He’s Dead Jim

Ted Kennedy is dead, and I don’t care.

Good riddance to a horrible politician and villain.

May his soul rest in eternal torment.

Is F2P a mature market?

The Free to Play MMO market is positively teeming with games. At first it was just a few small crazy up starts, but these days high-quality, fully developed and mature games are going straight to Free to Play because of the large amounts of cash that can be made on the bleeding edge Micro-Transaction system.

Really is a testament to human stupidity that some people will buy $100 worth of digital goods all while complaining that they hate paying subscription fees.

Why?

Why on earth are geeks so quick to trust the government?

I stood by and watched as legions of bloggers, gamers, writers and more all wrote and stumped for a man bent on increasing the power of the government.

After watching 8 years of one president rewrite the values of his party why would we seek to elect a man interested in carrying on the same?

Why do we trust the government? Why do we want them to solve our problems? Has the last 200+ years taught us nothing? The Government is a problem and a blockade against progress.

I expect that future elections will be marred by our current president’s inability to make good on the 300+ individual promises he made. I had no faith he would keep even a small number of them. The good people, misguided though they were, voted for him in good faith. And now they will be made into fools, creating the greatest generation of cynics to ever walk American soil.

And why should I care? I warned them. I told them the government cannot solve your problems or make good on its promises.

Hey, Gamer Kids! Yeah, You!

Listen up kids.

You don’t get it. You don’t understand. You don’t know what’s going on behind the scenes. You don’t know what it’s like to work for a publisher versus a developer. So cram it!

If you think X Publisher is screwing up a game, how do you know? You don’t know what they’re doing and what choices they have.

Whenever some “horrendous” change is made to your favorite game the developer agreed to it. Don’t blame the publisher, it was the developer.

Ever heard the term “Don’t Shoot the Messenger?” Yeah, exactly. Deal with it kiddies.

Quickly now!

Not much time to write.

Need to write quicker.

Incessant beeps in my ear are incessant!

Jealousy

I have a problem with jealousy.

I don’t mind admitting it. It’s the truth so there’s no good reason to deny it. Whenever someone near me does something gets them even the slightest bit of recognition I get jealous and want to best them.

Consider this a revival.

Exquisite Corpse

inside an refrigerator stranded on an island

autistic savant

Count Dracula

Colors float and bound, I wonder how long life still lasts within these cramped quarters. No seeing, no being, so soon now must I die. This last love song written for a world that will never see me. Stretching out I touch my head, oh a head. Looking around I see nothing but the black colors shifting in front of my eyes. The musty smell of old food, someone left a ketchup packet in. The ketchup is still cool. Reflecting on how I got here I realize that really need some help.

When I first landed on this island a pen and three bars of chocolate were all I had with me. The idiots onboard my cruise ship kept giving me chocolate anytime I tried to communicate with them. certainly I receive things differently, sights colors and sounds are as tangible and real as the physical objects that I can feel and smell. But that’s all in the past, now I’m in a refrigerator on an island, with only god knows how much longer left to wait until I asphyxiate and die.

Despite my cruise’s final destination of Iceland the course sent us East, around the Golden Coast, after passing india and even after our home port of Japan. Being what I am is not easy. I smell what others see, hear what others smell, the smell of a chocolate cake is like a great purple streak wafting away from the black iron oven that cages it. When my cruise ship crashed I can only assume that we were somewhere north east of the Golden coast.

On this island, as I walked about with it odd multihued colors and strangeness abounding I found myself reflecting on the depravity of our time. Strewn about this beautiful beach were the trappings of a world gone mad. I found a picture of a child, dressed as count dracula, amazingly, in an old waterproof lock box. The seal had kept it dry but the lock had rusted beyond repair. After cracking it open I realized there were many other boxes all about.

Indeed, this island was a graveyard for boxes of all kinds, cereal boxes spilled out of a shipping container, boxes of fruity pebbles, corn flakes and Coco-puffs, all aged beyond recent memory. Then something caught my nose. The green smell of plastics and burning electronics. I saw smoke rising from another portion of the island. stumbling my way through that course underbrush I made my way into a clearing. A Television was on fire in the middle, the remote control sat on a pedestal of carved ivory. I pushed at the buttons, the smoke changed colors and the channel flickered about. Losing interest I pressed on to the mountain in the middle of the island.

Climbing up that mountain I saw at the top a great black cloud. Not white and fluffy but great and black. Not a cloud, but, as I saw it, a great rip in the space time continuum, belching forth boxes of all kinds. A green glint caught my nose and I saw something land loudly in a snow bank nearby. A memory long gone and twice passed: a 1979 Kenmoore Avocado Green Fridge. It was pristine, it lay on its side, somehow undamaged. As I walked towards it I was amazed by the shiny chrome ratcheting handle. I reached out, entranced by the shining sun on its handle, I touched it, cold and powerful and lifted the door open. I tripped, the door latched behind me.

Two more minutes. Then silence.

Old Woman Revisted

“Its a strange thing watching a cat die” I thought. In my 80 some odd years I’ve watched many people die. My children, my two husbands, pets, old friends, family all passed before my own time. It wasn’t my fault; but, as I sat on the old gold plush davenport I found myself reflecting on my many years I couldn’t help but remember little Mirtonia. The cat on my lap purred quietly, his eyes are rheumy but not in pain. I stroked the cats remaining ear absent midedly. Staring out the window into the sun-soaked fields of heather I allowed my mind to wander to a time when I was much younger, comely, perhaps even sexy.
“Connie!”
“Yes mother?” I rolled my eyes, my mother was so exasperating to me then.
“I think a package is going to be delivered today, would you mind going to the door and checking for it?” my mother smiled sweetly while gesturing towards the door she couldn’t see. I muimbled an affirmative and sulked towards the door. I was nearly 22 but still living at home because my university was nearby. When I reached the door I jerked it open to find a small box with holes poked in. When I picked it up I had to stifle a smal scream when the box moved. Gingerly, I picked up the box and held it up to the sun and was rewarded with a pair of mismatched eyes staring back at me. I lifted the lid, looking in I saw a calico kitten, not much bigger than my hand. I smiled at the little thing and shouted a “thank you” to my mother. I checked her collar for a name: Mirtonia. I picked up the kitten, the dear didn’t even resist, in fact I recall she mewled in pleasure. As I walked back into the kitchen I distinctly recall the little dear purring heavily as I held her to my breast.
The old cat in my lap gave a pained grumble and I was jolted back to where I was. I gave the old cat a reaffirming pat on the head and went back to scratching its head, talking to it as it worked its way further towards the edge. “You know, you may have been a tough ol’ mean cat in life, but now you’re just a big softy” I chortled at the old cat who merely looked back at mer with the jaded eyes of a cat who had seen the cold alleys of the city and the soft warm laps of the elderly. “Oh I know you hate being reminded, but you must forgive an old women for her observations. As we get older we tend to stop thinking in our heads you know; we become more vocal. I think it reminds us that we can still hear and that we aren’t dead yet.” I smiled at that thought.
“Mirtonia?”
“Mrow!” Mirtonia padded softly towards my bed where I lay, the little calico’s tail upright; bent at the tip where she had gotten it caught in a door. Lithely, she hopped onto my lap. I set down the book I was reading to make room for her.
“Oh Mirtonia, I was wondering when you would come back inside looking for a lap.” I let my hands fall gently to rest on Mirtonia’s head and looked into her mis-matched eyes. Mirtonia just returned my stare, patiently. Confident I had her full attention I began to gently stroke her head as I talked.
“You know you’ve been here a year now. I hope you’re enjoying it.”
“Mrrrr” Mirtonia ascented to my question. Without a doubt, she understood me, or so I liked to believe.
“You know, mom gave you to me because she knew she wouldn’t be here much longer for me. She thought I ought to have someone around so I wouldn’t get too lonely.”
“Mryeew”
I laughed at her response.
“I’m so glad you understand me. Thank you for staying with me darling, this house wold be much colder without you.” I smiled and continued to pet her until the sun set.
“Just a little longer I see” Looking down at the old cat I allowed myself a brief smile for the old dear. The cat’s breath had become shallow, labored. I never really considered it odd that cats always came to me shortly before their death. I probably smell like fish, or maybe I’m haunted by benevolent feline spectres. Ever since little Mirtonia had passed on I never had another kitten. After Mirtonia I only took in old strays, ready to pass on, just looking for a soft lap and a warm place.

Repetition

No one knows just how it is; to lose the one you love. To never see that one person again. No longer a part of each day; that eternal sequence of one to twelve. Each person is unique in their loss, every loss brings one new scar. And this how I was; that unique little snowflake, or so I thought. Not just one blank face in a crowd of thousands. Suddenly I thought my life mattered, that my one little pain was meaningful and made me stand apart from all these happy people going about their happy lives in this damned sequence of one to twelve. Then she came back to me and I was one no longer, I was happy; happy as two people, but in fact as one with the one I loved. Then I died, one casket in the cold hard ground on that cold winter morning where the bishop gave the eulogy, hacking away in that false dulcet tone of his, he ended with just one phrase: ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

She Wore Red

She wore red. It was the first time I had seen her in something other than her ill-fitting fatigues and old bomber jacket. Slinky, clingy in the right places yet still practical, it had a high slit that would be easy to run in, the top was tight and the shoulders were free of restraint. Had I not seen her in action I would have loved her. But she was not to be loved, she was unyielding and cold; skin like velvet and a heart of granite. Damn that red dress. I wore a suit, suits aren’t hard to run in and in a pinch you can fight in them. If it came to it I could always lose the jacket and leave behind a slew of evidence, my DNA, where I bought the coat… all traceable. If we did everything right it wouldn’t be an issue. Too many “ifs” and not enough certainties. This felt bad. She held all the cards, I didn’t know enough. Damn that red dress.

We pulled up to the place, dark and foreboding with a bunch of knobs sitting sipping cognac and smoking illegally imported cigars in an upper room. It was invitation only. No one would know us though; this was our first time at this special dinner. They were all sick bastards. They held to ancient codes and cabals. They hailed from various locales around the globe. Every continent was represented. Rumor had it there was even someone from Antarctica here, some sort of monk with a high tolerance to cold. My nerves were tense as I pulled the old Bentley into the spot marked for us. My classic Bentley looked like a hobo’s boot next to all the others, we were definitely the white trash at this party. But then, what could you do with knobs?

The room was smoky and relaxed. They laughed and joked jovially in many languages. We were assured that the other guests would be receptive and sensitive to the fact that this was our first time. Not that it mattered, if everything went well they’d all be dead before we’d have a first time. That poor bastard in the kitchen didn’t even know what was going on, they had him dosed with nitrous oxide if the reports were true. Apparently fear makes meat tough. A laugh and a friendly wave from our host brought me out of my thoughts. Don’t look towards the kitchen you twit I thought to myself.

“Ah my friends, I knew you would come, I was just telling Amir here about the strange coincidence under which we met.” He motioned towards a man with dark skin and crescent shaped piercings through his eyebrows, he wore a ten thousand dollar tailored suit from a store most people can’t even find. Of course, the “coincidence” was a carefully manufactured situation to get us close to him.

He had been walking down the street towards his $200,000 grocery getter when two large men accosted him for his keys. As expected of knobs, he tried to talk his way out, then he tried to pay. When that failed he begged pitifully. The men we had hired were doing their job well, then came the finale. She jumped in, broke one man’s arm while I plugged the other with a round from my revolver. She let him scream for a bit, then snapped his neck to make him shut up. Our host told us to put the bodies in the back of his knobby car. Never once considering why we had helped him. Some people are still dumb enough to believe in humanity. I hate people like that.

Then he introduced himself, it didn’t matter, we knew his name but acted like we didn’t. Women are born liars and Sandra had plenty of practice. I, on the other hand, was confident; the military does that to you. The knob was Marten Hathers. Marten belonged to an ancient cabal of mystics that have been causing trouble for centuries, if not longer. They believed in old gods of horror and chaos. No one had any real records on these people; they had only recently shown up to us because some kid in Oxfordshire had seen them performing their horrible rituals. The poor kid was long dead, but he managed to whisper his secrets to a few others, those others were dead too. But it eventually got to us after cutting a swath of bloody destruction.

“You are in for a treat today, we found a young man of 20, no family, in-between jobs. We can take our time.” I tried to conceal my disgust. Don’t break now I reminded myself. “The chef will be preparing a 5 course meal… he is…” He paused carefully choosing his next words. “…quite skilled, special arrangements had to be made of course, finding a trustworthy person is so very difficult. Our last chef had to be silenced.” The lady spoke, finally, probably sensing my lack of control. “Of course, thank you for inviting us, we have been interested in this sort of cuisine for quite some time but lacked the proper skill to prepare it.” Hathers seemed pleased by this. “A token of my gratitude, such an amazing coincidence really, meeting the way we did. I am quite lucky to be alive.” His voice had an accent I couldn’t place, he gave me the creeps, I wanted to get this finished as soon as possible. A waiter came by with a cigar box and cognac for the two of us, I took both so as to appear sociable, I puffed the cigar a bit, letting the nicotine relax me, I pretended to drink the cognac, taking a small taste. Knobby shit, give me a dark beer you bastard. A bell rang and the nightmare began.

It took ten seconds; start to finish. The poor kid was brought out on a dolly, dosed up on his gas. It was a ritualistic ceremony so he had to be ritualistically executed. Sandra gave me her signal: a kiss on the cheek and a whispered “Go.” I pulled my Beretta, 5 of the guests already dead; throwing knives in their foreheads. I fired at Marten’s knees so as to keep him alive but out of the action. Chaos reigned. The dinner had become a crimson feast of pain and suffering. Sandra danced about, like a ballerina from the other world, wicked and beautiful. Her long hair spun, red as the blood she was letting. I stared, dumbstruck by her bloody dance of knives. Stars lit up in front of my eyes. I had been punched by the Arab I had seen earlier. He had a decent hook but the idiot had gotten close. The explosion out of my pistol reported his death. The chef chose that moment to burst out of the kitchen, crazed and wielding a cleaver. He swung at me and nicked my forehead. Pain etched its way into my skull and blood started clouding my vision. I took a wild shot and hit a guest instead. He was out of sight. The hair on my neck pricked, I ducked and heard the wish of a knife in the air where my head had just been. I threw my foot back and heard the crack as it connected with the chef’s knee. On his knees I put the gun to his head and finished him off. The room had gone silent, save for Marten’s whimpering. Sandra had taken care of the other guests. I was breathing hard and had blood in my eyes. I tore the sleeve off my shirt and made a bandage to staunch the flow. Sandra walked amongst the guests, collected her knives and cleaned them before returning them to their hidden holsters about her person. Marten stared in horror at us, stuttering and stammering. The kid was waking up so we blindfolded and gagged him. We dragged Marten onto the banquet table, did him up with tourniquets and made a quadriplegic of him.

Walking out, with the kid on my shoulder, I lit the place up as we left. We drove off into the night, a job well done. We didn’t talk; she just sucked away on a clove cigarette. We stopped at an E.R. to drop off the kid, it wasn’t part of the contract but she insisted. I had to admit, she looked good in red.