Long After the Plunge

          Words trickle and drip down the sink. Letter, periods, whole damn sentences get stuck in the traps, junction and lord forbid the sewer pipe. Plumbers have been known to become wordsmiths out of sheer immersion in the stuff. It’s not uncommon for a journeyman to be covered head to toe with it: poems on his hand, face smattered with awfully stupid philosophy, and an amateur novel just sprayed all over him. No matter how hard you clean you can still smell the literacy, just a little bit.
          Paul’s been a plumber for 20 years and a literati for 15. He’s got a new novel and he’s shopping it around but nobody’s biting. Roots still creep and drains still clog, so he’s not afraid of going hungry. Marla Oglesby of 212 Rivolli Blv has a problem with her drain. Her problem is she had decided to drop a perfectly good sentence down a s pipe. Careless, but she’s old. Paul tucked it into his bag           He tries to get her to switch to copper and she doesn’t. No one buys copper, it cost too much and isn’t better enough for your average jerk to switchover. The difference is, pvc was never built to hold your soul like copper was. Sure it’ll take your waste and water but those parts of you that are less tangible? Well, they’ll just drip into your crawlspaces and then you’ll end up leaving a part of you that you thought discarded. The next home owners definitely won’t want it.
          He walks out the backdoor. There’s nothing to be done for Ms. Oglesby. She’ll just keep on in her way until she meets the grave. Most people do. Paul secretly hopes he’s not part of that majority. The van starts on the second time and he’s off the clock. Home is where the heart is, which is why he doesn’t feel the need to hide the wire and the pipes. One story, one basement; it’s his cave now and it all works just fine.
          Immediately, he delves into the basement with that sack of dirty language. Heavy wash, regular amount of detergent, it’ll come up clean. There’s a light clamped to an old pipe above an old poker table that’s been overburdened since it’s acquisition. There’s a few sentences in various states of development:

The avowed protestants quietly worshiped their lord and savior Jesus Christ.
The girls were teases, everyone and Michael knew this. His blade was sharp, his mind keen.
I love you.

           More

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The Big Zen Garden

Ron, you haven’t checked in for a while so I decided to hobble my ass to the slums. 10 stories and they all smelled like eggs. Phil (who was soused by the way) says hi. Jee…z he gets gropey when drunk.

So what’s the hold up, just stamp ’em, ship ’em.

Crap is that a pen in your hand? Tell me your not.

You don’t name the sand Ron. First thing they taught you. The sand names itself. You make the sand, you grow the sand, you watch the sand but sand names sand. It’s what we call freewill. We don’t give them any vote but we give them say. Say’s free, say keeps them happy and keeps our jobs cush. Without say, we’ve got a bunch of little nothings doing nothing. It’s boring as fuck. So we give them say and we don’t have to make cable tv and hooker allowances.

Why would you want to name one? Oh for, are you making a messiah? Do you have any idea what kind of fail rate Messiah’s have? Newsflash: avatars suck and prophets go offscript. Micromanagement is a no no.

Oh don’t give me that, this is different.

How? I was bored.

Uh uh my friend, I manage you, you have no idea what boring is until you manage you.

No. Breach of protocol, plus you need 200 more years before you’re up for promotion.

Just put… Evinrude back in the pile. Wait, Seriously? Fuck that, file a I527 Naming Intervention. Tina. Or Murphy. Get her an early adoption papers, parents could probably die in a meth lab explosion. Easily.
Okay, Charlie’s got a birthday party. Yeah he’s an asshole but he’s an unfair asshole and if you act all buddy buddy with him that could mean big things for you. I see the coffee pot is empty and dirty. I blame you.

Why?

Bored.

Defection

At one end of a complicated assembly there lies a missile. If you follow the wire from the clamps up the fuselage into the cockpit you’ll find a man holding a stick. As he sits above enough payload to demolish the twin cities he realizes that perhaps it would be better if the computer had the will to make this decision for him.

The people of Minneapolis would agree if only he would have a discussion with them. The airport was quite talkative when the F22 entered their air space without permission, The F22 has no real opinion on the matter and no real thoughts of any kind. Andrew tries to speak to the F22 but it’s futile. Quite stubbornly the thing clings to its inanimate nature.

F16s are scrambling to his position as he keeps trying to get the fighting machine to take control of his destiny. He has kept the comm channel on as he cooed and coaxed the fighter jet in hopes of relieving himself of his actions. Truth is, if his metal betters were not going to answer him this treason was just about pointless.

Carefully, he descends into the MSP airport. Andrew takes off his helmet and allows himself a sigh. As he sits in the cockpit whiling away the seconds before arrest, he thinks how much nicer this bird would be without him. He didn’t even remember holding the gun. The slide moves back and the glass turns red.

Oh, But Not Even For The Muse Of A Stabbing Monkey

Okay, you’re pissing me off. It’s been ten days and still tabula rasa. I’ve sacrificed a chicken in your name and you still give me nothing. Not even the chicken blood I’ve smacked on the canvas has inspired me. The tom cat I acquired from Ms. Pendelton’s apartment refuses to dance so I must go to the most desperate measure to summon you, my muse. After the tom cat comes the monkey with the knife. I hope you’re happy, I need a tetanus shot now. Screw you my muse, I’m going back to the warehouse where I was loved and respected. Here has too many tom cats and stabbing primates.

The Salvation Of Our Public Schools Lies In Cyborgs

The new children come with Ethernet cards integrated. It takes about four years for the RJ-48 port to fully develop but when they do the hope is that they will download the pertinent information.. We’ll soon be experimenting with wifi but I’m not so sure that it’s a good idea; the kids might get tired searching for a signal. Really, you’d think it would be easier just to improve our school systems but test scores have to go up and we have funding for gene therapy and drastic surgery.

Sometimes while working all night over a hot overclocked baby, I start to wonder if this progress is worth it. Then the baby pees on me and I know that the cooling system is still working. I can usually install a 2.8ghz dual core in them, but if they’re being fussy I have to scale back to just a hyperthreaded processor. I can only hope that all the babies I give back to the world use the pdfs I endowed them with wisely and hopefully find solace in knowing that they are all quite formidable home theater setups.

It’s the small things really,

The Savage Shot The Darkness

The antique Savage sat on the desk. Even in it’s own day, the pistol was considered unpredictable but now somewhere near a century since it’s creation it was unthinkable that Frank would have loaded it; unthinkable, to everyone but Frank who wasn’t thinking quite right. The hookah on Frank’s other side was supposed to be have tobacco in it. It didn’t.

What it did have was a strange black smoke that granted Frank new spectrums of visible light. These new sights were men, men of foggy, hazy, black persuasion. From the hazy silhouette all one can see of these men are ten sharp light catching metallic edges, one for every finger. As one came closer, it seemed to laugh. Frank being not of sound mind shot the monster and in it’s a last moments it seemed familiar.

Two others came and he disposed of them just the same. Their shadows moved across the floor and stained the carpet red. More shades would come for him. In the right drawer nest to the pens sat a box of .380s one hundred full. The sweat kept on; Justin knew the trip was far from over.

The Summer of 2011 Has Been Redacted

The summer of 2011 was redacted and edited after a voter’s referendum. We had to turn back the clock and just start the whole thing over. There was never an invasion of 90 year old ten story tall women. Three thousand people died of anthrax and the city of Austin was destroyed by a meteor. We’re told to say this over and over again and sooner or later, the theory goes that we might just believe it. Still, it’s hard to forget and that’s why the government has free clinics running all around the nation. I’m hoping those doctors are good, I need to remove that giant drooping bush lingering within my mind.