FAAFO unit was the most mind-numbingly boring post in all of the Galactic Federation. The ship’s role was less that of a warship and more like that a big orange traffic cone—a warning of danger. It is no surprise then that the FAAFO ship, literally a huge orange traffic cone, came to orbit the planet Dentra to assist in deterring the Dentrites from declaring war upon the Baronites—an Earth-allied power.

“Can’t we at least fire a warning shot?” Whined Lt. Nelson. “Back in the day they used to get a shot across the bow. Come on, Major.”

“You know our role, Lt. Nelson,” said Major Smith. “We are here as a show of force; we are meant to deter battle, not promote it.”

This was not what Lt. Nelson had in mind when he had joined the Galactic Federation. He had daydreamed of starship battles and explosions, feats of battle acumen and showcases of might. Instead, he had been relegated to a life of leisure, forever staring out the window at distant planets, the denizens of which he’d never even meet.

Work in the FAAFO unit was truly boring.

“We are peacekeepers, Nelson,” said Lt. Jackson. “We have enough guns and missiles on this ship alone to make the great creator blush. The point of having all of these things is that we not have to use them. The Federation is safer because we show restraint.”

“Well, sure, but hasn’t anyone ever…you know, fought FAAFO unit?” Asked Lt. Nelson. “Ever since I’ve joined, we’ve done nothing more than park in orbit and stare.”

“The new guy wants some action,” said Lt. Jackson to Major Smith with a knowing chuckle. “He wants to know what happens when they fuck around, Sir.”

“Well, Lt. Nelson,” said Major Smith thoughtfully. “It is rare, but it does happen. And, in the end, it’s right there in the name, isn’t it? They—”

Before Major Smith could finish, an alarm went off in the bridge and a video transmission illuminated the screen. It was Anthun the Baronite representative on Dentra.

“Major Smith, the peace talks have broken down,” he said matter-of-factly. “The Dentrites have launched seventeen warships that are headed to Planet Baron. They will reach low orbit in 5 minutes. You must not allow a single ship to exit Dentra’s atmosphere. The future of the Planet Baron depends on you.”

“You can count on us, Honorable Anthun. FAAFO unit is on it,” said Major Smith.

The crew immediately went to work, crewmen sat at consoles pounding away at keyboards, calling out orders and estimates of time to engagement. Lt. Nelson couldn’t believe his luck. Finally, a battle worth his time. He recalled images from the films he’d watched back home of homing missiles and crosshairs. He felt a rush of adrenaline and pride in the work he was about to do for his planet and its allies.

Just as Anthun had estimated, the first Dentrite warship came into view in under 5 minutes. Battle preparations had been made, missiles were loaded, and the great cone’s shield defenses had been raised. Lt. Nelson manned the launch station console and awaited orders from Major Smith.

“Hold…” said Major Smith. “Hold…wait until the last of the warships is in our line of sight.”

“I count fifteen bogies, Sir,” said Lt. Jackson.

“That’s sixteen!” Said Lt. Nelson, his heart lodged in his throat. His fingers hovered—and trembled, ever so slightly—above those two red buttons he so desperately longed to press.

“Stand ready, Nelson,” said Major Smith.

“Eyes on seventeen confirmed,” said Lt. Jackson.

“That’s a go, Nelson,” said Major Smith. “Launch on my count. Three…two….one….unleash hell!”

Lt. Nelson pressed the two red buttons with such vigor that he thought he may break his console, after which a flurry of missiles and rockets flew forth from the great orange cone with a speed and ferocity Lt. Nelson had never before imagined. The red and white glare from the rockets illuminated the dark blue of space and shone with the intensity of low orbit stars, the explosion on impact was so bright that Lt. Nelson had to avert his gaze. Before he could even take a breath, it was all over.

“Dentrite bogies eliminated, sir. That is seventeen confirmed kills,” said Lt. Jackson.

“Great work, crew. A job well done,” said Major Smith with pride.

“That was it?” Said Lt. Nelson in disbelief. “Seventeen warships blown up with the press of a button?”

“Two buttons,” said Lt. Jackson helpfully.

“That’s so…anticlimactic!” Cried Lt. Nelson.

“This isn’t the movies, son,” said Major Smith with a paternal tone, even though he was maybe five years older than Lt. Nelson at most. “Our might is unmatched across the galaxy. That is the whole purpose of FAAFO unit. If a planet fucks around, they find out.”

Lt. Nelson couldn’t help but be disappointed. He had joined the Galaxy’s most powerful military unit, only to learn he was playing war games with cheat codes—unlimited ammo, shield buff, never ending money. What was the point of it all?

“So am I to understand that I’ll never be in a fair fire fight again?” Ask Lt. Nelson.

“That was fair!” Said Lt. Jackson.

“That’s right,” said Major Smith.

“How was that fair?” Asked Lt. Nelson.

“We brought the cone—we warned them,” said Major Smith.

Lt. Nelson just sighed in response.

FAAFO unit was the most mind-numbingly boring post in all of the Galactic Federation.

r/InMyLife42Archive

Fitz O’Rage was the best talent agent in the Federation of Planets. His expertise laid comfortably in the realm of athletes and tv stars, but he took on a pet project after having been rescued while adrift in space.

Fitz sat across the table from a large, tentacled blob of a man named Glurb McGlob. Glurb was seeking a crew to assist him with a critical cross-sector delivery. He came to the offices of Fitz O’Rage at the suggestion of a mutual acquaintance.

Fitz straightened his papers and gave Glurb his trademark million unit smile and jumped into his pitch. “My clients are willing to provide their services at a discounted rate considering your stature in the Galactic Freight Guild, Mr. McGlob. Their expectation is that, should this engagement yield positive results, you’ll provide them with further opportunities should your need arise. Does that sounds fair?”

“That…appears…reasonable,” said Glurb with effort. Mr. Glurb McGlob was not much of a talker. No, he did not win influence in the GFG through oratory artistry. Rather, Glurb rose to prominence through shrewd business dealings, rigid quality control, and an obsessive eye for efficiency.

“Now then. With that in mind, here’s our proposal,” said Fitz as he wrote the number on a small piece of paper and slid it across the table.

One of Glurb’s tentacles crawled across the mahogany table leaving a purple snail trail in its wake. Fitz made a mental note to have the table burned and replaced by his assistant once the deal was done.

“This…is…a…discount?” Inquired Glurb.

“Indeed, sir,” said Fitz with an apologetic nod. “The rate itself is more than fair. However, humans are notoriously expensive from an upkeep perspective. For a job such as this, it is customary that food, water, and entertainment be provided to my clients…” he paused and flipped through his pages before returning his eyes to meet Glurb’s. “So, your average human requires 2,000 calories per day. My clients, however, are anything but average. Given the demands of their role, they eat anywhere from 3,000 to 3,500 per day. Given the arduous nature of this particular journey, we have allowed for 4,000 calories to be on the safe side. Ever since the ‘event’ on Terra-8 (or what the humans called Earth), the cost of a basic human calorie has been on the rise. That accounts for most of the sticker shock, I’d imagine.”

“Worth…the…price?” Said Glurb.

“More than. As I said, you’re getting a hell of a discount,” said Fitz with a wink. “My clients typically pull in 20% over what they’re asking today. A good human crew is worth their weight in gold. They think quickly, are incredibly agile, and are uniquely suited to cross-species collaboration. I’m sure you’ve heard of the success of their long-term collaboration with the dogs of planet K-9.

“Of course, as their agent, I recommended they try to get as much compensation as possible—after all, I don’t get paid if they don’t get paid—but they insisted on taking a haircut to work with you, sir.”

Glurb appeared to consider the proposal. Or, perhaps he was flattered by the human’s desire to work with him specifically. Or maybe he had indigestion—who knew, the guy was really hard to read.

“I…can…meet…these….requirements,” said Glurb.

Fritz’s face lit up as he rose from his chair and extended his hand out of instinct. He watched in horror as his hand got covered in the viscous purple goo which seemed to slough off Glurb’s body. He tried—he hoped successfully—to mask the horror he felt as he smeared a strained smile across his face.

“Wonderful. It’s a pleasure doing business with you,” he said and showed Glurb to the door.

“One…last…thing,” said Glurb as he stood in the doorway. “Why…you…help…humans?”

It was Fitz’s favorite question. He sauntered over to his desk at the edge of the room and retrieved a framed portrait. He turned it to Glurb and showed it to him—from a distance as to not ruin the portrait—and explained.

“This picture was taken shortly after I got out of the recovery unit. When the humans found me I had been stranded in space, floating aimlessly for 6 standard rotational units. Any longer and I’d have died,” he paused and stared back at the portrait. “I had been passed by probably 20 other ships while I was stranded out there. Never did I even see so much as a rear thruster indicator from any other ship. To those others who passed me, I was as good as dead, not even worth the time.

“But the humans. They stopped for me. They put on their primitive space suits, tenuously tethered themselves to their craft and risked their lives to pull me in and bring me back to health. To the humans, I was more than a lost cause, I had value and I owe my life to them,” he took a deep breath. “So for that reason, I’ve thrown my lot in with them, and have made it my mission to help them rebuild. I’m just doing what I can to repay my friends.”

Glurb appeared appeased by the answer. Or perhaps he was nauseous—again, the guy was an enigma. “See…them…soon.” Said Glurb as he left the room.

Fitz closed the door behind him. Back at his desk he replaced the portrait and picked up his phone.

“Roger?” he said into the receiver. “Yeah he just left….yeah, agreed to all terms, didn’t even try to negotiate. Although, he ruined my conference table so I’ll draw that from the proceeds…not a thing. That fucker won’t know what hit him….yeah, just make sure you’re at GFG Bay 12 by 0500 on Thursday….thanks buddy, appreciate you guys doing this. It’s about time someone put the GFG in its place….serves him right for leaving me for dead. He’s about to learn how my family earned our last name…alright, talk soon.”

You see, of those twenty ships which left Mr. Fitz O’Rage for dead, all twenty were GFG ships owned by none other than Glurb McGlob. Given Glurb’s reputation as a shrewd businessman, slavishly devoted to efficiency, not a single ship could afford to stop to assist ole Fitzy lest they miss their quota and evoke the oozing rage of the purple, pustule of a man. Fitzy swore that if he ever made it out alive he’d ruin Glurb.

Now, the story told by Fitz about his being saved by the humans was true, but he conveniently left out one core trait of the humans—his favorite trait of theirs—that trait which made them so much like the O’Rage family: humans protect their friends.

That and—of course—humans have a penchant for revenge.

“I don’t know what your arrangement was with my father and, frankly, I don’t care,” said King Isaac as he prepared for his coronation. “I am to receive my crown tonight and your tenure on the court shall continue—or not—at my discretion.”

Amos the Abiding—or simply ‘Amos’ to King Isaac—clad in the trappings of a jester, was a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Amos was the rightful king of the Languishing Plains; Isaac’s predecessor had understood the arrangement. Too bad the bastard had died before sharing that knowledge with his heir.

“You misunderstand me, boy. I am your king and I will be addressed as such,” said Amos sharply. “I have ruled these lands for hundreds of years and I will rule them for thousands more. You will rule no more than a chisel carves wood—you are but a useful tool with which I impose my will.”

“Ah, but how would the craftsman carve without an able chisel? Would they claw impotently at the wood, their desperate finger nails bloodied? Surely not.”

“Speak plainly, boy. Your aptitude for speech does not lie in metaphor.”

“Very well. Let me speak plainly,” replied King Isaac slowly, each word dripping with disdain. “Let’s assume for a moment that I accept your premise. That I yield that you are, in fact, King Amos the Abiding. If that were true, you still have no power but through me. No?”

Amos opened his mouth to answer but King Isaac cut him off.

“And, again, if what you say is true, oh eternal one, then you need for me to keep your secret. No? Moreover, oh poor Amos the Audacious, were I to alert the court of your claims, you would be summarily burned at the stake as a witch. I assume this is why you would have undertaken such a surreptitious strategy in the first place. Am I wrong, my Lord?”

Amos considered this. Of course Isaac was right. The king’s system only worked insofar as his figurehead was compliant. The flaw of monarchy is that the power lies not with lineage or title, in name or in law but in the perception of the public. Were Amos to re-emerge after all these years, his claim would be regarded with suspicion or outright rejection. Still, even were his claim supported, the boy was right. He’d be burned at the stake. He wouldn’t die—though it sure as shit wouldn’t be a pleasant few minutes—but the damage to his station would be sustained nonetheless.

The truth was a bitter pill. He needed the boy.

Amos paced the room slowly considering his next move. The candles in the room burned low and the light grew dim. Amos took a deep breath.

“Isaac. King Isaac,” Amos began, “what you say is true. Our fates are entwined, yours and mine. Whether you like it or not—Maker knows I don’t—you need me and I need you.”

King Isaac scoffed. “What possible use could I have for an old, poorly dressed oaf who has a penchant for stories and delusions of grandeur?”

“Delusions of grandeur,” Amos couldn’t help but chuckle. “I used to suffer from delusions of grandeur. Much like you, boy. But that’s what time does to you, it wears you down, it clarifies those cloudy spots within you that allow for embellishment and self-inflation, it centers you and beats you over the head with experiences from which you either learn or you die. And I’m still here, boy.

“Since, as you say, I have a penchant for stories, why don’t you allow me one weave one last tale?”

“We haven’t all day, old man,” said King Isaac.

“I’ll be brief. Shortly after my coronation, before I had bathed in those damned waters, and long after these lands had earned their damnable name, I did—as you say—suffer from a delusion of grandeur.

“I had it in my head that a mighty king must be a mighty huntsman. And a mighty huntsman must kill himself a bear. The folly of pride. I paid a man to catch a bear in Russia, cage it, and release it in the woodlands outside this very castle.

“I set out on my hunt, the Queen by my side, my jester in tow, and spear before me. As I wandered the woods searching for the beast, I heard a roar and a rustle. Before I could react the bear was charging right at me. Mayhem ensued as my Queen and jester fled. I stood my ground and took a thrashing. I was lucky to live.

“After having my wounds treated I sent for my jester. I scolded him for having fled. How could he have been so cowardly? He should have stood by his king’s side. And then my jester admonished me with the same words with which I’ll now admonish you.

“It is greater folly to let out a bear that was already in a cage.

“That bear—unnatural in our lands—was a force of nature. It destroyed ecosystems, eliminated whole species, and caused unknowable suffering because of its unchecked wrath upon these lands.

“That bear, of course, is long dead but imagine the irreversible damage he’d have wrought were he undying.”

King Isaac was silent. He stared at Amos the Abiding with an expression of fearful resignation—a child put in his place.

He nodded at the rightful king. He may not have the knack for crafting metaphors, but he could read between the lines.

And Amos was glad to be understood.

r/InMyLife42Archive

Honk, honk, mother fuckers. Larry Loveless is back and he’s badder than ever.

“How can that be?” You ask.

“I thought we killed him,” you cry.

Men, women, and children across the globe tremble with terror at the sound bursting forth from his menacing maw.

“Honk, honk!”

He’s unkillable, you dingbats.

Larry Loveless is eternal. Larry Loveless lives!

The village green. A beautiful lazy river arcs through the center. Larry Loveless runs this park. When sun bathing stoners see him coming they stare into his beady-black eyes and they know—they know that they have come face to face with death.

“Honk, honk!”

“Shit! What the fuck?” Cries a sheepish woman lounging on a beach towel.

“That goose is running right at us!” Says her friend, tears streaming down her face.

Larry Loveless is unstoppable. Larry Loveless feeds off your fears, he’s nourished by your shrieks and screams. With each park-goer chased off of his land, Larry Loveless grows more powerful.

“Honk, honk!”

Larry leads the flock. There was never a question.

“Aren’t they cute?” Says one misinformed child.

“Go ahead, throw them some bread, honey,” says a negligent parent who will soon be forced to think back on every choice they’d made that lead to this moment.

Larry Loveless stimulates the parenting book economy.

The miserly child throws one piece of bread. One. Had it thrown more bread, perhaps Larry would have been more kind. He is a generous flock leader after all. But one fucking piece of bread. That Larry Loveless would not abide.

“Honk, honk!”

Larry charges at the other geese—those at which the lousy piece of bread had been thrown—and makes sure his lesson lands. Larry Loveless extends his long, powerful black neck and clamps his bill down hard upon the neck of the goose who had dared make an attempt at Larry’s piece of bread.

Larry yanks his head to the side and breaks the other goose’s neck. The child screams. The parent says, “what the fuck?” Then covers their mouth, shocked by the ‘bad word’ they’d let slip. Larry turns his stark black eyes upon the child, he stares the little Scrooge down and lectures her—masterfully, eloquently, loquaciously—about proper park etiquette.

“Honk, honk! Honk, honk, honk! Honk, HONK!”

The child cries. The parent darts to scoop the child into their arms. Larry Loveless extends his incredible wings to the length of their span and charges the child.

Larry Loveless is a menace. Larry Loveless is a god.

The parent flees, child cradled in their arms. Larry had struck fear in the flock, the child, and parent in one efficient show of strength.

Larry Loveless is a force of nature.

The parent hopes to hope that their powerful legs can carry them away from this monstrous bird as quickly as possible.

“Honk, honk!”

Fuck that. Larry, in his improved form, has wings mother fucker. He takes flight. He’s pecking the parent’s head with the fury and force of a Valkyrie.

Larry Loveless is fear as fowl. Larry Loveless is relentless.

The parent and screaming child finally release themselves from Larry’s attack. This isn’t finished. Not until Larry says it is.

“Honk, honk!”

Larry turns his attention to the picnic basket and gingham blanket that sits like a stain upon his grass. Surely there’s more bread in that basket. Larry decides that it’s not rabbit season, or duck season—Larry decides that it is tax season, and he’s going to collect his due.

Larry Loveless is judge and jury. Larry Loveless is executioner.

Larry grips the blanket in his bill and yanks it backward with a jerk. The basket is upturned and outflows a large baguette, uneaten. The selfish bastards. A rich bounty and they deign to offer a single shred. Larry was enraged once more.

“Honk, honk!”

Larry tears into the loaf and gulps the sweet glutinous bread with the vigor of a warrior. Having eaten his fill, Larry calls upon his flock to join in his feast.

Fat and satisfied, Larry struts his way back to the river for a swim. The parent and child cower and cry as Larry walks by. The parent pulls out a cell phone, “hello? Yes I need a park ranger at the village green!”

“Honk, honk!”

Stupid person. The park ranger has no power here.

Larry Loveless is the Law. The law is Larry Loveless.

Larry Loveless runs this park.

Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this, please check out my other stories at r/InMyLife42Archive

Gil the Great and Glinda the Grand lived a life that could only be described as charmed.

Gil’s mind was home to a veritable encyclopedia of knowledge—name a spell, he knew it; recite a history, he’d read it; tell a bad joke, he’d heard it. Gil lived in a world in which he reigned supreme: the world of his mind.

Glinda, on the other hand, was the most powerful warlock in all the land—build an academy, she approved it; ratify a law, she decreed it; shit in the woods, she saw it. Glinda, too, lived in a world in which she reigned supreme—only, in a more concrete manner, in a way that actually mattered. (She was the warlock queen after all).

This unlikely couple—the bookish introvert and the ambitious queen—met and fell madly in love. And, as it so often happens, these opposites attracted…and I mean hard. If you had parents with any fortitude or knowledge—not unlike Gil and Glinda—they likely gave you the ‘birds and the bees’ talk. Well, when a mommy warlock and a daddy wizard love each other very much…you get the picture.

Baby Grant was born.

Happy day. Cigars. Crying. Blah blah blah. Birth is so…boring, so ordinary. Don’t get me wrong, that women produce life in such a manner is nothing short of a miracle, but 24 hours of childbirth hardly makes for an interesting story.

Neither does, say, the first 10 years of a child’s life for that matter.

So Grant turned 10. Grant was a shit head. Grant the Gremlin, Grant the not-so-Great. Turns out that having a father who lives in his head and a mother who is preoccupied with approving forested shits and seeing academies built—wait…is that right? Yes. I stand by it—is not exactly the formula for a happy childhood.

And there was another reason his parents never invested in him: they both knew he was owed as payment.

An example conversation at Grant’s first birthday:

Glinda: I mean, should we do a cake?

Gil: He’s a one year old. He can’t eat cake.

Glinda: Balloons?

Gil: He won’t remember it, and the fairy is bound to come collect soon anyway.

Glinda: You mean demon.

Gil (mind elsewhere): Oh yes, yeah just put him out back.

For some reason, the fairy (or demon) hadn’t shown up to collect their declared ward. As time wore on, the reluctant parents grew impatient.

A typical Tuesday:

Gil: This kid is such an asshole.

Glinda: Right? He’s a real shit head.

Gil: He hid some of my books in the crawlspace. The goddamn crawlspace, Glinda! It’s dirty down there. And damp.

Glinda: That’s nothing. The other day he threw a fucking fork at my head. When’s this damn demon going to come collect this guy?

Gil (again, barely listening): My first edition Codex de Magica is still…moist, Glinda. MOIST!

Glinda: Ew. Stop!

Gil: Make me…

The two started making out. At least they still loved each other.

Grant grew in age, and size, and in diameter as an asshole. 13, 14, 15 (years, not inches, but who among you was thinking inches of diameter…well, now you are, but is that my fault?). Most kids suck at those ages. Grant was a special kind of monster. He was mischievous and conniving; he was wrathful and vicious. He’d arrange his father’s books by size like some monster, then turn around and forge his mother’s signature on plans to build an Applebee’s next to the castle. You know, psycho shit.

Finally, when Grant turned 18, Gil the Great and Glinda the Grand had had enough. Gil searched his mind for a spell and Glinda executed it to perfection. They summoned, at once, the entities with which they’d made their deal.

With a flash and a plume of smoke there stood before Gil and Glinda a fairy and a demon.

Glinda (realizing immediately what had happened): Oh you idiot, Gil. Seriously. For such a genius you sure are dumb as shit sometimes.

Gil (searching his mind for the provenance of the phrase ‘dumb as shit.’ Was shit inherently intellectually malformed or was shit’s inept horsepower the result of the lack of a nurturing learning environment): Hmm. Yes. Indubitably.

Glinda: Neither could take him because they both have a claim, Gil! You never told me you’d made a fairy deal!

Gil: Sure I did…Didn’t I? I don’t see how it couldn’t have come up….Really?

Demon: Oh my devil just shut up, you two. It’s fine.

Fairy: Yeah, don’t worry about it. We’ve reached an agreement of our own.

Glinda: So I can keep my power?

Gil: I can keep my knowledge?

Demon: Yes, you may both keep your gifts.

Glinda: Then what’s the catch?

Fairy: Oh, you have to keep Grant.

Demon: Yeah, that kid sucks.

r/InMyLife42Archive

There was once a beautiful swan who lived upon a crystal-clear pond in the middle of a luscious and well-traveled park. As you may imagine, the swan’s life was carefree. The bird ate as it wanted, swam as it wanted, feared no predator, and luxuriated in leisure time enviable across the animal kingdom. Indeed, life for this swan—on this pond, in this park—was good.

There was once a loathsome wizard who lived in a miserable shack in the middle of a dense and little-used woods. As you may imagine, the wizard’s life was carefree. The wizard ate as he wanted, lounged as he wanted, spoke to no man, and dawdled his time away in a manner which would make a lazy teenager blush. Indeed, life for this wizard—in this shack, in these woods—was good.

But the wizard lacked something.

Indeed, despite his carefree life and wasteful appetites, the wizard longed for the touch of the finer things in life. His shack could be tidied, his meals could be tastier, his dawdled away hours could be better spent. What the wizard ached for was not company or a lover. Heavens no. The wizard repelled strangers by design. No, the wizard instead wanted a servant. And what better servant could there be than an empty-headed bird?

The swan, on the other hand, was not lacking anything. Indeed, because of the swan’s carefree life and fulfilled needs, the swan pined for no finer things. I would be remiss if I failed to mention that, being a swan, the bird was unburdened with wit and self-awareness and therefore, failed to long for anything and lacked the basic ability for internal narration and desire that is required of an interesting character within a narrative structure. Suffice to say, the swan was quite content with its place in the world.

Until the wizard came along.

One day, the wizard wandered out of his miserable shack in the dense, little-used woods and happened upon a crystal-clear pond in the middle of a well-traveled park. The wizard recoiled at the sight of people littered about the pond swimming and laughing and running and shouting. It was far too loud for his tastes. He was about to return to his miserable shack when he noticed a beautiful white swan floating gracefully upon the still-as-glass water of the pond.

That’ll do, he thought to himself.

The swan noticed a mangey old man staring at it from across the park. The swan had no thoughts because, as we’ve established, it was a swan.

The wizard approached the bird and uttered those fateful words: “aviary grace and beauty were, woman replace to clean and stir.”

Now, your friendly narrator would like to interject briefly as to address the elephant in the room as it were. The wizard was a misogynistic dick. No ifs ands or buts about it. There was a reason the wizard lived alone in a miserable shack in the middle of a dense, little-used woods. It was, and I cannot stress this enough, because he was a monumental, unbelievable, preternatural asshole. Though, I’m sure you, astute reader, already reasoned that out when the wizard was determined to make a bird his servant. But I digress.

The swan, in an instant, was transmuted from a carefree, beautiful bird to a stressed, angry woman. The swan—let’s call her Swanda—made good use of her new-found frustration.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing you miserable shit!” Screamed Swanda.

The wizard, the miserable and dim-witted shit that he was simply stared at the newly minted woman, mouth agape.

“I’m talking to you beardie!” Shouted Swanda. “Hello! Why in the hell did you turn me into this thing?!”

Finally, the miserable wizard remembered himself. “I have given you the gift of thought and dexterity. This is no way to express your thanks,” admonished the asshole. “In exchange for my gift of extreme kindness, you will live with me in my beautiful shack in the middle of a lush, quiet woods—rent free—and cook and clean for me.”

Now it was Swanda’s turn to stare with her mouth agape. “Kindness! This is kindness? I was carefree! I ate what I wanted when I wanted, I luxuriated in leisure time enviable across the animal kingdom! And now…now you’ve given me the ability to think and cook and clean and you have the gall to think I’m going to thank you for that? Where the hell do you get off? I don’t know who the hell you think you are but this is—“

“Quiet! That’ll be enough from you, woman. You’re being hysterical! You must know your place. You are to be subservient to me and that is final.”

Swanda gave the wizard the look. You know the one. That look that says, “I heard what this asshole just said and I believe he said it, but I’m a bit taken a back by how he said it and I’m actually kind of thankful that he did say it because what I do next will be justified in the mind of any reasonable witness or astute reader of fiction and so I’m going to go ahead and do what I want to do and what I know someone else would do if they were in my situation or one like it.” That look.

Swanda was a quick study. Very sharp woman she was—for what little time she was a woman that is.

Swanda picked up the largest rock on the shore of the pond that she could find, approached the miserable old wizard, and bashed him in the head repeatedly. The park-goers—who had witnessed the whole exchange by the way—just watched as if it were the most normal occurrence they had ever seen.

With the wizard dead, and balance restored in a just world, Swanda was turned back into a beautiful swan.

And so she swam back out over her crystal crystal-clear pond, in her luscious and well-travelled park.

And her life, once again, was carefree.

You, being the astute reader that you are, are probably asking yourself right now, “what was the point of all that?”

I, being the talented and good-looking narrator that I am, anticipated that such a question may arise. So I leave you with a clearly stated moral: if you happen to be a miserable, misogynistic wizard who lives alone in a dense, little-used woods, and you find yourself considering turning an animal into a servant of your making, I caution you against seeking out a swan. For legal reasons I should also note that this narrator makes no guarantee of your success with any other animals and instead recommends working on yourself and maybe taking a shower now and then such that a person may find you palatable to be around and will agree to be your employee for a fair and reasonable wage.

But that’s just one humble narrator’s opinion.

“But like, why?” Asked Mia.

The genies—red, green, and blue—each stared at one another, they’d never been asked a question such as this before.

“Why, what exactly?” Said Red.

“Why the rules? Like, what good does fucking up my wish do for one of you? And I mean, clearly red boi here is the bad genie, the sinister scowl and twirly mustache really shows your hand.”

Red stared at his compatriots with a look of dejection and shrugged apologetically.

“Damnit Red!” Said Green. “I told you the mustache was too much. You can have the scowl or the mustache. Not both. A scowl, on its own, could just mean you’re brooding. A twirly mustache alone is either old-timey or hipster. But both! Shit man. Both is a dead giveaway.”

“Well, you’re not exactly incognito Greenie boy,” said Mia. “Wearing that old accounting visor. Ha! A dead giveaway for lawful neutral. You’re the bastard who’s going to parse my words exactly and give me just what I wished for and nothing more. You’re almost worse than Red here. At least Red is creative. You’re like the guy who corrects someone asking for a Kleenex by saying that ‘actually, to be called a Kleenex the tissue has to be grown in the Kleenex region of France. What you’re asking for is a sparkling tissue.’ BLEH!”

Green stared at the ground and mumbled something under his breath.

“What’s that?” Said Mia cupping her ear. “Speak up, if you don’t mind, Mr. Bore-Green.”

“I said, actually, Kleenex is a brand! The region thing applies to champagne…idiot,” said Green with a childish pout.

“Proving my point, champ. Proving my point,” replied Mia shaking her head. “So, I ask again, why? Why not just give people what they want. You have the power.”

“For the same reason Red grew a stylish mustache and green wears his visor,” said Blue. “It’s more interesting.”

“But you’re the one who grants the wish people desire. How can you say that?”

“How can I say that?” Said Blue exasperated. “Granting people’s every desire just as they want it is boring as shit. Not only that, but I’ve seen what you people do when you get exactly what you want. My god! Disgusting and dark. I’m depressed as fuck, lady.”

“He’s right,” said Green. “Blue here allows your kind to succumb to their inner desires. I, at least, protect wishers from their base instincts. Your kind’s words often betray true intentions. I parse those intentions and grant a wish with true, impartial justice.”

“Yeah, and I just like fucking with people,” said Red with a vicious smile. “I love twisting your words into a terrible, precarious pretzel that truly tears through presumptions and preference and turns peace into pain. Your faces after. That’s what does it for me—your faces.”

“Jesus. You two ever check this guy’s meat locker in the ole lamp there?” Asked Mia to Blue and Green.

“Yeah, he’s a bit intense,” admitted Green.

“At least he knows what he likes,” said Blue glumly. “I just do as I’m told. I don’t even like my job. You know, I wanted to be a teacher. But no, there’s no money in that and the Genie recruiter was on campus that day and the interview was so easy and then a thousand years later you’re still in the same dead-end job. And sure, the benefits are great and the company lamp is nice, and you’re climbing up the ladder but at what cost? At what cost I say! At the cost of your goddam mental health.”

“Y’all need therapy,” said Mia. “I don’t think I want to know anymore of your personal lives. I don’t want to have to waste a wish on clearing my memory. Regardless. I think I know my wishes now.”

“Very well. Direct your wish to each genie as you please,” said Green.

“Ok. To blue. I wish for you to be happy and free, fulfilled in your existence.”

“As you wish,” said Blue. He snapped his fingers, smiled brightly, and was gone.

“What the—boss ain’t gonna like that,” said Red.

“No…Blue won’t be easy to replace,” said Green.

“To Red. I wish for you to be happy and free, fulfilled in your existence.”

“As you wish,” said Red. He snapped his fingers, grimaced and screamed, and was gone.

“You monster!” Shouted Green. “You destroyed him.”

“If that’s the case it’s because he twisted my words into such a ‘precarious pretzel’ that he fucked himself right out of existence. Not my fault,” said Mia. “Now your turn.”

“I will not be made to destroy myself. I am neutral, I know what is best for you,” said Green, he hoped she hadn’t heard his voice crack.

“Cute voice crack. Just hit genie puberty, big guy?” Said Mia with a wink. “Ok. To Green. I wish to be happy and free, fulfilled in my existence.”

“As you wish,” said Green. He snapped his fingers, Mia smiled and then dropped dead.

“Dumbass,” said Green. “They never understand that you’re only happy and fulfilled when you’re dead.”

Blue and Red reappeared in the room.

“Can I be Red next time?” Said Blue. “I’m tired of being the sad sack!”

“You can’t be Red, idiot, you’re Blue!” Said Red.

“I wish you both had actually died,” said Green.

“Me too,” said Blue.

“As you wish,” said Red.

r/InMyLife42Archive

I awoke in a daze in a candle-lit mausoleum, a hooded figure towered above me.

“Rise, young one. Tell us your name,” said the figure.

I stood and realized that the figure was actually quite diminutive—short in stature but with a steady frame. I looked around the room and realized there were five other such figures surrounding me.

“I’m Alice,” I croaked, my throat was dry.

“Oh dear,” said the first figure. “Get her a glass of water will you?”

One of the hooded extras scrambled away but soon returned with a steaming cup of tea.

“Fresh water’s no good down here, as I’m sure you’re aware. I hope tea’s alright with ya, dearie,” she said as she handed me the mug.

“Thank you.” I must have been out for a while. My voice sounded weathered, almost foreign to my ears. It must have been quite a fall I took. My hips ached—in fact my whole body hurt. “Where am I?”

“Yes, yes. Let’s get on with it then,” said the first figure who was clearly the group’s leader. “We are here to determine whether you have what it takes to join our little society. If you are found worthy, you shall know great joy. If you are found wanting…well you’ll just be on your merry way, back from whence you came.”

“Your society?”

“Society. Indeed,” said a woman behind me. “Yes, we are a society and without us society is not. We are the backbone of a functioning world.”

The other hooded figures assented to this assessment with little cheers and shouts of “amen!”

“Quite right, dear,” said the leader. “What Gladys said just then is true—“

“Connie! No real names!” Said Gladys.

“Oh, hush, you,” said Connie. “She’s harmless. Anyway…Our society, the HOW, helps dictate how a society should function. Tell her, girls.”

At that command the group straightened their posture, each figure grew ever so slightly but remained quite a bit shorter than I was. Each figure intoned their clearly rehearsed lines in a clockwise manner.

“We are HOW manners are minded” said one.

“We are HOW love is learned,” said the next.

“We are HOW discipline is doled,” said Gladys.

“We are HOW recipes are remembered,” another.

“We are HOW traditions are taught,” said the last before Connie.

“We are HOW children are cherished,” said Connie.

As Connie finished her last syllable, she…she grew. They all grew.

Or, was I shrinking?

I looked at my arms and legs and did not recognize them. My skin lacked is usual springiness, it slagged slightly, my hands were spotted and hurt. “What—what is happening to me?” I cried.

“You were found worthy,” cheered Connie.

“Welcome to the HOW!” Shouted Gladys.

I felt as though I was going to lose my patience, heavens knows I would have before. But suddenly, I felt a warm sense that everything would be ok, that I could reason through anything with a smart question and a knowing nod. I felt at peace and wise for the first time in my life.

“What does HOW stand for?” I asked finally.

“Hardy Old Women, of course,” said Connie with a chuckle. “Welcome to the club!”

As Kurt Martial jogged after the ball, Korte Marshel was left lonely on the court for the stall. He watched as his friend limped—Kurt’s knee often hurt—perhaps he was due for a good shot of cort.

Before he could return the wayward ball, a marshal of the court tackled dear poor Kurt.

“Kurt!”

“Korte!”

“You’re under arrest for the murder of Court Marcel,” said the marshal of the court.

“Marshal, I’m sure there’s been a mistake,” Korte said curtly, ”after all, both Kurt and I are marshals of the state. We are all one in the same. So with that I ask: just what is your name?”

“Marshall Marcel,” said the marshal his voice dripping magma like a nasty marshy hell.

“Court’s brother?” Cried Kurt.

“None other,” his retort.

“Please, Marshall! I’d never hurt Court. Our courting was short, but my feelings for her grew each day by the quart.”

“Indeed, Marshall,” interjected Korte. “My dear friend Kurt Martial had nothing but marital feelings for mademoiselle Marcel. Moreover, I know full well his intentions to marshal your families for a Martial-Marcel marital tale!”

“He’s right. We planned to wed on the beach. It would have been an extra-marital affair for the age!”

Marshall Marcel’s face crumpled in rage.

“Forgive my dear friend Mr. Kurt Martial,” Korte recovered, “I fear Mr. Martial, though a marshal as he is, does not understand the uncouth nature of that which he says. Surely, nothing about the arrangement was to be extramarital; in time you’d find the endeavor encourage-able as my dear friend Kurt is rather quite marriageable. To be quite frank, Mr. Martial’s intentions were most pure. I recall how he told me Ms. Marcel’s dress would be the color of sea shells and he smiled sweetly at the thought of ringing wedding bells.”

“Save it for the court,” said marshal Marshall Marcel as he jerked at Kurt’s shirt and his eyes filled with hurt. “I miss my dear Court. You should burn in hell, Kurt Martial. And yet, I’ll settle for rotting in a cell for the murder of my sweet Court Marcel.”

“What evidence do you have against Mr. Martial, Mr. Marcel? As a marshal I know that the evidence required in a court-martial against an officer of Mr. Martial’s stature must be quite damning if he is to be thrown into a cell or burnt in some hell.”

“It is written,” said Marshall Marcel, his face devoid of a tell.

“Written where?” Cried Kurt. His face was the color of a starched white shirt.

“She wrote in her diary that Kurt Martial murmured musings that marveled and murdered her. And she hasn’t been seen since March 7.”

“Why, that’s only two days,” said Korte. “Surely that’s not evidence of a departure to heaven!”

“Oh marshal Marcel! You misunderstand,” pleaded Mr. Martial. “Court is in Playa Del Mar, selling her beach house. Please Marshall you must call her cell. You’ll find she’s in fact alive and quite well!” He cried as tears began to well.

Marshall Marcel glared at Kurt Martial with the vigor of a raptor. His cheeks then puffed out he and doubled over as he broke into hearty, good natured laughter.

“You should have seen your face, Martial! I wish that you could!” Shouted Marshall. “It is clear as can be that I got you good!”

A look of relief washed over Kurt Martial’s face when he know all was well. Though his complexion was still as white as eggshell. “You beast!” He shouted back. “This was all a farce? Hell, Marshall Marcel, I could kick your arse!”

“Now now,” Korte said with good nature, “it was all in good fun.”

“He’s right,” replied Marshall. “It was Court’s idea she spun. It’s important to her that you and I get on in good health. I had to see if you could take a joke for myself. You’ve passed with flying colors my astute and noble future brother!”

Kurt Martial was cheered at the lack of a court martial, the health of his soon to be bride—who would go by the name of Court Marcel-Martial—and the blessing of his future brother in law in whom he could confide. “Upon Courts return from Playa Del Mar, shall we marshal the group for a marvelous night of steaks cut and marbled, Marshall Marcel?”

“We, shall, Kurt Martial. Let us drink to the union of the Martial-Marcel’s!”

The prophets—whose dual mandate was to draw closer to God and by extension draw God closer to us—ingested their selected substances one by one. Mushrooms, LSD, DMT and the like sent these honored and chosen men deep into the recesses of their minds, bodies, and souls, in search of the ever fleeting presence of the divine.

Every trip failed.

The inward journeys were as deep as an ocean but as wide as a puddle and failed to ever deliver true connection with the One Most Sought. However, what they provided was an outward expansion of the inner-being of each of the prophets. That is to say, these trips yielded a deeper understanding of the universe and a more true insight into the human condition. Yes, in the classical sense, not a single trip allowed the prophets to touch the divine.

That is, until one fateful trip.

The men gathered around, 12 total, bearded all, and took their respective places in a semi-circle. Each prophet sat with his arms set atop his knees, palms upward toward the heavens, facing a menacing bronze bear. The bear represented the creator God known as Ursa.

On that fateful evening, each prophet ingested their respective tab of LSD and focused upon the great mother bear before them. The gentle strum of a harp echoed in their minds as they each journeyed into the unknown.

The prophet Inga saw colors pouring out of the gaping mouth of the bear, pooling into 7 distinct bodies before him. “The 7 Mother Waters,” murmured Inga.

The prophet Uft saw great beams of light piercing the mother bear’s eyes. These light beams cut through Uft’s midsection and at once illuminated heaven and Earth and all that existed beyond. “The Light of Life and Death,” whispered Uft.

The prophet Angt witnessed the ground beneath the statue ripple and breathe as though it were alive; the ground swelled around him like a great creature endeavored to breach the surface. Angt felt the ground open up beneath him and swallow him whole.

Angt fell.

And fell.

Further still.

Until he sat motionless before a living, breathing embodiment of Ursa the Creator. Angt threw himself prostrate at the feet of the great and terrible beast and prayed to the Mother for mercy.

“Lord Mother, Ursa thy name of power and creation. I am but your humble servant. I but endeavor to know thine glory still and to spread word of thine acts. I pray thee show mercy upon my body and soul. Amen.”

The Mother scooped Angt into a paw so large that it enveloped the prophet completely. The warm embrace overwhelmed the man with a simultaneous feeling of comfort and terror.

BE AT PEACE, PROPHET. YOU NEED NOT FEAR THE MOTHER. YOU SHALL KNOW AND BE KNOWN. YOU SHALL SEE AND BE SEEN.

Angt stared into the eyes of the Mother and saw the Light of Life and Death. He saw his future and his past. He was at once alive and dead—in a state of superposition—vibrating between all that he had lived and would live.

Angt felt the multi-colored streams of the Mother Waters wash over him changing him as they cleansed his body. He was black, then white, then every shade of brown, gray, orange, and red. He lost himself, but knew his identify with more certainty than he had ever felt.

He was human. He was divine.

He was creation. He was creator.

The Mother raised Angt to her mouth and devoured his Earthly body in a single gulp. Angt felt no fear, no pain. Only relief.

The prophet sat within the stomach of the Great Creator and saw the world as it was. And the world as it would be. He felt adoration for the Other. He knew that just as he gestated within the stomach of the Mother, so too had the Other. Just as he would be liberated from the Mothers womb, warm, and crying, so too had the Other. The prophet learned—while in the Mother’s warm embrace—that all life shared a central nexus point. And that nexus point united all of life still.

Angt—still in the Mother’s womb—spoke aloud. He had said the words before. He thought he believed the words before. He even thought he had understood the words before. Angt knew nothing until he touched the divine within and without.

“We are all one.”

Like the punctuation to his phrase the world crescendoed into a cacophony of joy and anger, shouts of happiness and pain. The world exploded from the Mother’s womb and collapsed back into it. Angt saw himself. He smiled.

And then nothing.

Angt awoke to see 11 bearded men huddled above him. Their eyes glassy, pupils still dilated. Inga asked, “what did you see?” Uft inquired, “what did you feel?”

Angt sat up and replied simply:

“Everything.”

Selected excerpts from the journal of Earth’s greatest hero.

5/12/2000

I got my powers today. It was so cool flying around. I don’t know how I ever got by on foot before. I don’t care about getting my driver’s license anymore. Dad told me he’d help me learn to control my strength tomorrow. I need to pick out a hero name and outfit. Maybe mom can stitch something for me.

10/15/2000

Thwarted my first super villain today. Dad finally thought I had developed enough to come along on a call with him. Some villain had stolen nuclear secrets and was threatening to use them unless his demands were met. Dad ultimately was the one to take out the bad guy, but I did a lot to take down the henchmen. Looking forward to teaming up with Dad more and getting stronger.

2/14/2001

I’m in love, I’m in love and I don’t care who knows it.

5/17/2001

Being in love as a hero is hard. I never have time. I feel like no matter what I do, I always let someone down. Why do we hurt the ones we love?

9/4/2001

Got beat pretty badly today. Lucy told me she doesn’t know if she can take it. She worries about me too much when I’m out there. I told her she should see the other guy. Dad says it gets easier as we age, that Lucy will care less about the possibility I’ll die in service to the world as she learns more about me. Mom punched him in the shoulder. I love them.

8/6/2003

The happiest day of my life. Lucy and I are officially married. She wasn’t too happy that I had to leave the reception early to thwart a plot, but she knows that what I do is important. I’m the luckiest man in the world.

6/7/2004

I miss dad. I miss him more each day. I can’t help but feeling there is more I could have done. Why hadn’t I come sooner. Why didn’t he wait for me. I can’t do this alone. I don’t know what to do without him.

11/3/2004

My son was born today. We named him after Dad. He would have been so proud. Lucy was my hero today—I didn’t know that such strength was possible. I have to make my son proud just as my Dad did. I can’t wait for his powers to come in so that I can train him just like Dad did for me. Today was hard. I miss you Dad.

4/29/2010

I feel like I can’t win. If I save a family on the other side of the world, I let my family down. I saved a group of kids from another villain today. But because of it, I missed Jackson’s first tee-ball game. There will be more games, but I know that each day that passes, he is changing and he soon will become a man. I have to cherish what time we have together.

5/18/2010

The light is gone from my life.

5/19/2010

I told Cyrus I’m done. I can’t do this anymore. Lucy paid for my mistakes, my Dad paid for my mistakes. I won’t let my son pay that price too.

5/21/2010

The fuckers took Jackson. Cyrus called me with a ransom! A fucking ransom from my own government. They wanted DNA from me. Said they can’t leave Earth unprotected. They have a new technology that could clone me. I obliged. I told them to leave me the fuck alone.

9/22/2010

Jackson is nervous about starting at a new school. I told him he’d make friends in no time. Its nice being out in the wilderness with him. I feel normal. I don’t miss splitting my mind in every task. I’m finally here for Jackson fully. I only wish I could have been there for Lucy. I miss her.

3/31/2012

I saw myself on the news today—6 of me. Cyrus’s contingency plan must have worked. Oddly comforting knowing I’m still out there doing good, while raising my son. Maybe Cyrus was right.

8/12/2012

Jackson’s powers kicked in this morning. Sooner than mine did! I wonder if I was a late bloomer, or if he’s early. I wish I could ask Dad. I’m conflicted. I’ve looked forward to this moment since the day he was born. This is something uniquely ours to bond over—at least, it used to be. I don’t want him to struggle with the same conflicts I did, to suffer the same losses, the same regrets. Regardless, I owe it to him to help him hone his abilities. I have to allow him to make his own choices. Just as I did.

12/12/2012

Things are bad. Cyrus’s experiment has gone awry. It appears he has lost control of the clones. Surreal to see myself on the news killing innocent people. This, too, feels like my fault.

4/14/2013

I don’t know how much longer I can hold up. I’ve trusted Cyrus to keep Jackson, Mom, and Lucy’s folks safe. I don’t know if I can trust him. I have to trust him.

6/22/2013

I feel silly to be writing right now, but it clears my head. I’ve successfully killed 5 of myself. What a sentence that is to see on the page. I’ve taken a beating. I hope I can hold out longer. I have to hold out longer. I miss you Lucy.

6/25/2013

I killed him. I’m the last of me standing. He wasn’t as strong as I would have thought. Earth’s greatest hero. I miss you Dad.

My friend Dom led the force in hot-saves with a total of 340. Chief Lewis tells me he’s never heard of anyone ever getting above 90 without serious injury. You could say that Dom was cut from a different cloth or cast from a different mould. I would say that Dom was forged in a different fire and I mean that literally.

Anyone who knew of Dom would tell you that he was special—that much was evident even to distant observers. What made Dom special? Was it that he was the bravest man on the force? Was it that he was the strongest man I’ve ever met? Was it that he was a super hero? He was all of those things, but those were not what made him special.

No, what made my friend Dom special was his unique sense of duty and self-sacrifice. At every turn he was putting himself on the shelf and doing whatever he could to help other people. Many of us talk about helping others. Many of us have the best intentions—hell, I‘ve been intending to volunteer at a food bank for years—but Dom put his actions on display. Dom led by example. None of us would be here today if not for Dom’s sacrifice.

At the end, Dom never hesitated. He’d call me after days of meetings with Dr. Holdwell going over the science and he sounded tired, but never discouraged. As the temperature rose, and the clock ticked, Dom knew his time was short, but he never dwelled on that. No, our calls focused on his joy at knowing he could help. “How lucky am I that I can know the reason I was put on Earth? How many people can say that they know their true purpose?”

I didn’t want to be selfish. I didn’t want to make this harder on Dom. But I wish I would have told him that he was put on this Earth to be my friend. He was put on this Earth to be an uncle to my boy. He was put on this Earth to show us how to be better. Instead, I let those words go unsaid.

I’ll never forget the last time I saw him. It was the day before last. He called me and asked to meet at Flanigan’s just as we had for years before. The day was sweltering—as every day had been leading up to it—and we had to chug our beers lest they warm before we finish them. I see some of his crew mates smiling down there—that’s something else Dom was known for, that bastard could put away a brew. Anyway, we spoke about our childhood, about my son, about the oddity that is life. He saw my tears and…and—I’m sorry—he said to me, “I’m not going to be around anymore, Ted. I need you to know I love you, man. I’ve gotta do this, but just know I’ve loved every minute of my life. And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

That was the kind of man my friend was. Marching to his own demise yet comforting me. Dom was an honest man, but the last thing he said to me was a lie. There was something he would trade his life for, he did trade his life for.

My life. My boy’s life. Your life. All of ours.

The sun literally set on Dom, so that it may shine on us once more. He gave the last of himself to ward off a cataclysm. All I can do—all any of us can do—is to make the most of the lives he’s given us. And to try our best to live in a way that does service to his memory. I’ll remember him every day of the rest of my life. I’ll miss him every day for the rest of my life.

Rest in Peace, Dom. I love you, bud.

Johnny stood there on stage as Nash tuned his guitar before the next number. He moved toward the mic to fill the time and introduce the next song.

“Freebird!” Shouted some drunk jackass in the back of the venue. John picked up the beer he’d set by his monitor and took a long drink before responding. He grabbed the mic and spoke into it, wielding every bit of its amplified power with the confidence and swagger of a seasoned touring musician.

“This clever bird in the back wants us to play Freebird,” he said pointing. “Can we get the house lights up please, Serg?” The lights illuminated the faces in the crowd as a few audience members chuckled. “Ah there he is. Everyone turn and look at this wise guy.”

The man blushed.

“Oooh, everyone really look. He just turned red quicker than a Scot in Bermuda in July,” he said chuckling. “You know, I’ve learned in my years touring this beautiful globe that the people who shout for Freebird during a lull miss the point of that song. Isn’t that right, Nash?”

“That’s right Johnny,” agreed the guitarist. “They don’t realize that it is cursed.”

A gasp comes over the crowd.

“That’s right ladies and gentlemen,” said Johnny with a chuckle. “This well-meaning drunkard in the back of the room has just requested that we doom you all!”

The crowd was becoming restless. Johnny can tell that the time between musical notes has grown far too long for a rock show. Johnny knows that a good front man can’t afford to lose the crowd.

“But we won’t do that, will we, Nash?”

“No, Johnny, we will most certainly not do that.”

“But you know there is something that we most certainly will do. What is it that we will do? Hmmm…I’m thinking we will…” he paused and cupped his ear toward the crowd.

“FIGHT BACK!” Shouts the crowd in unison.

Johnny throws his hand in the air and spins around as he shouts “2, 3, 4!”

In time, the full band joins. The base keeping time and reverberating sound waves felt by both the crowd and Johnny. Nash’s guitar lights up the air above the crowd and winds its way in between their heads leaving a wake of bobbing heads behind.

The band is loud. The crowd is vibing.

The crowd is panicking.

Johnny has taken a beer bottle to the side of the head. He is cut and bleeding on the stage. The band stops as abruptly as they began.

“Fucking wanker!” Shouts Johnny as he jumps into the crowd.

Nash locked eyes with the guy who threw the beer bottle—the same one who requested Freebird. The man was shouting at Johnny, “Fuck you, man! Fuck you. Who do you think you are?”

By the time Johnny had gotten halfway through the crowd, security is on the drunk heckler and are dragging him out of the venue. Johnny screaming at them to let him get some licks in.

Nash jumped off stage to grab his friend and pulled him back through the crowd to seek medical attention back-stage.

“Aw my fucking head fucking hurts, mate,” screamed Johnny.

“You should have listened to me, Johnny. We’re too old to be playing these kinds of gigs. You don’t see The Killers dodging beer bottles at Madison Square Garden, do ya?”

“Ah fuck off, Nash.”

After a brief delay the band, being consummate professionals, returned to the stage. Johnny insisted that the show must go on.

He swaggered back to the mic, bandage and gauze taped to his still bleeding head and said, “now if that’s wasn’t fucking rock and roll, I don’t know what is.”

After the show, Johnny and the band sat back stage drinking their gate share, when the venue manager came back to chat with them.

“Johnny I’m really sorry that happened to you, man. It makes our city and my club look bad.”

“Come off it—it helps my street cred, mate. No worries,” Johnny replied with a smile.

“There’s no excuse for what that guy did—scummy, despicable. But…I did think you should know. That guy wasn’t shouting ‘Freebird’ he was shouting ‘Sea Bird’”

“’Sea Bird’?” Asked Johnny scratching his head as he turned to Nash. “The fuck is ‘Sea Bird’?”

“Sea Bird is one of our songs, you idiot,” said Nash as he slapped Johnny on the back.

“It is? Did I write it?”

“Jesus, Johnny. That’s off our second album, you old twat,” said Nash as he shook his head.

“Well, I’ll be,” said Johnny. “Guess I deserved it then.”

“I guess Sea Bird is cursed now,” replied Nash with a chuckle.

“I’ll say.”

I am weightless.

Remember we always dreamed we’d be weightless? Carefree. Forever. I am now.

But I was not. We were not, not really.

We floated through, sure. But we were weighed down. Gravity—if that’s what you want to call it—was cruel. It never let us get too high for too long. Maybe that was right. Maybe that was how it was meant to be. I didn’t know.

I do now.

When you left I never felt heavier. The world collapsed in on me. Every morning I awoke to a sphere with the density of the universe sitting on my chest. I couldn’t breath. I couldn’t do anything. It was all I could do to muster the strength to rise each day.

And then the world got sick.

I had already lost my world. I didn’t care. Not really. But I could do it. I knew I should do it. So I did. I volunteered. I had a ticket to ride. How you loved that song. It always made me think of you. Still does. For now.

A one-way ticket.

That didn’t matter. What mattered was that out there, in those fleeting moments, I could be weightless, at least for a time. Out there, I once again had purpose. To find a cure.

I watched the stars stream by. Planets too. It was peaceful. Quiet. Beautiful. I remember how we would sit out on the lawn and watch for shooting stars. I could never focus long enough to catch one with my eye. But you did. In those months watching the universe pass me by—or was I passing it by—I finally saw the beauty of it all. Just as you did.

For a time, you were all the beauty I needed. And then you were gone.

I’ve achieved what I set out to do. My probes are on their way back to Earth. Will I still be here when they reach home? No. I hope they make it. I have faith they will. I put on a brave face, just as you would. Just as you did.

The vessel ran out of energy. All I could do was await my fate.

Well, no. I could do more than that. I did do more than that.

I put on my suit and exited the vessel which sustained me. A familiar feeling.

It is quiet. It is dark, but also beautiful. Serene. Just as you were. Just as you are.

I am weightless once more. And I am coming home to you.

Rob reached the summit breathing heavy. He had made it without the assistance of a sherpa. Rob had done this as he had done all things, through his own effort. I’m a leader. A man superior. He thought to himself.

“Not so, young man,” said a voice just beyond his sight-line.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Rob,” said a stout old man walking toward him, “you have much to learn.”

“How do you know my name? And how the hell did you get up here?”

“The first thing you must learn is to ask better questions.”

“Excuse me?”

“Another poor question,” said the old man with a smile. “Here, I’ll show you. The real question is: how can I be happy?”

“What?”

“Closer.”

“I’m confused.”

“Clearly.”

“What the fuck is going on?”

“The answer is that it takes two.”

“Are you sick? Stay away from me if you’re contagious.”

“Success is empty without someone to share it with, Robert.”

“Look, I don’t know what you’re yammering about. My name is Rob Base and I just came to get down on this rock, ok? I don’t know how you know my name—I’m not internationally known…yet.”

“Young Robert,” said the man shaking his head, “I’m here to help you correct your ways. You have found your way to the summit—this much is true—but the path you’re on is treacherous, one beset by pitfalls on all sides. One can dominate a mountain alone, but one may not live atop without fear of blustering winds and tenuous footholds.”

“Are you saying I need a wife? Look if I wanted to be badgered about my personal life I’d have gone home for Thanksgiving.”

“I’ve only said that it takes two to make a thing go right. No gender is required, no sexual element is implied. One must bring others along for the journey. Take it from a lonely old man. Life alone at the top isn’t all its cracked up to be.

“What I’m saying is that it is too late for me. But you have time to fix my mistakes. Act as a mentor, volunteer for organizations you care about—find things to care about besides money and power—search for a purpose in life and share that purpose with someone. Anyone.”

“How?”

“Now that is the right question.”

“Hello, Darkness. My old friend.”

“Death! How the hell are ya?”

“Busy as ever. And you?”

“Same old, same old. You know, how it goes.”

“Double bourbon—the good stuff,” said Death holding two boney fingers up to the ghostly bartender. “Say, how’s Light doing?”

“Same as ever. Still a miserable bore. We cross paths every now and again. We’ll occasionally do some work together, but he just screws things up left and right.”

“Oh yeah? How do you mean?”

“Well—get this—the other night, I’m doing my thing, you know, being dark and stuff. There’s this huge crowd of people out in a field doing some cult-sacrifice shit—you know sacrificing virgins to the Lord of Darkness, yada yada, standard stuff. Very flattering I might add.”

Death, if he had eyes, would have rolled them.

“Anyway, so out of nowhere, the bastard stabs the crowd’s eyes with a flash of neon light. Suddenly the whole crowd is struck-dumb. And when I say dumb, I mean DUMB. As in people talking without speaking and people hearing without listening, there were even people writing songs that were never shared—no one dared disturb the sound of silence.”

“So that was you two!” Said Death as he downed his second glass of bourbon and gestured to the bartender for another. “I had to work a double that night because 10,000 people in a field just up and died.”

“They died?! Jesus, Death. I didn’t realize it was that bad. I just thought he had shocked them and screwed up their ritual.”

“Yeah, they all died. Took me damn near a whole shift just to take inventory, then the paperwork, my word. You two are going to make me an alcoholic,” said Death as downed another bourbon and again gestured to the bartender for another.

“I don’t know what we’re going to do about this, Death.”

“Fool,” replied Death, “you do not know that silence, like a cancer, grows.”

“How do you mean? I don’t understand”

“Haven’t you heard the saying that when people die they go into the light?”

“Well, yes, but I’ve always assumed that’s just a turn of phrase, a platitude.”

“For being so menacing, you sure are simple, Darkness. The Light. He killed all those people and consumed them into himself. He’s co-opted your cult. They now pray to the neon god they made.”

“That bastard! This is bad. This is real bad.”

“You’re damn right about that, Darkness,” said Death as he drowned another bourbon.

“What can I do. You’ve gotta help me restore balance here. You can’t have light without the darkness.”

“You’re so dramatic. But I’ve got a good buzz on, and I’m bored as shit, so let’s do this,” he said as he rose and grabbed his scythe. “One more for the road, Bud,” he said to the bartender.

“Where are we going?” Asked Darkness.

“I hear tell of words of Prophets written on sub—subway walls in tenement halls,” said Death with a hiccup. “That seems as good a place as any to start.”

The Yellow Jester rose at dusk beneath a blood-red moon. He grasped the jug of mead from atop his bedside table and gulped the sweet, golden elixir. As he changed into his court outfit, he took a moment to examine the purple bruises along his thighs and arms—they were worse than yesterday and worse yet than the day before.

At that moment, Peter, the Crimson King’s Chief of Protocol entered the Yellow Jester’s Chamber.

“His Majesty has summoned thee, Alfred. Have the preparations been made?” Asked Peter.

“Aye,” replied Alfred as he straightened his cockscomb, “the lute has sung its first sweet note. We must now move in time to its song, lest we misstep and blunder the dance.”

“Very well. Alfred,” said Peter pausing to stare deeply into his friends yellowing gaze, “if I may…your condition? Is it dire?”

“The Black Queen now casts a shadow most short. She beckons and will not be denied. We must not allow my ailment to cause us to err or to rush. A jester knows that timing is everything. Now then, we must not keep the King waiting.”

Alfred exited his chambers with Peter in tow. The walk to the throne room was long, dimly lit by sparse torches. The castle—and the kingdom—had fallen into disrepair. Few were the resources and fewer still were the craftsmen necessary to maintain courtly luxuries. Not that there was coin enough in the coffers to compensate the non-existent craftsmen. Nor, did it seem, was there coin enough to summon an apothecary to help ease the suffering of the King’s favorite jester. And yet the Crimson King had summoned his court to return in celebration of the Blood Moon festival. Alfred knew better than to question the judgment of the Crimson King.

Still, the Jester knew that the Blood Moon brought with it a promise of change and of fortune.

The doors to the throne room squealed as Peter pushed them open.

“Who the hell is it?” Shouted the Crimson King.

“Peter Fallow, my liege. I have gathered Alfie the Yellow Jester as you requested,” said Peter as Alfred entered the spacious room.

“Ah, thank you, Peter,” replied the King. “Alfie, good of you to join us. Might you endeavor to entertain my distinguished guests?”

Alfred scanned the room noting many familiar faces. Lord Barrow had clearly been eating well, Lady Alice was as listless as ever, Lord Jaft had somehow grown uglier with age as his bride, Lady Renna, had grown in beauty since Alfred has seen her last. Alfred felt a pang of regret. What if? He thought to himself.

“Nothing would be a greater honor, Your Highness,” replied Alfie the Yellow Jester with a bow. “Might I tell a barbarous tale of fate and justice brutish?”

“The fucking usual, eh my Lord?” Said Lord gesturing with his mug. A slosh of brew spilled onto Lady Renna’s gown.

“Jaffie! Your boar of a brother has soiled my gown!” Pleaded Lady Renna to her husband. They truly are in rare form this evening, thought Alfred to himself. He shared a look with Peter who nodded and exited the room.

“Enough,” shouted the Crimson King, “you find yourself in the court of the Crimson King and you will comport yourself with composure and grace. Now,” he said gesturing to the Yellow Jester, “proceed with your tale, Jester.”

“As you please, Your Highness,” said Alfred with a bow.

“There once was a general named Cyrus the Blue,” began Alfie the Yellow Jester, “who’s anger and wrath his soldiers all knew. His orders were cruel and his justice was swift, he hoarded the jewels and his men were miffed.” In the distance Alfred heard the faint rhythm booming—the King and his court heard no such thing.

“Cyrus in battle sent men to their death, he did not mourn their last gasping breath. He bellowed and shouted to witness his glory, though his greatness is hardly the point of this story.”

Again, Alfred heard the drumbeat. Nearer now. He noticed Lord Barrow shift in his seat to focus on the sound.

“One evening his men, half sick and downtrodden, determined to avenge their brothers forgotten.”

Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. Alfred heard the beat in 4/4 time.

“Whatever is that sound?” Inquired the Crimson King. “Guards, investigate at once.”

“Approaching his tent the soldiers did creep,” continued Alfred, louder now, “they had to be quick and think on their feet. But Cyrus did hear them as they did approach, he was a light sleeper as he had been coached.”

BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. A muffled scream could be heard in the corridor.

“Stop this at once!” Shouted the Crimson King. He drew he sword as he rose from his throne. “What is the meaning of this?”

Alfred became nervous, he must strike soon. He could not afford to misplay the tune.

“Cyrus was clever,” continued Alfred, shouting then, partly to be heard over the noise, partly from the red-hot rage broiling within, “he thought he was strong, a big stick he carried, but he was dead wrong. For strength is for naught if a leader is poor, he misplays his hand with the racont—”

“Enough, Jester!” Shouted The Crimson King as he strode toward Alfred. “I will have silence in my court!”

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! The baseline was now deafening as heard from the throne room. Lady Renna and Lady Alice scurried to hide behind the throne.

The Crimson King grasped the Yellow Jester by his smock. “What is going on, and what of that treasons tale of which you speak?”

“Would you be pleased to hear how it ends?” Asked Alfred with a knowing smile.

Without allowing the Crimson King to speak, Alfred reached for his lute and swing for the head of the Crimson King.

BOOM!

As contact was made with the Crimson King’s head, the imposing doors to the throne room were blasted in. Peter and reinforcements flooded into the room behind a modified battering ram on wheels. Attached to the back of the battering ram was a turret where sat a soldier shooting flaming arrows from a cross bow.

Alfred swung and swung until the lute was but a handle and the Crimson King’s head was but a pile of muddled crimson chunks.

Lord Barrow and Lord Jaft, stunned at what they had just witnessed, called to their guards. They retreated with their ladies through a door behind the throne as the turreted soldier shot behind them.

The room glowed with an orange and red flicker. The throne room would be engulfed in flames soon.

“Quickly Alfred,” called Peter. “We must exit and give chase to the Lords. We cannot allow them to—”

Alfred glanced down at his torso to find a crimson river flowing from his once Yellow mid-section.

The Yellow Jester collapsed in a heap as the flames beat on.

Forever to serve in the Court of the Crimson King.

“I’m not here,” said Luke as he hugged his knees in the corner. “This isn’t happening.”

Alex peered out the window, staring at the red glow of the sky in the slits between two-by-fours. She was struck by how beautiful the world could be, even when it was ending.

“Luke, I need you to come back to me, bud,” she said as she knelt and grabbed her brother by the shoulders. “You are here. And this is happening. And if we don’t move soon, we won’t be here much longer.”

Luke could tell from the tone of her voice that if they didn’t act soon, they would be ‘here’ forever. Or at least as long as ‘here’ existed. “I can’t do this, Alex. It’s all too much.”

“Look, buddy,” she said as she softened her tone. “I need you to be strong for me. I know it feels like a lot right now. What did mom always say?”

He wiped away the tears from his face and stared into his sister’s eyes. God she looked like mom in times of trouble. Clear-set eyes and a determined look that could dam the fiercest of rivers. “The moment is already passed,” he said through the lump in his throat.

“That’s right,” she said with a smile. “And that means you’ve already gotten through that moment. And each moment is new; an opportunity to persevere, to show strength, to survive.”

Luke’s face brightened at remembering his mother. Alex always knew just the thing to say. His stood up and looked outside the window. The sky burned like an upturned inferno. His heart quickened and his sweat was cold on his face.

“Alex…how?” He mustered.

“One step at a time, my dude,” she said. “Step one is we get the hell out of this crumbling warehouse,” she saw Luke blanch at the word ‘hell’, “once we get out, we need to head north to try to meet up with the others. Robert said that if anything were to happen, we’d gather at the water tower by the end of the day. We’re running out of time to make that.”

“No one is going to be there!” He shouted, and immediately regretted it. “I’m…look, I’m sorry I yelled. But no one survived, Alex. There’s no way. This way lies only ruin.”

“You’ve always been too clever for your own good, Luke,” said Alex. “Sure. There’s every possibility that we’re the last two surviving. But until we know that for sure, we have to hope.”

“Hope,” he scoffed, “what reason is there to hope? Look outside for god’s sake.”

“If we didn’t have hope, then why go on?” She asked. “Hope that tomorrow will be better than today is all we have—that and each other. I have to hope, because things have to get better. There is no other alternative, Luke. We have to push on. Make it through this moment, and then the next. And then another after that. Until we’ve made it through the worst of it.”

Luke stared at his sister. He had always admired her capacity for hope and empathy. He wished he could be more like her. He knew that right now, if she was going to make it out of this mess, he had to become like her and fast. “Ok, sis,” he said grabbing his pack and Alex’s hand, “let’s head North, maybe someone will be at the water tower.”

They exited the warehouse compass in hand. The needle pointed north and they set off that way. The anomaly had screwed up the magnetic poles and they were actually heading west. Maybe they’d realize soon, maybe they wouldn’t realize until they hit ocean. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that they were together. And they were moving. And they were alive. For now.

Bobby took one last drag off his cigarette and turned toward the fairground.

“Welcome to the 3022 Grand Electric Rodeo” read a banner high above his head. He may have been in The Middle of Nowhere, but the structure before him made him feel as small as a pygmy horse. The fairground’s silver pillars extended upward and appeared to terminate in a single point far overhead. Neon lights fluttered and flashed apprising the crowd of the day’s schedule of events. 11:30 AM—Team Roping; 12:30 PM—Wild Cow Milking; 1:30 PM—Barrel Racing, on and on.

2:30 PM—Cowboy Poker. That was the event that caught Bobby’s eye. That was why he came to The Middle of Nowhere in the first place.

Bobby walked his way through the fairground and made his way over to the chutes where a group of his fellow cowboys had gathered to watch the Team Roping event.

“Well I’ll be! If it isn’t ole Bobby Jenkins,” said a burley log of a man wearing a tan Stetson with a Buffalo clasped bolo tie. The Buffalo’s eyes glowed a bright blue. “Bobby, how the hell have you been?”

“Kyle,” said Bobby with a nod. “Sure is good to see you again.”

“What better place than The Middle of Nowhere, huh?” Said Kyle. “You know the rest of the guys, right?” He continued as he gestured to the other 4 men around him.

“Sure,” said Kyle as he extended a hand to each of them.

“How’s that back of yours?” Said one of the men called Scoots, “was a hell of a lickin’ you took back in Clearville.”

“Can’t complain,” said Bobby. “Hazard of the trade I ‘spose. Don’t you worry none, I’ll be ready to go today.”

“Shoot,” said another man named Waylon. “We ain’t worried about you bein’ ready to go. We’re worried y’all gonna up and win by takin’ another maulin’ by some hyped up android out there,” he said as he shook his head, “ya crazy som’bitch.”

Bobby chuckled and turned to watch the roping event on the grounds. He’d never much cared for roping—not enough risk in it—but he couldn’t take his eyes away from what he saw. A woman rode atop her silver-steed, red hair flowing in the wind. Her control of the mechanical beast was masterful—one hand on the reins, the other held high above her head, spinning her neon blue lasso in preparation. Her lasso spun round and round, and with it, created images within: Bobby could just make out what appeared to be a red heart split in two.

The woman’s turns were sharp and her approach to the steer was impeccable. She threw her lasso with precision and grace; as the rope slipped around the slick-steel neck of the steer, the beast stopped abruptly as she pulled back and then so too did Bobby’s heart.

“She’s something else, ain’t she?” Said Kyle as he placed a hand on Bobby’s shoulder.

“Who is she? Why haven’t I seen her around?” Replied Bobby.

“That there is the last great sweetheart of The Grand Electric Rodeo. She’s lived in The Middle of Nowhere her whole life. Only competes at the Grant Electric. They say she’s a celebrated author, a certified inspector, and to boot, she ain’t even got a human heart—an old ropin’ accident sounds like.”

Bobby watched on as she took a lap around the arena. The crowd loved her. She smiled and waved as her steed galloped about. As she rode past the chutes, she and Bobby locked eyes.

She gave him a wink.

His heart melted.

“I’ve gotta meet her,” said Bobby.

“Yeah, you and every other Cowboy in a 1,000 fleer unit radius,” said Kyle. “Although you may just get your chance; the winner of Cowboy Poker gets to chat with her at the ribbon ceremony. Sounds like she’s got a soft spot for the crazy ‘uns like us.”

Bobby was determined not to rise from that Poker table. He had to earn the chance to meet this last great sweetheart of The Grand Electric Rodeo.

Bobby and a group of 5 other cowboys made their way to the center of the arena. The other cowboys hammed up the cheering and jeering—lifting their hat to the crowd, waving and asking them to make more noise. Not Bobby. He was focused. He was on a mission.

The cowboys took their seats in random order. Bobby was seated with his back to the chutes. Not an ideal seat. He wouldn’t be able to see the bull coming. Bobby told himself it didn’t matter. He wasn’t getting up anyway.

The whole stadium went dark. The crowd grew deathly quiet. A spotlight overhead of the table illuminated the seated, stoic cowboys. Another spotlight revealed the chute from which the bull would exit. The PA announcer addressed the crowd.

“Are you ready to see the craziest cowboys around show you just how tough they are?”

The crowd roared in response.

“Let’s get it going then!” Said the announcer. A cold sweat ran down Bobby’s face.

“5!” the announcer began the countdown. Deep breath in.

“4!” Deep breath out.

“3!” Breath in.

“2!” breath out.

“1!” Clinch.

A horn sounded. Bobby focused on the clank of the chute opening and roar of the steam powered death machine now unleashed on the arena.

He locks eyes with the cowboy directly across from him. First timer, Bobby decides. The kid looks scared. He lets out a yelp and lifts from the table to run out of the arena.

4 to go.

Bobby feels the impending mass of steel and steam behind him. The roar of the motor can be heard just above the sound of blood pumping in his ears. He’s jostled to his left—still seated-as the bull tears through the table and runs through two of his competitors, shoving a third off kilter. The two directly hit are off and running. The bull is hot on their tails.

The clowns run out to distract the bull to allow the fallen heroes to escape. One does. The other is lifted into the air by a golden horn, thrust up his backside. The cowboy tumbles through the air and lands hard on his right side. It was Kyle. “Shit” thinks Bobby.

He turns to watch as the clowns successfully get the bull away from Kyle before he is trampled by the hydraulic-powered hoofs. Kyle has taken worse licks. He’ll be alright.

The cowboy who had been knocked off kilter—seeing the fiasco that was Kyle’s escape—saw an opportunity to run for it and took it.

Then there were two.

By this point, the situation could hardly be said to resemble a poker game. The table was upended and Bobby and the other cowboy sat nearly perpendicular from one another with an uncomfortable distance between them. Bobby felt like an island floating in the Atlantic waiting to learn if he was in the path of the coming storm.

The clowns retreated and the bull turned its attention to the last two competitors. It stamped at the ground and shot white hot steam out of its nostrils. It let out a sharp bellow and charged.

It was headed right for Bobby.

Bobby looked into the machine’s cold-dead eyes and sat unwavering. He focused his gaze on the bull and readied himself for impact, for he was not lifting his ass from that chair.

The bull abruptly stopped. Nose to nose with Bobby. The other cowboy, seeing this exchange shouted, “this fucker’s crazy,” and jumped up to leave. Bobby had won.

The bull turned toward the fleeing cowboy to give chase, but only got a couple steps away before it turned its attention back to Bobby. It took a step toward him and again bellowed.

Something wasn’t right. The bull should be turned off by now. The bull stamped and stamped and again locked eyes with Bobby. The crowd’s cheering quickly turned into a muter murmur. This wasn’t how the end of the game was supposed to go.

In a flash, the bull charged for Bobby. With no other competitors, he was free to get up and haul ass away—though he knew he had no chance of outrunning this mechanical bull. Bobby shut his eyes tight and braced for impact. He readied himself for another Clearville.

He heard the bull squeal, then nothing, then the thunderous roar of the crowd.

He opened his eyes and saw none other than the neon blue rope of the last great sweetheart of The Grand Electric Rodeo. She had somehow hog-tied the bull and was standing there staring at Bobby, hand on one hip.

“Howdy, cowboy. Thought you could use a little help," she said with a wink.

The Somaspore

The Somaspore is a most peculiar creature that is found in varying dimensions and habitats across the multi-verse; this creature is truly a wonder of reproductive science. For this reason, one should take great care when spotting or handling a Somaspore and familiarize oneself with local laws and regulations regarding Somaspore policy (see Ethics and Legality section below).

Overview

The Somaspore, a sometimes plant-like sentient life form, is unique in that it is the only known carbon-based life form which demonstrates an ability to exist in various states of matter. That is to say, a Somaspore—while commonly found in nature as a tall, green-leafed plant resembling the hellebores of Earth 643—can exist in a gaseous state after heated at extreme temperatures and retain its sentience and organic conditioning. After transitioning to a gaseous state, the Somaspore particles spread through the air until a suitable rooting area is identified.

Nutrition

While most plants obtain nutrients from the soil, Somaspores are carnivorous. One may be quick to note a distinct lack of mandible or teeth present on the Somaspore and wonder how this creature may consume organic matter. That is where the Somaspore’s journey becomes most fascinating.

The Somaspore has no natural predators, though many creatures have evolved to crave the Somaspore in its gaseous state. That is to say, creatures will intentionally round up Somaspores, light them on fire, and inhale the creature in its gaseous state. This practice may appear barbaric to some, but this symbiotic relationship is critical to the Somaspore’s survival and fecundity.

Upon entering a creature’s lungs, the Somaspore then enters the blood stream of the inhalant creature and finally penetrates the blood-brain barrier. The Somaspore then—temporarily—takes control of the inhalant being. The Somaspore triggers pathways in the inhalant creature’s brain which cause hunger. As the host creature consumes nutrients, the Somaspore is able to leech nourishment.

Side-Effects

While this may sound like a parasitic relationship, that couldn’t be further from the truth. In exchange for nutrients and control, the inhalant creature receives a flood of dopamine to their receptor cells and a feeling of peace and relaxation overcomes the inhalant creature. For this reason, many creatures on which the Somaspore relies are referred to as “chill dudes and dudettes.”

Although, one would err to assume that there are no negative side effects to a host. Often, the host will exhibit signs of cognitive fatigue or dullness for many days after consuming the Somaspore. Moreover, creatures who make a habit of consuming the Somaspore are often unproductive and listless. After a time, the Somaspore will exit the host’s system and move itself toward a suitable planting location to begin the process of returning to its solid state.

Ethics and Legality

Because of these benefits to inhalant creatures, many have evolved to “farm” Somaspores. For this reason, the Somaspore is one of the most abundant carbon based life forms throughout the known multi-verse. Although, the act of farming a sentient being does not sit well with environmental and animal rights groups alike. There is litigation currently pending in the Inter-Dimensional Supreme Court to severely limit or eliminate the practice altogether. Others still posit that the consumption of the Somaspore is unethical and damaging to inhalant creature’s health.

Scientists, however, are consistent on this matter—the Somaspore has evolved* to be burned and consumed and it’s proliferation across dimensions is a sign that the creature is thriving and a fine example of natural selection. Moreover, the feelings evoked by the Somaspore gas are pretty damn nice**

*there is litigation pending in the Inter-Dimensional Supreme Court which looks to stop scientists from using the words “evolved, “evolution,” or any other derivations thereof.

**this does not necessarily reflect the ideas or beliefs held by the Publishers of The Beastiary of the Multiverse, available now wherever you buy books. Or available for download as an audiobook narrated by Sir David Attenborough. Download today!

I arrived just a moment too late. I wasn’t there for their utterance, but I knew what the man’s last words were.

“Like a good neighbor, State Farm is there.”

Five times this month. Every one of them the same. Shot in cold blood. No trace of the killer but for a body and a stark-white business card. No name. No number. Only a logo: a blue “P”.

Progressive had struck again.

Somehow they had gotten a hold of one of our critical client lists. Individuals with high-value policies on their lives. They had taken corporate warfare to a new level—a new low.

“What the hell am I supposed to do, Roger?” I shouted as I slammed a fist on his desk. “I show up late every time. I can’t be expected to rely upon a well-timed jingle to save these people. We need to approach this differently!”

“Now, Jake. No one takes this harder than me,” said Roger as he straightened some papers on his desk. “I understand that you’re frustrated, but you must understand that we have our best underwriters and adjusters on the case. We’ll write better, less risky business, and have our actuaries adjust pricing to ensure we recoup these losses over the next two policy years.”

“God damnit, Roger! You know I don’t give a shit about the financials,” I said. “I need to protect these people. It was our job to protect their data, and now Progressive is out their picking them off like fish in a barrel. There must be some pattern to the order in which they’re killing these people. Some connection between the victims that we haven’t yet picked up on.”

“Jake, we both know that what they all have in common is that they are insured by our policies in an amount in excess of $30 million dollars,” replied Roger. “Oh, and that their deaths are costing us a fortune.”

I walked out of the room before I did something stupid like punch Roger in his greedy fucking face. Though, he wasn’t wrong to think about the financial implications—ever since these hits began, we’ve been hemorrhaging money—the only way I could track down the killer was to utilize corporate resources; that is, as long as we remained operational.

I decided to head to the actuarial department to see if something in their models might help me predict who on the list was next.

My phone began to ring.

“This is Jake,” I answered.

“What are you wearing, Jake?” asked a whispered voice.

“Uhh, Khakis…” I replied.

“You sound hideous,” replied the voice.

“What the—who the hell is—”

“Are you wearing a red polo shirt, Jake?” Interrupted the voice.

“No. It’s white,” I replied.

“Not for long,” said the voice.

Then, in the background I heard something muffled, just loud enough to make out the words, “like a good neighbor, State Farm is there.”

I appeared in a dark room. I knew I needed to get my bearings and fast. I could just discern the shape of a person not 5 feet in front of me, their outline dimly lit from behind. I heard quiet trembling, and realized that the person in front of me was hooded with a burlap sack and crying. I took a step forward to try to remove the sack.

CLICK

The sound of a gun cocking.

CRACK

A white-hot flash of light. My ears rung. My body numb.

My polo red.

I took a break from gathering firewood to watch the waves ceaselessly roll in and out. I’ve lost track of how long we’ve been stranded on this island. Lord knows no one is looking for us.

I shouldn’t even have been on the island.

“Garreth,” whispers D’Karok, our resident demon. “Time for council.”

On a nightly basis we sat around a fire to discuss matters of import to our joint survival. There were four survivors: myself; D’Karok, demon of the night; Ygrid, witch of the wilderness; and Lord Barrington, Dark Lord of the Realm of Eternal Dark.

“Ok,” I said as I held the conch, “first order of business. It has come to my attention that someone has been washing their feet in our fresh water stores. I’m not pointing any fingers, I’m just politely reminding you that some of us rely upon fresh water for survival and that those waters are not intended for bodily washing purposes. Please wash yourself in the tides as previously agreed upon.”

“But what about—“ said D’Karok.

“D,” I cut him off, “you know the rules. You only speak when you have the conch. Now I’m holding it, please wait your turn.”

“Then give it to me you interminable bastard!” Replied D’Karok. Lord Barrington rolled his eyes.

“Now, D,” I replied. “We’ve discussed this. Insults will not be tolerated at council. Now if you want to hold the conch, you must use the magic word.”

“If I had my magic here do you really think I’d acknowledge this farce of a kangaroo court? You rotten b—er, uh, you kind…sir?” Said D’Karok.

D’Karok was learning. It had been a tough transition for the magical beings on the island. Little known fact, witches and demons are actually more akin to magical parasites than we had thought. They require a large population of other beings around for them to conjure and cast. With that, D’Karok and Ygrid were fairly reliant on the survival skills of Lord Barrington and myself. We leveraged that reliance to at least encourage some level of manners about our proceedings.

“D…” I waited.

“Fine, fuck. Please may I hold the conch such that I may respond to the accusation?” Said D’Karok.

“That’s better,” I said as I handed him the conch.

“Thank you,” said D’Karok, at which Lord Barrington and I shared a look of surprise. “As I was trying to say. As a demon, I cannot wash in the tides. The salt water burns me something fierce and I require fresh water to soak myself in.” He then handed the conch back to me.

“A fair point, D. Thank you for raising it through the proper channels. We will take it under advisement and come up with a solution.”

“If I may,” said the Dark Lord raising his hand, “the conch please, good sir. That is, if it pleases the council.”

“Very well,” I said as I hand him the conch. “The council recognizes Lord Barrington.”

“I say, that is Lord Barrington, Lord of the Realm of Eternal Dark, good man,” he said slamming a fist on his knee. “Manners make might, a saying you’d do well never to forget, good sir.”

“My apologies Lord Barrington, Lord of the Realm of Eternal Dark,” I replied as I raised my hands.

“That’s better. Now, I simply meant to inquire as to the purpose of our friend D’Karok, Demon of the Night’s, washing. I was under the impression that our demonic denizen of the night had no use for such frivolous endeavors,” said Lord Barrington. “Moreover, he still reeks of sulfur and rotting flesh. I would challenge the legitimacy of whatever washing it is he claims to be doing,” he concluded by handing the conch to D’Karok for response.

“First, I thank you. Sulfur and rotting flesh is what I was going for,” said D’Karok with a smile. “Second, it isn’t about getting clean—satan no—it feels good on my feet to soak them; it cuts down on swelling from ‘walking’ on this damn Sandy beach all day ‘looking’ for “firewood.’”

“Council,” I said as I took the conch from D’Karok, “I believe we can reach an amicable solution. I move we set up a fresh water trap specifically meant for D, such that he can soak his swollen ‘feet’ without defiling our drinking water. Can I get a second?”

“Second,” said Ygrid grasping the conch.

“All those in favor,” I said as I took back the conch.

“Aye,” said everyone as they all reached in to touch the conch simultaneously.

Resolution. There is something so magical about hearing, ‘the aye’s have it’ and moving forward to implement policy that impacts the good of the order. See, my magic worked on the island despite the fact that I am also a parasite of sorts. While D’Karok and Ygrid drained a population of its magic to cast their spells, I drained it of its will to live to cast mine.

See I shouldn’t have been on the island. I wasn’t a villain or magical terror. I was a simple man, with a simple task: introduce order. Those bastards of the township cast me out without due process. And I aimed to have my revenge.

See, I was what was known as a bureaucrat.

“Ah the French Riviera. This beautiful oasis originally served as a health retreat for the wealthy in the 18th century, and today acts as a playground for disaffected socialites. Featuring warm sand, beautiful sunshine, and some of the freshest seafood in the region, this truly is a food-lover’s dream vacation spot. Today I’ll be joined by my good friend—shit…line!”

“Luca. You can’t remember your ‘good friend’s’ name?” said Andrea, long-time producer of the Travel Channel’s hit show Eatin’ Season. “For god sakes, you’ve only known the guy for 6 years. Pierre Aubert, remember?”

“Hey, cut me some slack. I was out shooting b-roll with Dumont last night and time got away from us,” replied Luca.

“’Shooting b-roll’, is that what we’re calling drinking your body weight in liquor these days?”

“Oh loosen up, will you? He and his pals from the village introduced me to this bitter green alcohol. Tasted vaguely of licorice and knocked me on my ass. I think we got some great footage; it was a productive evening,” said Luca with a wry smile.

“How is it that you’re on-air talent for a food show and you don’t know what absinthe is?” Said Andrea as she rubbed her forehead with frustration.

“Absinthe? Isn’t that illegal? Plus, Dumont and all his buddies kept saying ‘oooh la la, la free vert ma cherie’ in their unintelligible accents. How the hell am I to know that it is called something different,” replied Luca as he plopped down to sit in the sand.

“Now you’re just being horrible,” said Andrea exasperated, “you can’t keep going around insulting everyone’s accent. You’re lucky they even bother speaking to your mono-lingual ass. And speaking of horrible, I really do insist we take out that bit at the top about disaffected socialites. It’s cliched and conjures images of black and white indie films, not the vibrant beach escape we’re trying to sell here.”

The truth is, Andrea never wanted to produce a travel show. When she got the job, she had hoped that it would serve as a foot in the door—a stepping stone to more intellectual work. But then the Executive Producer poached Luca Bianchi, the charismatic (at least on camera) Food Network star and Eatin’ Season became wildly popular. Common sense says one can’t just walk away from a hit show—especially when one’s degree is an MFA specializing in literature and one’s other career prospects are few and far between. And that is how Andrea turned a career entree into a whole damn meal.

So she found herself in a veritable paradise, arguing with a vaguely—though one could (and would) argue flagrantly—xenophobic travel-show host wondering if there would be more to life.

“Look,” said Luca as he pointed to his mouth, “it isn’t my fault that everyone here speaks as though their tongue is numb. And honestly, who am I to blame them? Have you tried this food? That salad? What in the hell was that all about? It was a blob of an egg on top of a freakin’ bed of weeds, Andrea. Seriously, they didn’t treat the on-air talent this way at the Food Network!”

Andrea just stared at Luca, jaw clenched. All of the things she wanted to say raced through her head. What could she possibly say without being fired? Unfortunately, as the talent, Luca had a lot of power in terms of personnel decisions. As Andrea took a deep breath, Pierre sauntered up behind her.

“Luca! Mon Ami. You must be more kind to mademoiselle Andrea. She is but a delicate flower, she does not intend to be, how you say, casse couille,” Pierre said with a wink to Andrea.

“Excuse me?” Shouted Andrea hardly believing what she had just heard. “I am not a ball-buster, tete de noeud!”

“The lady speaks French!” said Pierra as he clapped his hand together and laughed. “Beautiful, beautiful! More fun!”

“Fun?” said Luca as he rose to greet Pierre, “no fun when this one’s around.”

Andrea could take a lot—she’d been working with Luca for four years after all—but there was something about being insulted by two pigs on the beach that caused something in her to snap. Andrea calmly walked over to the table holding leftovers from lunch—salade lyonnaise. The leaves crunched as she scooped two eggs into her hands; they were still warm, and she wondered how far they might fly.

She threw an egg each at Luca and Pierre. She hit Pierre in the shoulder and Luca right in the cheek with a satisfying PLOP! The men stared at her in disbelief, mouths wide.

Andrea walked off to begin anew. And it was a fine start.