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. 

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.