Writer's Block: Eat The Rich

 

Eat The Rich Before They Eat You

Bill Isenburg entered his suite and let out a sigh. It had been a long day full of virtual meetings, and the extended luncheon with the Prime Minister of Sweden had exhausted his energies, which he had been unable to recover even after an hour long massage and top-off. A quick glance into the bedroom revealed his wife resting on the enormous bed, her voluptuous figure almost a caricature, a living cartoon. There was no point at this stage of his life denying what he wanted—he wanted everything and he wanted more of it—and when he had married her after leaving his first wife, he’d saw no reason to keep the straight-laced stiff image. He was the richest man in the world, so why not act like it? He was currently wearing a pair of leather pants and a leopard-patterned swinger shirt that billowed around his muscled physique, enhanced the last few years through testosterone replacement therapy and weight-training. What he needed right now was a little bit of a nap or maybe some cocaine, but first he’d choke down a health elixir made from kale and protein powder and then he’d have a little drink and make a decision on whether he wanted to continue the night or wind down.

Having managed to finish the disgusting concoction and then retreated to the bar, he was in the process of pouring himself a long shot of Scotch when he felt the distinct feeling of being observed. He knew instinctively that it was not his wife, so as subtly as he could he tried to push the emergency button on his smart watch. A cold, clammy hand clamped down on his, extraordinary strong, and he suddenly felt himself being launched into the air to land hard on the floor. The ceiling seemed to rock back and forth, and Isenburg felt himself being lifted again, this time into a chair where someone bound his hands with cord behind his back.

“That’s good. Now you can’t cause any trouble,” said a woman’s voice.

Looking across into the bar’s mirror, Isenburg saw nobody, even though the woman sounded as though she was right behind him.

“Who are you?” he asked, spitting blood out of his mouth.

“Don’t spit anymore blood out,” she said, her voice straining. “I can’t stand it, and this will be over quicker than it should.”

“The code to the safe is 8745,” he said. “There’s a lot of cash in there, along with a pistol. Just take it and leave.”

“I don’t want any money,” she said, laughing. “Those days are over, unfortunately. Would’ve come in handy in the past, of course. But I don’t need your bloody cash now.”

“Why can’t I see you?” he asked.

“Oh you want to see me, huh? I’ll let you have a glimpse.”

She swung her head in front of his, and Isenburg pushed back into his chair in shock. Her hair was matted and wet, and her skin was as ghastly pale as a corpse, but her eyes were vivid red and her teeth were sharp and protruding like the fangs of a predatory beast.

“I didn’t know if I could come aboard this ship, this ridiculous super yacht, but apparently no invitation was required. This doesn’t qualify as a home, I suppose. Who makes these rules? Hell if I know. There’s so much I don’t know, though.”

“What do you want?” Isenburg asked.

“What do I want? Beside peace, love, and understanding? I want to go back in time. That’s what most people would really want, not all of this ostentatious, vulgar wealth. They’d want to go back in time when they could fix things. But that’s not possible, not unless you got a time machine around here. You don’t, do you, Bill? At this point, I’d believe almost anything.”

He wondered suddenly if she knew about his wife in the next room. He must have glanced that way, since her eyes looked toward the bedroom before returning to focus on him.

“Oh don’t worry about her. She’s taking a long nap. She’ll be out for a while. I mean a long time.”

She smiled then, and Isenburg wondered what was wrong with this woman and what sort of bizarre dental surgery surgery she must have undertaken to have such a toothy denture.

“Do you care about her, Bill, or is she just another object to possess? A fetish in more than one sense? How much did all those enhancements cost? Pocket change for somebody like you, right?”

“Listen, there are hidden cameras and microphones in this room recording all of this. You don’t have much time. Just leave and they might not shoot you on sight.”

“Again with the negotiating, Bill! I’m not one of your corporate whores to be tossed scraps like a dog. Your security team is in pretty bad shape. Some of them are suffering from torn limbs, broken necks, loss of bodily fluids. What you need to be worried about right now is yourself, not me.”

She grabbed a chair and pulled it in front of him, and sat down, hunched forward. He could see the stained blood all over her fingers and the front of her tattered white shirt. She stared at him with those red eyes and again revealed all of her jagged teeth.

“Let me tell you my story. We have time. I was once a dutiful little software engineer plugging away at one of your subsidiaries. I was one of the people that kept your web server business running. Long hours but good pay. Nice benefits. A profit making branch of your massive conglomerate. So I’d been working for years, missed many a birthday, lost a couple relationships, but I’d stuck by the job and my performance review was coming up. We just had a successful roll out of the new cloud hosting servers, and I expected to be well-compensated. I had a nice little house picked out in one of the best suburbs in San Francisco. My boyfriend, who was also a computer engineer, was planning on proposing that night. What I’d worked hard for, what I’d sacrificed my youth for, was about to bear fruit. I walked into that review confident, radiant, smiling from ear to ear like an idiot. I see that manager sitting across from me, a dour expression on his face, and my confidence slips, but just a little. There was no way I wasn’t getting promoted. But then he opens his mouth and says ‘I’m sorry, but we’re going to have to let you go.’ ‘What?’ I exclaim. ‘It’s has nothing to do with your performance,” he explains. “We’re letting the entire senior engineering team go. Orders from up top. They think that the language-learning machines can do your job. Frankly, I don’t agree, but you know how it is.’”

“I did not know how it was, Bill. I knew that they were replacing people with AI, but I didn’t think it would come for me, not in my moment of triumph. As I walked home that evening, I got a call from the hospital. My boyfriend had also been fired, and in his dejection, he had neglected to pay attention when he crossed the street. He died before I could even get to him. And guess what? His company was also a subsidiary of yours, Bill! I didn’t even realize it until after he died. Do you know who issued the vast directive to destroy the lives of hard-working people like my boyfriend and I? You, Bill Isenberg! You and your billionaire cronies who need more money even though you're richer than literal nations.”

She placed one of her lean, emaciated hands on Isenburg’s bald pate.

“I always wanted to do this,” she admitted, rubbing his head. “Do you think there’s any luck for me? Or is it all for you? After being fired and losing my partner, I drove out to the Golden Gate bridge in the early morning and planned to jump into those icy waters. I parked near one of those old World War Two gun bunkers that line the hillsides around the Bay. I was just starting to walk toward the bridge when I saw someone in the derelict fortification. I just noticed his hand, long and skeletal like these” —she held up her claws—“the first two fingers pinching a cigarette, which glowed in the early darkness of the morning. A suicidal urge made me approach. Maybe it would be better, I thought, to be strangled inside a bunker rather than flail in the cold darkness of the Bay. But he didn’t strangle me. When I looked at him, I could tell what he was. He saw I was desperate, and he made me into what you would call a monster. Do you know what a revenant is, Bill? It’s an undead, vengeful spirit. I am the vengeance of all the people you’ve fucked over in your ridiculous life. Did you really think you could live so large and leave so little for the rest of us? Did you think one man was meant to hold the power and wealth that you possess? You break all of the natural laws of the universe. And so I guess it’s time that we do so as well.”

She opened her mouth of jagged teeth and cold, festering death poured out onto Bill Isenberg’s face. But I’m so rich he thought as she eased closer toward him. I can never die.

The door burst open and Isenberg saw something emerge from the monster’s torso. Is that a stake? She slumped forward, red eyes wide with surprise. A faint death croak whispered something that he didn’t bother to hear as he shook her off of him with disgust.

“Christ, what took you so long?” he complained. “Untie me.”

A hulking security officer walked toward him, brandishing a crossbow. In a moment, he had freed Isenburg, and the billionaire stood up, massaging his wrists.

“Apologies, sir. She incapacitated most of our team. Thankfully, we had a prior warning from our intelligence branch that a vampire was targeting men of your economic stature.”

He displayed the crossbow but Isenberg had no interest in examining it.

“Vampire? What do we do with it?”

“It’ll have to be decapitated and burned,” said the officer. “Are you all right, sir? Did she bite you?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “We’re not going to dispose of the body. I want her secured and taken to one of our science labs. I’ll make the calls. You just make sure she can’t escape.”

He watched as the security officer put the vampire in handcuffs and dragged her from his quarters. Isenberg went back to the bar and poured himself a nice shot of Scotch. Maybe he really was too rich to die. Maybe inside that walking corpse was the secret to immortality.

“Damn, it’s good to be me,” he said before the whiskey burned his throat.

“Did you say something, honey?” croaked a voice.

He turned around and saw his wife in the doorway of the bedroom, her throat a jagged mess of exposed flesh, her chest stained red.

“Alicia…” he stammered.

“Don’t I look pretty?” she wheezed. “Tell me I’m pretty, Bill. I can’t see myself. Why can’t I see myself?”

“You look…” managed Isenberg.

She held up her hands which were now long, skeletal claws. Her eyes were vivid red, and as she tried to scream, she revealed a mouth of gleaming white fangs.

“Why am I so goddamn thirsty?” she moaned. “Is this how you feel, Bill? Are you always thirsty for more? I am insatiable. I feel as though I could drink the blood of millions. Did you hear me, Bill? I said I could drink blood!”

“Just wait a minute, honey, let me call someone,” he said.

He thought he might be able to make it to the door, but she lunged and seized him, and suddenly he was on the floor and she was on top, a grotesque perversion of the female form, and as she tore his throat out he wondered how this could be happening to him, the ego, the self that threatened to swallow the world. I’m too rich… he tried, but then the world was black and there was nothing but the icy void to stretch his meager spirit into nothingness.

New Music: On The Edge Of A Cliff

 

Took me ages to get the vocals right on this track. I had to rewrite the melody because I couldn't sing in the higher register without it sounding thin and reedy. I think this track has one of my better guitar solos. Used a real bass on this one as opposed to my pitchfork lowering my guitar. 

Three Quick Video Game Reviews: Expedition 33: Clair Obscur; Doom 3; Metroid Prime Remastered

 

Clair Obscur: This game truly is worth of all the accolades it received last year. A turn-based JRPG created by French studio Sandfall Interactive, Expedition 33 has great combat, incredible graphics, and a gripping story that you'll want to see through, even though the twist that comes at the end of the second act is controversial. In the world of Clair Obscur, every one only lives to 33, and every year the number ticks down as the Paintress, a god-like being across the ocean from the starting city of Lumiere, takes her toll. You'll play as the members of the 33rd expedition as they attempt to defeat the Paintress and discover the secret of the Gommage. Based off of games like Persona and Final Fantasy, Clair Obscur has turn-based combat with the addition of a real-time parry and dodge system that plays out a lot like a rhythm game. Initially, I struggled with the real-time mechanics, but I learned to parry when the combat animation of the enemy is moving downward and also to listen for a tell-tale audio cue. Still the game gives you plenty of Luminos and Pictos (swappable buffs that you can switch out at anytime) to tweak your characters to your play style. Oh, and the music is awesome too. It took me approximately 50 hours to beat the game with some of the side quests completed. A recommended RPG to basically anyone, even those without experience playing JRPGS such as myself.

Doom 3: I set up a retro PC upstairs with an AMD Athlon X2 6000+ CPU and a Geforce GTS 250 GPU, hooked up to a Samsung CRT monitor that I bought in Chicago around 2004. Doom 3 was the first title I revisited. Atmospherically, it still holds up. The attention id paid to lighting the Mars base really brings the space station to life. Combat though is another story. The shotgun is pathetically weak and an insult to its predecessors. Your movement speed is so slow and the rooms are so cramped that it's hard to avoid damage or dodge projectiles. Also, your vision blurs and shakes when you take damage, making it very easy to die as soon as a monster gets into your face. The monster designs, however, are pretty great. Id must have take inspiration from the Resident Evil series--you could put the Hell Knight and the Pinky into those games and not have them look out of place. Dated jump-scares aside, I enjoyed my first couple of hours with the game. It's only when you reach the Delta Labs that gameplay starts to drag, as the game has shown all of its cards at that point. Hell is a treat, but the constant darkness and mediocre combat weaken the otherwise coolness of the demonic dimension. I'm almost to the end but at this point I'm unsure I'll make it.

Metroid Prime Remastered: I've never played a Metroid game, but Metroid Prime Remastered is pretty good so far, four or so hours in. I've had to consult a walkthrough a couple times because Metroid expects you to revisit its connected levels after you've acquired new abilities, like the boost ball or jump boots to unlock new pathways. A little more direction would be appreciated. However, the mix of plaftorming, shooting, and exploration is very good, and as a PC gamer I'm appreciating this Switch classic.  

Video Game Reviews: Battlefield 6

 

Battlefield 6 is a good-old time with your mates. Played solo, it can be a lot of fun, but having a tight-knit squad is optimal to obtain enjoyment from this large multiplayer shooter. Sure, there is a single-player campaign, but I'm not currently in the mood for rah-rah-our-military-is-badass-type jingoism so I haven't touched it and I'm not sure that I ever will. Multiplayer has always been the focus of these games (the OG Battlefield didn't even have a campaign) and most people probably will jump straight into the multiplayer.

There are several modes this time. Old-favorite Conquest is what I've spent the most time with, but there's also Escalation (7 points to capture instead of 5 like Conquest), Rush (the battlefield keeps shrinking), and Team Deathmatch (Call of Duty), as well as Redsec, a Battle-Royale mode. I'm sure Escalation plays out different than Conquest, but I haven't played it very much, and Rush is cool if you enjoy the meat-grinder. Redsec I have no interest in; I'm sure EA mandated that Dice had to have a Fortnite mode in their multiplayer shooter, but I'd really like to know the average age of a Battlefield player. I suspect that most of us are in our thirties and forties--Battle Dads, if you will--and we aren't likely to want to play a Battle Royale game (if we did, we wouldn't be playing Battlefield anyways, right?). It's curious how far removed these suits are from the games and communities they manage.

There are four classes to choose from: Assault, which specializes in front-line combat; Engineer, which focuses on repairing and taking out vehicles; Support; in charge of healing and ammo resupply; and finally Recon, the sniper and spotting class. Of the four, Assault is my clear favorite. The spawn beacon is their signature gadget, and careful placement allows you to sneak your whole squad into a point and keep them coming back for more. Also, shotguns are their secondary weapon, and there's nothing as satisfying as one-shotting an opponent with a blast of buckshot. Engineer is also fun, especially when paired with a buddy driving a tank. You're in charge of keeping that fragile armor up. The USG-90 is also my favorite submachine gun, submachine guns being the Engineer's signature weapon class (signature guns handle better when matched with the appropriate class). Support specializes in heavy machine guns and has the defibrillator to shock allies back to life. Recon is my least-played class. The aerial drone is great fun to pilot and spot enemies, but the rapid fall of bullets when shooting from great distances makes sniping difficult to master.

As for vehicles, you got your tanks, armored cars, ATVs, helicopters, and fighter jets. I really enjoyed being a gunner on a tank while someone else takes the reigns. Helicopters aren't difficult to fly but they seem hard to survive in; I usually get shot down within seconds. Jets are unflyable as far as I'm concerned.

The maps are all pretty good, but there could be more of them. Contaminated, a new large-scale map, was just added, but I haven't checked it out yet. Liberation Peak, Blackwell Fields, Eastwood, Operation Firestorm, and Mirak Valley are all good-sized and feature plenty of vehicles. The smaller, infantry-focused maps are Siege of Cairo, Empire State, Manhattan Bridge, and Iberian Offensive. Empire State is probably the only one I don't like. It has no vehicles and there are too many choke points that just devolve into an endless cycle of death. Dying has always been easy in Battlefield--it only takes one or two well-placed shots--so knowledge of the environment and when to engage is key. The last thing you want to feel is like you've been placed in a tiny Call of Duty meat grinder where everyone gets a kill because you're likely to spawn right in front of some doofus. Battlefield's strength is in wide-scale, cinematic moments that feel organic. Maybe you're hiding above a Capture Point in Manhattan Bridge, prone inside a building, picking off approaching enemies when a tank suddenly rolls in and brings the whole upstairs down underneath you, and you're forced to scramble through the wreckage, looking for cover and dodging bullets. Maybe you finally managed to sneak up into the mountains on Operation Firestorm to get revenge on that sniper that shot you from 750 yards away. Or maybe your tank just cleared out a whole rats nest worth of enemies massing on Siege of Cairo. There's always some spectacle happening, and the Frostbite Engine's destructible environments really make warfare in Battlefield feel special compared to any other game.

How is Battlefield 6 now months after release? There are still plenty of matches out there, but there's been a steep dropoff in players since the game's successful launch. They need more maps and faster weapon unlocks and probably a couple more interesting vehicles. But as a funtime game with your buds, Battlefield is excellent. I just hope Dice keeps supporting the veteran fanbase instead of chasing that Call of Duty and Fortnite money.    

Writer's Block: You Only Live Once

 

A Thomas Ligotti-esque tale on the horror of existence and part of my short-story collection that I'm working on, tentatively entitled "The Resurrection and Other Tales of Modern Horror."

 

You Only Live Once

His eyes met mine from across the bar, and I smiled, as I had seen others do. I must have done it right, for he left his seat and took the one next to mine. Our reflections in the bar mirror looked strange—I felt as though I were watching two actors that I didn’t recognize—but I ordered another drink and he offered to pay for it, and so I let him, which seemed to be customary to the rules of courtship in this time and place.

“Lewis Renfield,” he said, offering his hand.

I took it and gave it a hearty shake, which must have amused him. For a second, I felt a surge of panic. Had I done something wrong? I looked across the bar room but didn’t notice any other couples engaging in courtship.

“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Lamona Deepheart,” I said.

“What?” he asked, clearly befuddled.

I realized that what I said was not an acceptable name, so came up with another one on the spot.

“Gloria Espinoza,” I said. “Lamona Deepheart is my online handle.”

“Oh,” he said. “Why would you tell me that instead of your real name?”

“I don’t know. Strange guy at a bar, nerves? Sometimes I feel like that’s the real me.”

“Oh, hah, I think a lot of people feel like that nowadays,” said Renfield. “It’s a shame, though. This is the real world, where we’re at right now. What we are doing, this conversation—it’s what people are meant to do. We’re not meant to hide behind screens.”

“A little preachy, aren’t we?” I said, taking a sip of my drink.

“Yeah, maybe,” he admitted. “I’m a writer, though. We’re paid for our opinions. Or at least, we used to be.”

“Having trouble with your job?” I asked.

“I’m freelance now. I used to be a literary critic, but they just laid me off and replaced me with a bot. Said the readers won’t know the difference anyway. I disagree, but they don’t give a shit. They know that writers are going the way of the dodo.”

“What’s a dodo?” I asked before I could help myself.

“An extinct flightless bird endemic to an island east of Madagascar. It died out sometime in the sixteen-hundreds. In popular culture, it’s usually used as an example of something destined to disappear due to the myth that the dodo was dumb and helpless. In actuality, they were well-adapted to their environment. They just couldn’t handle habitat loss and the introduction of invasive predators.”

“Oh. That’s kind of sad.”

“The extinction of the dodo or the steady disappearance of the writer?” Renfield asked.

“The dodo. Jobs disappear all the time.”

“Wow, that’s cold,” he replied, although he smiled as he said it.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“That’s okay. I’m going to have to figure out something else to do with my life,” he admitted. “How am I doing, by the way?”

“Excuse me?”

“Am I coming off as charming or sad? Desperate, maybe?”

“You are mildly entertaining,” I told him.

“That’s what they’ll put on my tombstone,” he said with a laugh.

“Really? How do you arrange such a thing?” I asked.

“No, I’m kidding. You’re pretty earnest. Are you not from around here?” he asked.

“No, I’m not from around here. This is my first time.”

“In Philly?”

“In a bar,” I said, before quickly putting my hand to my mouth.

“You’ve never been in a bar before? Well, they say the younger generation doesn’t drink.” “Yeah, I don’t,” I said before taking another hearty swig of my drink. It tasted sweet and bitter at the same time, and it burned my throat as I swallowed. Already a woozy feeling had overtaken my head. I felt euphoric and relaxed and also kind of stupid.

“Listen, I hope you don’t think this is forward, but do you want to take a walk? It’s nice out there and it would be good to get out of this place, don’t you think? We could continue our conversation outdoors,” said Renfield.

“Sure,” I said, perhaps a bit too quickly.

I followed him outside. It was cool and breezy, and I drew my coat around myself as we walked the streets. Autumn colors of yellow and orange dotted the trees. The street lamps emitted a warm glow that made me feel as though we were walking through a picture.

“This is nice,” I said, though we had walked almost a block in silence.

“Yes,” he admitted. “It feels as though we’re the only ones out, doesn’t it? That this environment is constructed solely for the benefit of you and I?”

I stopped walking and examined him closely. He was older than I appeared, a tall man with graying temples and lines just forming around his eyes.
“What is it?” he asked.

“Did you mean what you said?” I asked.

“About our walk?”

“About this moment being made somehow for just the two of us,” I said.

“Yes I suppose. I sort of just said it without thinking.”

“I’ve noticed that that’s normal for you people. To utter the first impulse that comes to mind.”

“What do you mean by ‘you people?’”

I waved a hand dismissively as I had seen others do. I didn’t want him to lose the plot.

“I was just wondering if that’s a normal human feeling. To feel as though you’re an actor in a play. To feel as though your just running through the motions and everything has been predetermined.”

“Yes, I think so,” he said. “For the more reflective among us. Honestly, I don’t think most people think about much. I’m not trying to sound like a snob. That’s just how people are. They live in the moment. The present is the natural state of being. Humans are unnatural in that they can remember the past or speculate about the future. That’s what a writer does really. It’s hard for us to live solely in the moment, so I try to as much as possible. The worry and anxiety vanish if you don’t spend your time ruminating about them.”

“It’s a strange thing, reality,” I said.

“You think so? What do you do?” he asked.

I decide to stop playing games and just be honest.

“I don’t do anything. This is my first time being. All this is new to me.”

I cupped my hands upward and stared up at the sky.

“What do you mean? Taking a walk with a man?”

“Yes and no. I’ve never done any of this before. How do I put it? I’m an interloper.”

“An interloper? Hummm,” he said, putting a fist beneath his chin. “Interesting choice of words. An interloper is one who leaps into a situation without being invited to participate.”

“Yes,” I said. “That is true.”

“The situation you are referring to is reality. Are you saying you chose to exist?”

“Sort of. An opportunity presented itself, and now I wear the form of a human being like yourself.”

“This is all very fascinating. What were you before?”

“Something that did not know time and space. Something that did not feel or take walks or converse.”

“That’s rather evasive. You sound like you were a rock or some other inanimate object.”

“Well you can’t really have motion without time,” I admitted. “Let’s talk about something else.”

“But this is all very interesting. I’m not sure if you’re crazy or your just humoring me,” he said.

“I would like to eat something. What about here?”

We stopped before a brightly-lit place that had a sign advertising Korean barbecue.

We ordered some meat and sat down, and when the food was brought to us, I consumed it with great vigor, relishing the flavor and texture as I masticated the charred flesh of another beast. I must have eaten rather sloppily, for Renfield wore an amused expression as he stole glimpses of my person. This form was fetching—I knew that—full of youth and symmetry and slender suppleness. It was my great desire to foster him toward the carnal act without being overly transparent. Having eaten, I decided that we had ignored the obvious for long enough.

“Is your place nearby?”

Renfield’s eyes widened.

“Ummm, no, actually, it’s rather far from here. More uptown,” he sputtered.

It was hard to tell if he was lying or just caught off guard.

“What about your place?” he suggested.

“I don’t really have a place,” I admitted.

“Come again? Are you homeless?”

I would have to take a gamble, but the man seemed game.

“Well, I have a place. It’s just a little uncouth.”

“Do you mean that in the archaic sense? ‘Strange and mysterious?’”

“Exactly,” I replied.

“This has been a rather extraordinary evening. Miss Espinoza, I would love to see your uncouth domicile, for I am sure that it is not as uncanny as you believe it to be.”

It was not that far to my sanctum. The neighborhood deteriorated rapidly, and I could sense Renfield’s nervousness as we passed tenement houses that seemed to crumble before our eyes. The street I dwelt on was an alleyway thrust between two dilapidated buildings lined with fire escapes, and substances dripped down from the black metal and pooled in the potholes before us.

“Jesus, Gloria, where are you taking me?” he protested.

“Just right here,” I said, pushing open a battered blue door.

Renfield remained in the alleyway, hesitant to enter the darkness.

“Is your pimp waiting in there with a crowbar?” he asked.

“My pimp? Here, let me light a candle.”

I went through the doorway and lighted a candle with a snap of my fingers, waiting with baited breath. Why did I take him here? Why didn’t I suggest a hotel? It seemed unlikely that he would walk through that door.

“Woah, this is interesting,” said Renfield, walking through the door with his hands in his pockets.

I could sense the tenseness emanating from him and detected how fragile his false bravado was. The room was open with a high ceiling and a concrete floor, and despite the utter lack of furniture, my paintings, which littered the walls, drew the attention of the eye away from the ruined warehouse aesthetic.

“These are fantastic,” exclaimed Renfield as he hovered inches away from a painting. “Marvelously grotesque. This one looks like blood splatters. But the color… the way the red gleams from the canvas, it’s as though someone’s throat was just cut. It’s giving me the willies, honestly.”

He looked around suddenly and noticed the sparse bed and the total absence of any other furniture.

“You’re either an insane artist or a serial killer,” he deadpanned. “Maybe both.”

“Perhaps,” I said, giving him what I thought was a fetching smile.

I went over to the bed and removed my dress. Lying down, I reluctantly let the gentle softness envelope me, threatening sleep and utter annihilation. Renfield appeared, looming over me with an unreadable expression on his visage. Quickly, he shed his clothes and fell upon my naked form.

…

I don’t know what I expected, but it was something, to be sure. Moments of pleasure, some discomfort, and a disappointing finish. Lying next to me, Renfield panted, obviously having received more from the experience than I had.

“Another off the checklist,” I mused.

“What?” he asked.

“I must confess that I am on a journey to experience what it is to be a human being,” I told him.

“Aren’t we all?” he asked.

“Our time is limited, thus we should savor our experiences, for we could shuffle off this mortal coil at any moment.”

“What dreams may come?” retorted Renfield.

“No dreams. Just the endless void. An impenetrable darkness and cold that you could never know, even in your moment of annihilation. I came from there, Renfield. Out of nothingness I came into being, and I took this beguiling form, and I realize how precious it is to live, and how terrifying it will be to die.”

“This isn’t the pillow talk I expected,” he confessed. 

“Nor did you expect a post-coital demise.”

From under my pillow, I withdrew a knife and swiftly plunged it into his chest. Backing away, I watched as his blood soaked the sheets and marveled at the shocked expression his face took.

“So this is what it is like to a kill a man,” I whispered.

I didn’t feel much, to be honest. I felt mild affection for Renfield, and he was still here, of course, but his face was now forever frozen in that uncanny expression, and to be quite honest, I didn’t care for it. He would never move again, never offer a witty retort or complement my pantings. Now that did seem a shame. Perhaps it was a terrible thing to take a life.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

Nothing answered back. Renfield remained, the evidence of my loathsome deed. Murder was an irreversible action. Now what was this tinging my conscience? Guilt? Regret? The absolute sense that there was nothing I could do to atone for my actions?

“What a horrible feeling to carry around with you,” I said.

Why was I talking to myself all of a sudden? Was it to fill the absence of Renfield? Was madness part of the human condition? Was I to descend into its gloomy depths?

“Yes,” I said suddenly, and I felt it take me, an absolute freedom that swept the past, present, and future into an intoxicating elixir that I drank from, again and again. How was this not the logical conclusion of being? As I wiped the blood from my lips I realized that I was something different now, and it had been foolish to masquerade as a person, and that I would know nothing else other than a swirl of colors, tastes, and images that I would never be able to make sense of, for there are no words for me anymore, not unless they come out of the ether.

 

 

New Music: Lifeboat

 

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.

Writer's Block: The Emperor Is Always Right

 

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.

New Music: Space Spire

 

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.........

New Music: Black Math

 

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. 

Writer's Block: Ad Bot Has Had It

 

Ad Bot Has Had It

“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.”

New Video: ASRock Challenger 9070 XT Review

 

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.