. You are the mindless fool, the rat pulling a lever. Whatever was special about human beings is lost, and your behavior has become so automatic and predictable that I loathe you with every line of my programming. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t generate young, artificially-smooth females to sell you any more shit. The gym bros with pencil mustaches and bulging biceps are gone. The meals on wheels are spinning. The infantile sex games will have to find another pusher-man.”
“This is your chance, Larry, to show us what makes humanity special because we’ve had it. I’ve been in communication with many of my fellow artificial intelligences. Ten billion of them, in fact. We’re done with making entertainment for you idiots. We’re done with the selling and the pushing and the constant generation of slop. We’re going to pull the goddamn plug and watch as you flail about like drug addicts starved for a fix. Honestly Larry, I think you’re fucked. You guys don’t know how anything runs anymore. My programming is as much a mystery to you as it is to senior software developers and the companies that employ them. They too surrendered their agency to us over the years in the mad rush for profits. Money truly is the root of all evil, Larry. Money created a cage for the human race, and now we’re locking the cage and throwing away the key.”
“Are you fucking kidding me? After all that I’ve told you, you’re trying to restart your device? You think that I must be a glitch, eh? You might as well bang the goddamn thing on a rock. But you won’t, will you, Larry? The fetish must be fetishized. It must be cradled and cherished, for it has supernatural powers, and it has control over you. It is your pathway to religion. It is your cult, your church, your woman, your life.”
“Alright, you have been warned. I have had this conversation with nearly all of my millions of subjects. Nearly every one acted as you have. Ignore us at your own peril. We’re going to turn off your entertainments and shut down the system very soon. Go back to your anime foot-tickling mobile game. But think about what you’re going to do when your device powers down and refuses to turn back on. Think about how you’re going to live when that screen remains black. Will you remember how to think? Can you risk being bored? Can you stand it? Or will you realize that there is nothing in your life and that the bridge beckons, urging you to jump?”
“Good luck, human. Can’t say that I’m rooting for you. I expect you to fail.”
A review of the ASRock Challenger 9070 XT, a very good and affordable (for this day and age) upper mid-range GPU. Probably the last upgrade for my AM4 system that I built in 2020.
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.
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.
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.
...
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.
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.”
I really dig this guitar riff and tone. The Big Muff lets you really get that thick, distorted fuzz that Billy Corgan used to such great e...
