The beach

The ocean scars the coast across a body - a lone, weak human spread between the land and the wake - he holds on to the sand, struggling against the tugs of the dark void of unknown suffocation. It terrifies him. There was a time when he had a rope to hold on to. It was strong and faded into the distant forest at the edge of the beach. In to the unknown, but nonetheless a place where he wanted to go. Less people were there because it was a place to be desired. For the majority floated in the sea, treading constantly to stay afloat, traveling where the ocean's currents dictated. If you were on land, you traveled your own direction; and you didn't have to work so hard to stay afloat.

But between these two places - the land and the sea - is the beach. This is where the struggle is forged by many who dream of better places. Laying on their stomachs, fighting for oxygen like washed up fish in the shallows, these people risk their lives to claw at the dry sand - to hold the land in their hands. Freedom smells like salt; but they'll dehydrate if they fight too long on the beach - they must progress or recede.

He had a rope. His father had threw it to him. But the tide receded - pulling him out. The rope was far away now, and he didn't know if he could make it until the tide brought him back up. There was always the option to stand up - to walk - but he'd never done it by himself. He didn't know how, so he crawled. The sand was wet and loose - and the current had sent him to a part of the beach that was steep - it was difficult.

Not only that, the current had a history of taking him places that would make it more difficult for him to tolerate a place such as the beach. Fuck the current. This beach is killing me.

Corpsefucking

Necrophilia, also called thanatophilia or necrolagnia or corpsefucking, is a paraphilia characterized by a sexual attraction to corpses. The word is artificially derived from Ancient Greek: νεκρός (nekros; "corpse," or "dead") and φιλία (philia; "love"). The term appears to have originated from Krafft-Ebing's 1886 work Psychopathia Sexualis.

Figuratively, the term "necrophilia" describes an inordinate desire to control another person, usually in the interpersonally controlling as to be better-suited to relationships with nonresponsive people.

Cause and prevalence

Virtually no research has been conducted regarding the prevalence of necrophilic attraction among humans. Klaf and Brown (1958) commented that, although rarely described, necrophilic fantasies may occur more often than is generally supposed.

Rosman and Resnick (1989) theorized that either of the following situations could be antecedents to necrophilia (pp. 161):

1. The necrophile develops poor self-esteem, perhaps due in part to a significant loss;

   (a) He (usually male) is very fearful of rejection by women and he desires a sexual object who is incapable of rejecting him; and/or

   (b) He is fearful of the dead, and transforms his fear of the dead—by means of reaction formation—into a desire for the dead.

2. He develops an exciting fantasy of sex with a corpse, sometimes after exposure to a corpse.

The authors also reported that, of their sample of 'necrophiliacs,' 68% were motivated by a desire for an unresisting and unrejecting partner; 21% by a want for reunion with a lost partner; 15% by sexual attraction to corpses; 15% by a desire for comfort or to overcome feelings of isolation; and 12% by a desire to remedy low self-esteem by expressing power over a corpse (pp. 159).

Minor modern researches conducted in England have shown that some necrophiles tend to choose a dead partner after failing to create romantic attachments with the living.

Consensuality issue

Although obtaining consent is not usually considered a prerequisite for activity with non-living material, sexual activity with a human corpse is taboo and frequently labelled 'abuse,' based on the presumption that the person would not have consented to the act while alive, and that it would thus constitute a profound and disturbing disrespect for their remains to be treated in a way other than their wishes.

Although virtually all human societies condemn sexual activity with the dead as a form of symbolic disrespect, several groups, individuals, and publications have pushed for the legalization of necrophilic acts. "The NecroErotic," for example, argues that "necrophiliacs have as much right to engage in their orgasmic release of choice as do 'normal' couples," and that "all 'rights' cease the moment a person draws their last breath."

Prevention

Although no person may defend themselves physically after death, there are precautions which can be taken place to prevent the abuse of one's corpse:

1. Being buried in a sealed casket in a protected cemetery.
   
2. Filling the vagina with an impenetrable substance.
3. Setting booby traps.
   
4. Cremation.

Notable Corpsefuckers

Main article: List of Famous Corpsefuckers

Amognst Asians

Main article: Asian Sex Fetishes

Of all current civilizations in the world, eastern Asia has the most documented cases on corpsefucking.

On September 15, 2006 Korean officials dismissed charges of attempted sexual assault against three men accused of trying to dig up a woman's body to have sex with the corpse. Twins Pai and Long Tong, 20, and Moko "Mikey" Yanagita, 20, were arrested after an alleged attempt to dig up the body of 20-year-old Lin Lai who was killed Aug. 27 in a motorcycle crash. Authorities said the three were not acquainted with Lai but had seen an obituary with her photo.

Subdivisions

From the moment of death, a human body's physical state will deteriorate over time. Most necropiliacs desire a corpse that is relatively fresh, however there are some that desire a corpse in the putrefaction stage of decomposition and even the "bare bones" stage. Because of this, it has been argued that necrophilia should be divided into sub catagories.

The exclusive necrophilia periodical Deathfuck uses a few common terms to diversify:

1. Classicing or Mainstreaming are terms used to describe engaging in sexual activity with a fresh corpse.
   
2. Putrid Corpsefucking or PC is a term used to describe engaging in sexual activity with a corpse in the putrefaction stage of decomposition. Other slang terms are Grannyfucking and LGC (loosie-goosie corpsefucking).
3. BBC (Bare-bones corpsefucking) or simply boning are terms to describe the engagement of sexual activity with the remains of a human skeleton.

In addition, according to Egyptian historians, instances of sex acts with mummified human remains have been documented. While this is very rare, mummyfucking is the choice term to identify such cases.

Skullfucking

There is some controversy surrounding wheather or not skullfucking should be divided into epidermal and post-epidermal catagories. The term bare bones skullfucking or BBS has cought on in the alt.binaries.pictures.erotica.cpsfkng.bbs newsgroup, which has worried subscribers in the alt.binaries.pictures.sex.skullfuck newsgroup. Board member skullfucker79 says:

“

I don't want people to think that I actually fuck real skulls - that's sick. I just want to stick my cock in my girlfriend's face and pound away, that's all.

”

Hacker

"He's much like a process that's in use: you can't delete him. No matter what you do - it's impossible. The system doesn't allow it. So move on - find another way."

I have his address.

"Richter - don't. You mustn't."

It was his mistake. He left himself wide open. He knows the rules.

"Rules? He doesn't play by the rules!"

That's precisely the point. He doesn't. So I won't. If that's the way he likes it than that's the way he'll get it.

"You know he wins if you do that. Then you're playing like him."

No I'm not! He's playing with computers! I'm playing with real physical matter that just might assist in bashing his skull right the fuck in! He doesn't win, Kent - he'll be fucking dead! I win! I win motherfucker!

~

Richter stood in the shadows in front of Dmonwv's physical address:

179.709.002.02

He clutched a baseball bat in his tightly clenched fists - Richter was still very pissed off. The only reason he was lurking in the dark was to wait until the lights inside the house turned off. Then he would walk over to the house and find a way in.

There were no passcodes - no keys required. In the physical world, things break with the most understandable methods: brute force. And so the baseball bat did the shattering of the window - clearing away the glass so Richter could reach thru and unlock the door. It was so simple.

Now he stood in darkness, wondering where that basterd hacker was hiding - probably thinking up some plan in his mind that he thought was so brilliant - or probably equally terrified at the prospects of a real break in. Dmonwv.dll had never had to face physical threats - only virtual ones.

On his computer, Dmonwv amassed an virtual army to patrol and protect his beloved digital realm that was Windows XP. But here, in his crumbing, dirty and not the least bit padlocked or ADT'd bachelor pad, Dmonwv realized that he had certainly left some gaping holes in the security of his computer. He peered out from behind his partially opened bedroom door to see Richter heading for his computer - with a bat raised - it was too much for Dmonwv to bear silence.

"NOOOOOOO!"

But Richter lay down the hatchet into the brushed aluminum tower. It didn't distort much - so he went for the dual LCD monitors - ending their brilliance.

Dmonwv would have tried to stop Richter, but he left his glasses on the bureu, and couldn't see very well. So he stood dumb and blind in the darkness, watching Richter destroy his only means for being.

When he had felt enough satisfaction - Richter turned around and headed for the skinny figure hiding in the darkness.

Dmonwv closed the door to his bedroom and leapt onto his bed - going for the window behind the headboard, but that was pointless. The poorly manufactured 1970's Arab-oil-embargo-era door burst into a thousand splinters as Richter advanced. He grabbed Dmonwv by the neck and punched him across the face. The computer science graduate had never felt such pain in his entire life - so tears sprung to his eyes.

But Richter couldn't see them in the dark. Only the silhouette of some mysterious, malicious hacker who put a virus on Richter's computer that was so bad, it ultimately caused his internet retail business to fall into bankruptcy. Now his life was at stake - his children's, too. How could he feed them without a job - without money? Apparently, when Dmonwv wrote such malicious code, he had no foresight into such things. And he never foresaw this, otherwise he'd have stayed away from computers period.

~

It just so happened that Dmonwv's house was equipped with a dungeon (or as some people might call a basement). Richter threw Dmonwv onto the hard stone floor - his hands and feet bound together and his mouth taped shut. These precautions would insure that Dmonwv would not be able to be mobile - to speak - to eat - to be heard or discovered, etc.

But Richter didn't want Dmonwv to just lay there in peace - he wanted him to be in severe pain. So he broke some of Dmonwv's ribs - so that every breth he took, was one he'd wished he couldn't. Richter also stepped Dmonwv's face - crushing his nose to make it even harder for him to breathe. And before he left, Richter found a hammer which he used to crush Dmonwv's fingers, turning the bones into splinters.

The enraged Richter spied the shimmering blade of an axe in a dark corner.

"No" Dmonwv muttered in agony, "please."

"You hack me," Richter lifted the axe, "I hack you."

The weight of the blade plunged into Dmonwv's bare abdomen, sinking into the maze of his intestines and spilling out blood and bits of digested food that the young man had consumed to continue living, but now it was all pouring over the genitals he never used and onto the cold concrete floor - what a waste, he might have thought, if the pain wasn't sending him into a state of shock, the realization that he would die soon probably would.

Richter lifted the blade and let it fall once more - this time sinking into Dmonwv's chest. The bones seemed to crack so easily, and a second strike sent the wedge further in. At this point, there was no sign of life from the young man. Richter was satisfied.

Chlorophoeyple

By 2177 the Moon had five hundred thousand human inhabitants. At the same time, the first five thousand were brooding on Mars and the ISA was sending its first manned space vehicle to Jupiter's satellite Io. It would take the energy of a 50 megaton atomic bomb - or about 1% of the energy the Sun spends in a fraction of a second - to send five humans to a barren rock about 375 million miles away from the earth - the equivilant of driving from Houston to El Paso, Texas about a half a million times. But on the day the crew of Jovian I touched down on Io, the live televised transcultural phenomenon International Superstar was favored over the time delayed Ionian landing by a ratio of 3:1. Since advanced spaceprobes were able to transcribe the geography of all things within the solar system with such realistic precision, people already knew what to expect from Io. The power of such advanced computing machines had allowed man to conquest the known universe from his own desk. Wheather or not he knew this was real, he believed it enough.

And such defines the era. A time when fiction and reality was so successfully blurred by technology that time and place were no longer important to a person. Past generations had speculated that humans were incapable of living as pure telecommunicators, but the newer generations proved them wrong. Of course not all were like this - there were still many people who engaged in the classic, lo-tech face-to-face human conversation, but these people were known as liberals or hippies, and were regarded as extremeists to many. Alas the whole of the human race had been successfully hypnotised by the higher powers, even with an open source Internet, they were blissfully ignorant of what kind of side effects this would have on the evolution of humans.

A millennium later humanity found themselves at the crossroads of a new era: intergalactic space travel. It was not the kind that the humans had longed resisted - traveling in hypersleep for decades before reaching their destinations - but a new kind that was somewhere in between teleportation and virtual reality.

Quantum physics had long been the standard for transporting data faster than light. Though it was never used for transporting organic matter - as biometric frameworks were still too complex an unpredictable to be dissected and then properly rearranged by any machine - humans had found a way around this problem which was digitizing the human conscious. Once in digital form, the human conscious could be transmitted and re-assembled at the other end in an open framework environment. In this case, the environment would be an android on another planet.

In an instant, a person would find themselves in an artificial body on Gemellus, the Earth-like planet in the Gliese system, which is about 32.5 light years from earth. Of course, the system would only work if real humans pysically traveled there to set up the recieving components of this new system of travel. The spacecraft headed for Gemellus was Ericson I, a generation ship powered by a Bussard ramjet which made the ship capable of near-light speed towards the end of the trip - though it would take 209 years for the ship to arrive.

One might suspect that the crew would remain in suspended animation, but such a long time in a chryotube was dangerous and risky. The idea of a generation ship is that many generations of the crew birth and die during the journey. In this case, the ship started out with ten families. Half of these were trained experts in the components concerning quantum mechanics, the next three were physical scientists with respective expeirience in biology, geology and medicine, and the last two families were astrophysicists - exclusive to navigating and operating the ship. Ericson I was also equipped with five operating droids who carried out the housekeepings and general maintenances of the ship. They were Dale, Elvin, June, Kandra and Mossimo. Their names were called for by the humans more than any other.

The humans kept professional relationships. They understood that their good behavior was being depended upon by the whole of humanity, so they spent their brainpower on matters which were cohesive to those ends, not ends which involved daydreams and wonder. Though it was a fairly open truth that the closer the familys came to Gemellus, the more they wondered about the existance of an intelligent species other than their own. The most fervent wonderers of this were two boys in the last generation: Julian Delphi and Orion Kaminski. Even though Julian's parents were in quantum mechanics and Orion's were biologists - and both of them were destined to carry the same expertise - they still shared a similar interest, and that was the little green men.

By now the appearance of extra terrestrials as little green men was old legend, but the boys had discovered these relics on the network archives when they were only four, and since then, they had been relaying messages of images and accounts of how many humans in the past had claimed they were abducted by these aliens. It was all very fascinating to the boys, and now that they were twelve, it had become well known amognst the families of Ericson I that the boys hoped very sincerely that they would meet similar creatures when the arrived at Gemellus.

Ten years later and five after Ericson I docked in orbit around Gemellus, the Kaminski family, including Orion, had concluded after some extensive surveying of the wildlife that Gamellus had not been a harborer of intelligent life before they arrived. It was disappointing news, but soon enough, the families of Ericson I had long forgotten, for they would now be hevily involved in the process of establishing a reciever station on the planet's surface. After they were brought down from cargo, 100 androids with empty souls were activated and in such an unfair and unimaginable instant, the mind of a man 32.5 lightyears away was now brought into the android, and they were one. His name was Thom Essol, and he was the first of nineteen to experience quantum travel at such a distance. There would be many more.

Twenty years later the humans had established a small colony on the surface of Gemellus in a semi-tropical region that wasn't unlike areas of the Mediterrainian, but without the touch of man. The planet attracted some of the most rich and famous who could afford such an adventure, including heads of state who could afford it on the taxpayer's dollar. Before long, the colony looked more like a resort than a center of research and technology and the android bodies became more customized to individual appearances. Everything was going smoothly until some reports back on Earth began surfacing...

Group of Gemellus visitors say they saw 'little green men'

Secretary Kennedy concedes he saw green beings on Gemellus

The President denies he saw alien life on Gemellus

As the Kaminski family reviewed the evidence, the ISA immediately sent a team of biologists to confirm the reports, but they all came back empty handed.

ISA reconfirms: 'No aliens on Gamellus'

Sure there were wild species that inhabited the air, the water and the land, but none were intelligent and certainly none were little green human-like creatures. So the ISA told the public that the cause of these sightings was the human imagination, and the similar accounts were due to a psychological contradiction caused by the presence of the human mind in a foreign world coupled with past stereotypes concerning these worlds being inhabited by such creatures.

Of course, the ISA had no idea why this was happening, but they fearly suspected that it had to do with a problem in the transmission process. Did something happen during reassimilation with the human body? Or was it an obscure side effect of the mind being separated from the body?

The answer was known to those two boys who were so obsessed with the idea of aliens in their youth. Julian and Orion had never forgotten about their little green friends, and they had never forgotten the searing pain of depression in finding that these beings didn't inhabit Gamellus or any other known planet. They had so hoped it was true, but it wasn't. And for that, they had been ridiculed by their peers for quite some time until Julian had come up with a devilish plan...

With their combined expertise in quantum physics and biology, both Julian and Orion knew that it was possible to trick the human mind with the right technology and brain clearance. Because the human mind was in digital form, all Julian had to do was write a program if he wanted to change things. Orion helped him with the biology.

In their youth, they imagined a race of aliens - Chlorophoeyple - who were small, human-like, tree-habiting creatures. Their skin was green because of the chlorophyll in their skin - a photosynthetic creature which drank water and absorbed the sunrays. A perfectly harmless creature who's intelligence and dexterity was its only strength. When it died, it was eaten by a herbivor, who was eaten by a carnivore, who was eaten by another carnivore. But in its death, a chemical reaction would cause the release of vitamin F, a neuro deficient substance which upon consumption, prohibits the DNA of its consumer from evolving, trapping it in an evolutionary cul-de-sac. This is how they became more intelligent than others.

Julian and Orion had so hoped that a creature as exquisite as this one could exist, and now, in a way, it was existing in the minds of some. Though there was no evidence to suggest they were right, there also was none to suggest why they were wrong. So there was a silent speculation amognst the community, and for a short amount of time, Julian and Orion were treated with a little more respect by those whom had questioned them in the past. But it was only for a short time.

One day all the androids, the humans, and some of the animals of Gamellus looked up into the sky to find a giant asteroid streaking across the atmosphere in a firey blaze. The impact would surely end man's existance on the planet, and if they did not think quickly, it would end their lives.

The detonation in the distance was brilliant, and a dome of geography spewed into the atmosphere. A shockwave knocked down the humans, while the androids stood in amazement. Julien and Orion watched the scene from behind a window, which shattered in their faces. They would surely have to leave as soon as possible.

Hundreds of androids rushed to the transmittors - it would be impossible for all of them to go at once - there were only twenty transmission stations for the androids. But who would send them? Certainly the humans had no time for that, so Dale, Elvin, June, Kandra and Mossimo would stay to operate the transmittors.

Now the humans had a fairly extraordinary situation, for once they transmitted themselves, they would have to remain in their android bodies on earth indefinitely, as their bodies here would be destroyed. Julian had only seconds to select an android body. There was a catalogue of them, but when Julian started to feel the ground shake violently, he selected...

Turko-Scandinavian-Male-25

Julian woke up moments after he thought he was dead. He thought of what happened. He saw the explosion, and before that the asteroid streaking through the sky. And before that he saw Gamellus as it was before that. He saw the beach, the alien sky, and in the trees he saw - what was this? Little green men. He saw them distinctly. An operator approached and asked his name. Julien nodded. The operator looked down at his tablet and asked him a question:

"Carnivore is to herbivor as herbivor is to what?"

Julien had to think for a moment why the operator was asking him, but then he remembered that it was a security precaution, and that he had written down this question as a passcode years ago. Of course the answer was "Chlorophoeyple". Of course - that's what the little green men were! Yes, it had worked more vividly than he had ever imagined. He remembered the program he wrote and implanted in the system. It was a program that made people think that they saw little green men when they returned to earth. Yes, the Chlorophoeyple were more magnificent than he had ever imagined. He wondered what Orion would say...

Julien looked around the room. There were anderoids all over - he recognized noone.

"Orion?" Julien called out.

Some of the androids responded with blank stares, and some of them didn't respond at all. Julien walked around the room. He didn't know what Orion looked like. Julian began to wonder if Orion had made it back. Surely he did.

Once Julian collected some clothes and checked out with the company, he stood in the terminal with a sign that said ORION on it. As he stood there he once again felt that searing depression of loosing something. But then he closed his eyes and tried to remember the Chlorophoeyple. They might not have been as real as Orion, but they made him feel better.

Bollocks-face

Downey Hoover is an agent of the Rhizome, but he has a broblem: he gets scat attacks.

Shoobie doo-wap bop shoo-bop bop, shooo...

So whenever he's sneaking up on somebody to kill them, he's always running the risk of scatin' out of control. It hasn't happened since he killed Pointus Bartholemieu...

He was sneekin' up on him like somethin' silent when these scats just started slippin' out his mouth...

Scoot ti de ba ba da doobie doobie doo boo da...

And Bartholemieu no doubt heard this nonsense and turned around. But even though Downey was scatin' that didn't stop him from capin' Pointus in the face.

Pop!

Pointus grumbled "bollocks" and died as Downey scated.

Shoobie do do cha, chapa du cha che...

It was a terrible incodent and Downey didn't want it to happen again. It was dishonorable, he thought, to sputter such nonsense over a man as he died. So he drove this morning to Hattingsworth Pendleton-Huxley Bureau to the St. Christopher Hospital to inquire about his uncontrollable scat attacks.

~

"Oh there's no doubt that these attacks are quite undesireable, Mr. Hoover." the physician stated. "And not at all acceptable in proper society."

"Indeed, sir."

"Though I must ask you some questions and I apologize if they are of a personal nature. But I shall remind you that these inquiries are only for the benifit of your health, sir."

"Of course."

The physician looks down at his clipboard, "Are you the son of interracial parents?"

"Oh heavens no, sir."

Check.

"And have you at any time had associations with a negro?"

"No."

"What about in your childhood?"

"I don't recall, sir."

"Perhaps, you had a negro nanny?"

"My nanny was an old English woman born and raised in Cottingdale-Hastings Bureau. She was of the Saxton family whom are of direct lineage from the Queen's second butler."

"Ah, of the Pendleburrey family. A very pure breed, sir. But what about servants. Any negro servants?"

"I don't recall. I don't have a mind that pays much attention to the negros, so I suppose it's entirely possible."

"Ah, but the mind's eye, sir. The mind's eye could have easily spotted one."

"Entirely possible."

"So it is possible that when you were still in the cradle, a negro servant was cleaning nearby, and possibly hymning to themselves a rap song."

"Yes..."

"And this was somehow imbedded in your mind in a way that you were absolutely helpless to resist; you didn't know the risks of listening to this kind of sound, so your poor mind was molested."

"Molested!"

"Yes, molested. By a negro servant." The doctor pulls out a chattering vile from his white pockets, "These pills will remedy your problem."

"Thak god, sir."

"Their simple molestations are no match for modern medicine."

~

Downey took his medicine as deliberately as possible. Though he did not follow the directions as precisely as he should have. He took them with milk when he should have used Hashworth Whiskey. So he started to develop a crease in the center of his face. By the second day, it was more of a great divide. And then a bi-lateral covex started to form across his scalp, which caused his hair to fall out at this location. By the third day his mouth separated into six equalateral tri-vexes, whereas they each developed in this position, their own sets of lips.

By this time, Downey was obviously worried, but he couldn't bring himself to go outside, or even show his face to the outside world, for fear that he might scare people into heart attacks. But his horror was far from over. His voice became as silent as a breeze because of his separate mouths and only a single set of teeth. Though he would then develop on the fourth day a newly formed orvis, which is basically a hole in his temple so that he could attach USB compatable devices to his brain. But first he needed a driver and several other hardware modifications before it was entirely operable. So his brain separated in two - right down the middle and then developed their own halves. He now had two brains - one to control general functions and the other to control interaction with human manufactured devices.

But this was only the beginning. After the separation of the brain, his eyes formed angenieux cortexes, a sort of telephoto system for spying on his enemies - he had always wanted this. And after this, he could feel in his throat something tremendous happening. In fact, he was developing six vocal boxes, every one speaking a different language: English, French, Spanish, Russian, Mandarin and Arabic - this was the default programming, however, he could change them in the future via USB. And after the six voices came to be, the seventh seal in his face closed - that being his original mouth.

And the moment it was sealed, there was a tremendous build of pressure from within, and so pockets of wrath bulged from his first cheeks and grew with such tremendous speed, that they had to be coated in ambulance, and with regards to where the pressure would go after this, a passage to the nasal cavity was to be forged, and the air released there. The pressure was from, of course, the heartache of loosing his face, but mostly from his own decision to continue breathing. When he looked in the mirror for the last time, he began to scat in six languages - but they all sounded the same.

Time Cog

Gets me through the night faster.

"The Time Cog?"

Yeah.

"What is it?"

It's a device that sort of speeds up time. Not the kind of time on a watch - not man made time - but real time. Time that you can feel. Time that your brain knows is passing. You access it by creamating old ladies, transfiguring dog faces into dump trucks, and other literal methods of attempting to excite some rarely used areas of your brain.

You see, that sick area of your mind always has more energy than the other parts.

"Why is that?"

Because that part is never used. It's a recessed recess that few try to access becaused they stopped going back in elementary school.

"You still take recess?"

Well, no, not actually. I'm not in school anymore. Now I have to construct my own recesses. Because, really, as adults, our whole lives have so much freedom, to children, they wish they had that much, and so we cherished recess when we were children because of that. Now, we take that freedom for granted. And we feel that we don't have any, because we're tied down to survival - like having to make moneys so we can eat and live comfortably. But that's not really true.

I think we do have the capacity to take recesses if we want - spontaneously - at any time - but people don't do it because either they A) Don't know how or B) Need a diagram or C) Refuse or maybe D) Don't have the capacity and even possibly F) Are generally over stimulated to the point that the recess is so buried, so infact recessed, that retrieving it is close to impossible - the recess is possibly crushed under the weight of all the pointless bullshit they've packed their skulls with. This, is probably one of the most unfortunate things, because, I almost see it as killing a child - killing your innocence.

"Your recess is innocent?"

Well, no doubt that over the years, parts of reality and political correctness have seeped into this cavity - it's almost unavoidable - but you can govern it. You can have this recess play well with other parts of your brain - the so called "more mature parts" - the "older kids" so-to-speak. And they can both create something which is useful.

"How is it useful?"

It's useful because we need to escape once in a while.

"People take vacations."

Even that is troublesome - because you have to spend money and you have this finite timeline and flights to catch and car rental contracts to sign. Vacation? Hardly. More like a time that you really get to help out the economy - kind of like Christmas. Vacations are hardly escapes, unless you're obscenely wealthy and can afford to take really long vacations. Most people can't do that. You shouldn't have to spend money to get away from it all. This is what the recess is useful for - to escape - for free. Of course, the government doesn't like us taking these recesses because A) They don't help drive the economy and B) They can't tax it.

"Do you really think the government cares?"

Yes! There's been this movement over the past century to make daydreamers and oddballs looks like idiots and "weirdos". If only surrealism was en vogue - you have no idea of how quickly our economy would reverse itself. Please - you think they would allow people to have crazy thoughts? To daydream? Not at the expense of the economy - of course they would replace that word with freedom when they spoke out against these liberal "un american" ways of life.

"Do you think they would allow time cogs?"

I don't see why not. The time cog only makes time feel faster - it doesn't make it faster. So I don't see why they would be opposed to allowing it. Unless of course, they wanted people's well being to decrease.

"Why would they want to do that?"

Please - oh christ - you really don't know?

"No."

To help fuel the pharmaceutical industry. When people's helth is poor what do they do? They get medicine. They see a doctor.

"Or a psychologist."

Or a psychologist.


How much time do I have left?

Jennifer Dragon

Chicka pop-bop-bop... chicka. Chicka bop-pop-shoowop... a bubba wump-a, a humpa, a thumpa, a chubawumba thumpa, a boom-boom bounce, bounce, bounce bitch, bounce.

That is the sound Jennifer Dragon makes when she struts her stuff. It's pretty hard to put into words, but imagine this... your town has just been destroyed by an F4 tornado, and out of the smoke, the cinders, the absolute destruction comes this woman about the size of a cannon. She has cankles, missing washtowels, oversized t-shirts, slanted tits - the whole package. She is huge. But she walks through it all like it's no big deal. Though her trailer has been trashed, she has only one current priority - to find sustinance.

She's gotta pack her face with something soon, or otherwise her stomach will open up a black hole. But there really isn't any food around - it's all been blown away by the twister. But she thinks some people are hiding their foodstuffs - and no doubt this is wise when Dragon comes snooping around - but nobody in all honesty had even found food, or were even thinking about hunger at the moment.

A middle aged man has salvaged his Lay-z-Boy recliner and placed it where his house once was. He sits in it - rubble about him, wishing he had a beer and a television, but when Dragon approached, this would be his entertainment...

"Where's your food now fat ass!" the man yells from his chair. But this, was a mistake.

Dragon's breath impulsed her own brain sockets an upon this hunger-induced rage, her bodess stormed toward the man at something like maybe less than five miles per hour. But this was very fast - she approached with such an anger, and with such spectacle, that the man was awe-struck at the lobes of fat which thundered towards him. He peers beyond the fat and looks at her skeleton - poor thing.

The man hadn't been this scared since the twister. And though his ears didn't pop when she arrived over him, his pupils dialated as Dragon's teeth sank into his flesh. She began to eat him alive. He would have tried to stop her - but it seemed that her breath was fire - cooking the flesh as she ate him.

A bird coos from a treelimb.

Apparently, Jennifer took some substantial amount of offense from this - so she threw out her hand and digipathically annihilated the bird - it burst into a temporary fountain of chemicals which dripped all over the man's carpet.

"You bitch" he moaned under her spell, "Finish the job!"

So she ripped off his thighs - the meatiest parts of his body - and threw his remnants into a vortex she created out of her own left slipper. She watched his body tumble into infinity as she ate the rest of him. She was a monster - a bitch - and a Dragon.

Wings burst from her shoulder blades - ripping through the flesh like a pulsating corpse-fuck and she flew away into the daylight - her fat body bobbing up and down - her face in a state of terminal drunkness - blood dripping from her mouth and smoke puffing out her nose.

What a state, what a wicked state is this, she thought to herself as she surveyed the destruction. But in the distance, someting captured her eye. There it was - the tornado. There she would take out her vengeance, and possibly find some of her food floating around inside it.

But as soon as she started off, an expert duck hunter from below fired a twelve gauge clusterfuck into her side - sending Dragon tumbling to the ground. She bashed into some bog which captured her massive body, but fucked up her hair.

The hunters approached her with weapons drawn - a wise decision.

"Hey haw!" one of the hunters called out, sending a Beagle dog to investigate the kill.

But as soon as his little white mitts dipped into the bog, a slithering tongue sprung from the muck and sucked the dog down under.

"Hoa, now." the hunter stopped everyone.

"Let's light this bitch up." one hunter suggested.

Weapons drawn, they aimed at the beast and fired. But when the bullets came near enough, the beast emerged, drenched in surge of mud and bog sloth - the Beagle dog captured in her gaping mouth. The bullets only got as far as her stomach - she ate them and spit out the dog, sending him ripping through the air at such a tremendous speed that it impaled itself on one of the shotgun barrels.

This defense from Dragon was only followed by a breath of pure fire. She bellowed and blew some of the hottest flames upon the men, and they all burned alive - shotguns left in cinders and rounds exploding in the heat. Her job here was done, so she flew up into the sky and dialed nine one one.

With flames comming out her mouth, "My bitch is on fire!" But she melted her cell phone - so she devoured it. It was at this point when she was dialed out of existance thank goodness.

Cold Cane

There was Danny, and there was Fuller, about three months before Black Friday, about twelve years after they were born again. They were born as twin brothers, but they weren't identical; Danny was bigger than Fuller. They sat in silence at the kitchen table while Mother Bible Face prepared supper; they were being punnished. Later on, Father Workhorse would give them a caning on their bare ends.

It was a shithole of an existance, this farm life. Kansas was a desolate, flat land which only bread crops and young boys who dreamed of escaping it. And since the depression was about to roll around, the only chance these boys would have to get out of there would be the army. And what a prime time to join the army, as in another decade, there would be another great war to fight. But until these times, the boys would sweat out the hard work and sleep to dream. But it was soon enough that they would find an entirley new fascination: Nanny.

This thirteen-year-old girl from down the way was just what these lonely Kansas boys needed besides a good Coca-Cola kick. Oh sure, they had many other good kicks. Smokin' PawPaw's pipe - that was a good kick. They felt real big and all when they did that. And cleanin' the chickens - that was another good kick. Fuller loved to chop off ther heads and watch the birds run around until Danny finished the job with his foot. They found a lot of good times with the farm animals. Bestiality - that was another good kick. Oh, the boys wouldn't ever admit to it, but they sure enjoyed havin' their way with one of the billy goats they called Zelda. But since Nanny came along, the boys had all forgotten about their crazy kicks. Because now, she was their one and only kick.

They met three times a week. She would ride her horse Jane down the old road and toss a pebble at their window. The boys would sneak out and meet her in the hayloft, where they would make kicks in the candle light. But tonight Nanny didn't seem so eager to have the fun ther boys were hoping for...

"I'm afraid I have some bad news." Nanny told the boys, "I think I might be pregnant."

The news spread around the county fairly fast that Nanny's belly was showing. And soon enough, she was forced to tell her parent's who the father was, as the police were suspecting abuse.

"Now Nanny girl," The Sheriff eased in, "You tell me now who did this to you, or I'm goanna have to be suspectin' it was yo PawPaw."

And this is why the boys had their pants caught around their ankles, enduring some savage caning from Father Workhorse, all the while the Sheriff watching and asking the boys...

"Now you boys better tell me. One of you did it."

Fuller screamed underneath his sobs, "We don't know!"

Thwack!

"You don't speak to the Sheriff like that!" Father Workhorse yelled.

"We don't know, sir." Danny continued for Fuller, "Because we both... we both..."

"Both-a-yas?" The Sheriff strained, and looked at Father Workhorse. Emberrassed, Workhorse only took out his anger on the boys' ends. With that cane. That damn cane.

The boys hated that cane. It seemed that all their lives they'd been afraid of that cane. Just the sight of it made them think of pain.

Thwack!

It was solid wood. An old man's walking cane; the cane of their late grandfather. It was made to be used as a crutch, but Father Workhorse had found a new utility for it. Smashing little boy's behinds in.

"All right Carl," the Sheriff laid a hand on Father Workhorse's shoulder, "that'll be enough. I suppose there's not much the law can do here."

The Sheriff left and father put the cane in it's spot - the umbrella receptacle by the front door. For dinner the boys sat on some cushions that mother had laid down for them. She was nice, but let's not get carried away, she was also a bitch for letting the boys get beat so savagely in the first place. Not to mention she would later indoctrinate the boys with some bible tales before they went to bed and tell them how the only way they could redeem themselves was to become a whore to Christianity.

Mother turns the lights out, leaving the boys to their own thoughts. They were in such severe pain from the beatings. Danny could hear Fuller weep in his bed...

"Hey Fuller, you ok?" Danny whispered.

Fuller sniffles, "I think I'm bleeding."

Danny is angry. He doesn't like to see anybody mess with his brother, even if it's his Father.

"I'm goanna fix that goddamn cane."

Danny and Fuller stand as silently as possible in the foyer, looking at the cane. It sits in the shadows. It's just a piece of wood. It plays innocent, like a gun. But they know that getting rid of that cane would make them feel good, so they pick it up and head out to the barn.

Danny sticks the sceptre in the ground and Fuller pours some gasoline over the top of it. They light a match and set it aflame. The cane lights up the barn, it burns like a column of fire, the flame reaching twice their height. The boys wait and watch it burn like this.

In the warm, red light, the boys' bad memories seem to melt away, and their pain subsides and fades. The flame abruptly extinguishes. They feel new.

But they were expecting ashes. Instead they saw a black cane, as dark as coal, a silhouette of it's predecessor, standing up straight, ready to strike again.

"Why did it stop?"

But then,

The boys hear a snap from behind them. They turn around; it's Nanny.

"What are you doing?" She asks.

"What are you doing?" asks Fuller.

"I just wanted to say that I'm sorry." Nanny can see some blood stains on the seat of Fuller's underwear, "I didn't know that he would hurt you so."

"Well apparently you havn't met our father." Fuller snaps.

"And his cane." Adds Danny.

"Is that what that is?" Asks Nanny.

The boys nod. The cane stands there on it's own, like it's floating. It has a power. The boys hands are drawn to it. They touch it.

"It's cold." says Fuller.

"Really cold." adds Danny.

Fuller smiles, "Let's break it in half."

Danny nods, "Good idea."

They break the cane in half, and a sound that was all too familiar to the boys was heard - like the loudest thwack! in the history of man...

CRACK!

The cane split in two and a dark black orb pulsated between the two sides of the cane. The boys couldn't move, they could only speculate what the hell was going on. The orb sucked in some haystacks - father was going to be pissed. But then the orb started to grow and soon, it engulfed Danny and Fuller.

The orb subsided and the cane became one again. It fell to the floor, clattering. Danny and Fuller were missing. Nanny covered her mouth with a cold pale hand. She took the cane and left.

Coal Cane

Soft light pours out an open window of a tree house. Inside, Sven and Dansk sit around a small rudimentary card table made from a Magnavox cardboard box. They're kicking around a game of Sheath-Fuck. Sven shuffles the cards and deals them out.

"He said he's bringing his grandma's cocaine."

Dansk's eyes widened. "You mean, like the drug?"

Sven rolled his eyes, "No, like sugar caine. Duh."

"So we get to try some!?"

"Sheath-Fuck!"

"I'm not fucking the sheath." Dansk is serious, "So are we going to try some?"

"What, are you crazy?"

Dansk thinks about it; he remembers how cool Cole Kane looks with his leather, chains and guitar. "Why not? It's not like we're going to die from it."

"Yeah, but... Come on, man. Shit's crazy." They are silent for a bit, and then Sven remembers, "You just want to do it because of Cole Kane."

Dansk looks at him like crazy, "Psch, whatever. I don't even know him that well."

"He kept you from getting raped by that fat guy. Sheath-Fuck!"

"He wasn't going to rape me."

"Whatever," Sven speculates, "The story said he handled you like a ragdoll, like a helpless boy about to be molested."

Dansk yells, "Sheath-Fuck!"

"I don't know why we even play this game if you aren't going to fuck the sheath."

"Nobody ever fucks the sheath. It's just something funny to yell out. Why do you always take everything so literally? I mean, we don't even have a sheath."

"The sheath is the box for the cards."

There is some rustling below, and then a voice, "Hey, let down the ladder!"

"Here's your cocaine."

Dansk pushes the rope ladder over the edge. Shortly thereafter, Fuckle appears at the entrance with a black cane.

Sven looks at the cane, "What's that?"

"It's the cane I told you about."

"You didn't tell me about a cane."

"Yes I did. My grandma's coal cane."

Dansk looks at Sven, "Coal cane?"

"Ooooh." Sven nods in emberrassment, "I thought you said cocaine."

Fuckle laughs, "What? My grandma's cocaine! Ha ha! I wouldn't be surprised. I'm so glad that bitch is dead."

Sven nods, "Me, too."

Dansk stands up; he looks angry. "So what the fuck are we supposed to do with this cane?"

Fuckle is apprehensive of Dansk's hostility, "It's for my pimp costume, bitch. I suppose you'll be going as a fairy for Holloween?"

"What kind of a cane is made out of coal anyway?" Dansk grabs the cane, "Let me see that."

Fuckle grabs it, "Dont!" But Dansk won't let go of the other end, "Let go! You're going to break it!"

But when Dansk yanked the cane back, it cracked it two.

"FUCK!" Fuckle's yell was the last thing all of them heard.

The cane cracked loud, very loud; a snap as loud as an explosion, and then silence. A ball of dark matter hovered between the two ends of the cane. It seems the boys have opened a portal of some sort.

But Dansk couldn't think, he couldn't move. Neither could Fuckle. But they both saw that Sven was missing. The cards scattered over the makeshift table began to sift and vibrate, floating in mid air; they made their way to the dark matter, slipping into it like nobody's business. Like some high flutin' carpetbaggers, they just up and escaped this mess without even leaving a note or blowing a kiss.

How rude, thought Dansk. And then, for some reason, Dansk could hear what Fuckle was thinking, We're about to get clusterfucked.

How do you know? Dansk was curious.

Total Fucking Silence.

But Fuckle was right, because soon three black orbs emerged from within the dark matter and surrounded the boys. Then those three split into sixes, and the sixes into twelves and so on until they were surrounded by a cluster of small black dots, littering the air like fragments of coal.

Dansk thought the worse was about to come when the matter started to converge back towards the dark matter, but instead they both felt a strong jolt that pulled them towards the center, a crack from the cane and then silence. The orb was gone, and the cane was one again. In the place where it was cracked was a new tier of coal, making the cane about one inch longer than it was before.

Fuckle and Dansk were still holding the cane in utter shock. Dansk let go of the cane slowly, and Fuckle set it down on the ground. They looked over at the table; Sven was still missing, along with the cards. The sheath was the only thing left on the table.

"Maybe," Dansk said in a raspy voice, "he's back in bed."

"You fucking idiot!" Fuckle yells at Dansk, "I told you not to touch it!"

"Like I knew that was going to happen! I mean what the fuck was that?"

"I..." Fucke shakes his head, "I don't know man." Seriously, "We have to find Sven. Where the hell did he go? Fuck!"

Dansk looks out the window, "Wait a second..." He approaches the ledge and looks down; he doesn't see the ground. He looks out; he doesn't see anything. Nothing. He begins to wimper, "Shit, dude."

Fuckle observes, too. It seems that the treehouse is suspended in a void. There is no tree, and there is no seeable ground or other forestry. No stars. No moon.

"I think Sven's probably wondering where we are..."

~

In fact, on the other side, everything was in order, aside from Dansk having broken Fuckle's Grandma's cole cane.

"Jack ass! I was going to fucking use that!"

But even here, things were about to go terribly awry. As Fuckle could not channel his anger in the abscence of physical force, he started after Dansk - he pushed him. And since Dansk was close to the edge, he fell out the tree house, falling in such a way that assured the breaking of his neck. He died instantly.

~

But Dansk was alive back on the other side. And after fifty years of deliberation, the two boys decided to leap into the unknown. Fuckle grabbed the coal cane before they jumped. They held hands as they fell, but at some point, they were torn apart, separated. Dansk didn't know where his friend had gone, but before he was able to worry, he saw that he was approaching a warm, red light.

Cole Kane

Sven and Dansk were less than Freshmæn, but they snuck out of lunch with the best of them; them being the "cool" seventh graders - the ones who took risks. These boys had a small figurative scale in their minds, you see. This scale weighed the risks relatively accurate, however it should be noted that one side of the scale was saturated with peer pressure and the overwhelming need/ desire to be cool. This was the side that always tipped down further than the other side - the one which would tell the boys that they could be punnished for their mid-day escapes. Though it could be argued that what the boys really desired was that feeling of freedom.

The boys chowed on Wendy's fries smothered in katsup and sipped that caffeinated syrup called cola, turning their pink stomachs into a cauldron of potential indigestion - no doubt they would feel the effects of such a lucrative meal on the bus ride home. At this approximate time of day, it was bad to be an adult who wished to spend their luncheon inside the Wendy's, as the commotion of a dozen thirteen year old boys would surley raise any sane man's blood pressure. It might not be out of anger from the noise, but from the disappointment he feels; he may not have been so adventurous in his youth.

One of these men, Glenn, sits across from the boy's, his back to them. He doesn't want them to see his old face, or his Fry's nametag. He was alone, and at the moment, felt like something terrible as his presence strongly contrasted with the vibrent youth that was behind him. They were young, had prospects, and were still having at their first chance in life. While Glenn was a desolate plain of deforestation, they still had a flourishing, blossoming ecosystem. Just wait till you get out of college, Glenn muttered to himself. If they're lucky, he thought, the world will be Mad Max by then. Little bastards.

One of the more obnoxious boys holds up his empty fry carton and waves it in the air, "I fancy a second set!"

Sven and Dansk mostly keep to themselves; they are close friends. Dansk asks Sven if he's ready to go back to school, as the High Schoolers will be in soon. Sven looks at the other boys; it doesn't seem like they're ready to go.

"Let's wait until everyone leaves."

"OK." Dansk gets up and heads for the restroom.

He thinks in the stall; Dansk knows about the High Schoolers and what they're capable of. They could do a variety of things. For example, at the moment, Dansk was imagining being made fun of by one of the older High Schoolers. His younger friends would laugh, as they would have no choice. Unless, of course, Cole Kane was there...

The doors to Wendy's burst open - it's Cole Kane. He's still smoking inside, even though it's not allowed.

"You can't smoke in here!" Yells the manager.

But Cole just turns his head and says in a deep, gravely voice, "I know." He continues to walk; his leather jacket doesn't make a sound - he's worn it so much it's like Cashmere. The keys to his Camaro jingle on his side, clanking against his Zippo lighter with Kurt Cobain's face embossed on the side. Cole exhales. A smoke ring outlines his face like a halo. He hasn't shaved. He is, without a doubt, Dansk's hero.

"Something funny?" Everybody stops laughing. Kane's voice is soft but powerful. The High Schooler that took of Dansk's kipot and put it on his head is now a bit remorseful for his actions. He takes the small, round Jewish cap off and sets it on the table next to Dansk.

Cole steps foreward, "I don't think that's where that goes, Bro."

Bro takes the cap and places it, reluctantly, on Dansk's head.

"You think making fun of Jewish people is funny, Bro?"

"No, man - I was just giving him a hard time, that's all."

Cole sucks his cigarette; he's thinking. And then he blows the smoke in Bro's face. "Hard time?"

Bro doesn't know what to say. The fact is, Cole always makes it hard for people to have something to say.

Cole continues, "You say something about hard time?"

"Yeah, like a joke..."

"I don't want to hear anything from you about hard time. Because you don't know what hard time is, Bro."

"I'm not talking about jail, Cole..."

"Well then you aint hearing me clear are you? Because hard time, jail or jokes, it's never a good time for the person who's in it." Cole puts his hand on Dansk's shoulder. "It's easy time for this kid, Bro."

"OK."

~

When Dansk finished in the restroom, he exited only to find in shock, a band of High School kids sitting at the table his friends were at. They had arrived in a rumble of internal combustion and squealing tyres. Because of this, they always showed up without warning.

They left me. Dansk thought to himself in horror. The bastards left me. But Dansk figured they couldn't be too far away. And surely Sven is waiting in some dark corner somewhere for him. So Dansk headed silently out the door, only to run into one of the late coming High Schoolers. Strait into her chest.

"Watch it little perv." she said.

"Sorry."

Dansk dashed out of the Wendy's and towards the alley. In the distance, he could see his friends. But he was suddenly, without warning, taken from behind by some unknown person. It wasn't Sven, he thought, as the person was too powerful. I could be a High Schooler, but when Dansk turned around, the first thing he saw was a nametag that said Glenn in italics.

Some man, Dansk thought, is grabbing me. He might have been in the retail business, but he handled Dansk like a ragdoll, like a helpless boy about to be molested.

"Hel..."

But his mouth was suddenly covered, and his body being taken into a dark place behind a dumpster. When suddenly...

"Aaaah!"

Dansk was released, and he ran fast, but he turned around to see what had happened. And when he saw, he was in fact so ecstatic - it was Cole Kane, with a syringe into Glenn's neck. Some footsteps were approaching - those of his so-called-friends for which he sacrificed his safety to impress so often. But here was Cole Kane, a teenager which Dansk didn't even know, who was killing a man for his safety.

Glenn moaned and weeped, while Cole let his body slip onto the ground easily, respectfully, as if he had won the fight fairly. Cole held his arm - it was bleeding.

"Are you ok?" Dansk asked Cole.

"Heh..." Cole was kind of delirious, "was just about to... well, you don't need to know, kid. I'm fine."

All the boy's approached the scene; they were silent and scared and confused. What with the man with a syringe in his jugular.

"He won't be waking up any time soon," Cole told them, "he's got enough cocaine in his system to kill a man."

"Thanks for saving me." Dansk said; they pounded fists.

"No, bro. You saved me. You see that needle - that was for me."

"You were going to kill yourself?"

Cole pulls out a cigarette and lights up, "When you're my age, you see the world in a whole new shitty light." He reaches behind the dumpster and retrieves a Fender Stratocaster. He pulls out a pick from the strings and begins to strum and sing...

Just a kid.
Just a kiddie kid.
I told my daddy "I...
think I'm goanna cry.
My momma's dead...
she shot her fuckin' head."
He said "Cole Kain...
take some pro-pain,
take some low-pain,
take some cocaine..."

The Silent Treatment

"Let me first point out that Dickerson is a complete ponce."

Blocsworth is steamed, in the Hague, and out of control; he is yelling to his boss, Klapp, about his son (though Blocsworth doesn't know that Dickerson is his own son, since Klapp has unprotected sex with alot of people.)

"This motherfucker levitates..." he has lost it, "he shits his his chair, and it stinks. It stinks real bad. It stinks with an X."

Stinx. It's too bad that Blocsworth ate some of that buffet earlier, since the steak was embedded with shredded Bull Stock. When Blocsworth eats Bull Stock, he becomes irate.

Klapp is perplexed, "What's the matter with levitating?"

"Who the fuck levitates? Nobody. This motherfucker levitates just because he knows that everyone will look at him and say, ooh I wish I could levitate above my chair. That's why he can shit in it! Because he doesn't have to sit in it!"

"I've never seen Dickerson levitate. Nor have I seen him deficate - since he was a boy, at least."

"You know Dickerson As A Boy?"

"Of course I do. I'm his father."

~

Klapp hated changing Dickerson's diaper, but it had to be done since Dickerson was only a baby that poo poo'd all over his bum bum. He opens the diaper...

"Shit."

He shouldn't learn the word shit this early, Klapp speculates.

~

"Shit!" A Ten Year Old Dickerson yells this as his dad walks in the bathroom; Dickerson was on the toilet. "Daaad! Don't you knock!"

"Sorry." Klapp stumbles and closes the door. He wonders for a moment if he should scold the boy for cursing, but Klapp decides against it, a decision which was based purley on his unconscious instincts.

Shit, A Ten Year Old Dickerson thinks to himself after his dad leaves the bathroom. Should I apologize for cursing?

"Sorry" Dickerson says aloud.

Klapp wonders for a moment if he should pretend he wasn't there by not answering, but instead he decides to answer, "It's ok, son. It was a decision you made purley on your unconscious instincts."

~

Dickerson hated changing his son Rockwell's diaper, so he gets the house android La La to do it. The robot opens the diaper...

Total Fucking Silence.

~

"Blocsworth," Klapp continues, "I think I have a good remedy for your problem."

Klapp claps his hands, and two Gentlemen in Suits enter the office.

"Gentlemen, give him the Silent Treatment."

The Silent Treatment is a culmination of many operations which will result in Blocsworth's silence. They first seal his lips with a Khys. A Khys is a device which prevents the jaw from moving. It is basically a metal cage affixed to Blocsworth's mouth. It slips on with no resistance.

Blocksworth did not resist because the Gentlemen in Suits gave him a Grace Period, which is a small, round pill that is administered orally and dissolves in the stomach within seconds of ingestion. There is no time for the subject to resist the effects of the Grace Period; he falls into total compliance within one half of a minute.

To maintain his silence for a long period of time, the Gentlemen will make sure that Blocsworth's body is concealed within a custom styrofoam mold, placed in a casket and buried six feet beneath the ground in a cemetary, below an area which will have a stone with some information about his person on it. It will have a date, the first date Blocksworth's birth and the second the date he was placed in the casket.

~

Klapp is sitting on a toilet in one of the stalls at work. Nobody else is in the restroom; he is at peace. He is an older man, so he takes his time.

Creek; the restroom door opens.

"Shit." Klapp says silently.

BAM! The stall door bursts open. Dickerson stands in the entrance.

"Oh! Sorry!" Dickerson closes the door, emberassed and disgusted all at once. He waits for his dad to say something.

Nothing.

He walks into the handicapped stall next to his father. A thin piece of wood separates the two. Dickerson still tries to break the deafning silence...

"Didn't know you were in there."

Nothing. But Dickerson persists...

"What? You giving me the silent treatment?"

~

Dickerson watched his father's casket ease into the ground. He held his son Rockwell in his arms, until he sensed that the little boy had messed his pants.

Shit.

He scared him to death.

Nanny dead face 3

"Oh joy! Oh joy! You have finally come! Welcome! Oh Welcome to the Land of Happyplaces!"

Joy is joy on Earth, but exuberance in Happyplaces, where the water is flavored to candyness and the grass is a blanket which can be pulled over your body when, if ever the bright and good ol' father Sun stops shining on this land, you will find true comfort and happiness in Happyplaces.

"Hooray! Hooray! Hooray!"

Everyone takes the form of a child in the Land of Happyplaces, even though old souls occupy puerile bodies, these souls are so happy now, that they're children is what truly makes them smile.

"Me wrinkles are gone!" Nanny proclaims.

The Welcome Master is a child of six hundred and seventy six, and he smiles at Nanny's new face, which radiates with excitement, joy and naturally, utter speechlessness as she is much more youthful looking than she was about five minutes ago...

~ Five Minutes Past ~

As she did every day for the past eight decades, minus the time she spent standing or sitting anywhere else besides a couch which was chiefly used as a human sitting depot for watching television broadcasts, Nanny sat and watched Days of Our Lives, a television daytime drama otherwise known as a "soap opera".

Nanny was so old that she remembers the time when the term "soap opera" was coined to describe these daytime television dramas, not because there was any use of soap in the actual performance of the show, but because most of the dramatic pauses were placed for the advertisement of feminine hygiene products, hence the term "soap opera". As woman were at home during the day to indulge in this frankly terrible programming, this was a prime time to advertise such products, as it might prompt the ladies to recall that they needed a little something from the local store.

Alas, Nanny was not going to go to the store today. No doubt she would usually do this, but since she can't drive and can't much walk anymore without assistance, and being that she was all alone while her son and his family were all out at work and school, no doubt enjoying the severance from Nanny, especially the teenage boy, Fuckle, she has decided to indulge in sweets.

In her stomach was one ooie gooie cinnamon roll, two chocolate cupcakes with confetti sprinkles, three ding dongs, four chocolate chip cookies, five Milano wafers, six white chocolate covered pretzels, seven Andes mint wafers that she found in the recesses of the freezer by accident of accessing the ice cream, which she had eight spoonfulls of. One can probably imagine the bloated state that Nanny was in, but the silly part about all of this was the fact that she had been diagnosed with diabetes a couple weeks past. While looking upon this dreadful over-indulgence of sweet rewards, it can only be concluded that the poor woman was in the process of committing suicide.

But Nanny was nervous. She wanted the seizure to happen quickly, as to not experience a prolonged exposure to severe pain, panic, despair, regret, etcetera. So to combat this from happening, she also brought out a box of SplendaTM packets that her son used to make his coffee taste a little bit better than liquidated beans. She downed the packets one by one, and planned to keep on going until she felt something bad about to happen. By the time she spilled the contents of the twentieth packet into her mouth, she felt the overwhelming urge to vomit.

Nanny vomited, and with it came all of her hard work - the cinnamon roll, the cupcakes, the cookies and wafers - it was all so beautiful before she ate it, and when it was in her mouth, it all tasted so good, but now it left a terribly sour taste in her mouth. She vamited three times within five seconds - because of the exreme intensity of the escape - Nanny blacked out and crashed into the glass coffee table, mixing blood with vamit and sweet with sour, the last thing she heard was the outtro music to The Days of Our Lives, and the last thing that she saw with her mind was the hourglass. Indeed, her time was up.

~ One Minute Later ~

"In Happyplaces nobody has wrinkles! Everybody is young looking - forever!"

Nanny brushed her new hands across the contours of her smooth new face. She was so happy that she had committed suicide.

"I knew the lord would still have me!"

The Welcome Master smiled and tilted his head. He looked a little confused, so he summoned the Keeper, who was in charge of knowledge retention, the name of the Keeper was Chance.

"Chance," the Welcome Master whispered in his ear, "she speaks of the lord, what am I to say of this?"

"She thinks she's in the Christian heaven," Chance replies, "you will have to tell her that she is in Happyplaces."

"But I already told her that she was in Happyplaces."

"Well, you must tell her that this is not Christian heaven."

The Welcome Master is reasonably nervous being that this is a place where everyone is supposed to be in a perpetual state of happiness, even he has to deliver some unhappy news once in a blue sky.

"Young lady," the Welcome Master clears his throat, "this, I'm afraid, is not Chris-" the Welcome Master looks over at Chance, as he forgot the word.

Chance whispers, "Christian heaven."

"Ah!" The Welcome Master smiles, "this is not Christian heaven."

Nanny has her hand on her face, a bit confused, but nonetheless in a reasonable state of happiness, "Oh no? Well what is it?"

The Welcome Master does a jig and joyfully sings the name of his home, "Hap-pi-pla-ces!"

Nanny rubs her smooth arms, "And you don't have a god?"

The Welcome Master looks over at the Keeper, who shakes his head 'no'.

"No!" The Welcome Master smiles.

"Oh," Nanny feels her face again, "whatever."

But suddenly...

The entire land disappeared, and the hand which Nanny kept to her face felt a new and all too familiar texture - wrinkled skin. She was old again.

"No!" Nanny gasped.

And before her a light was shone that was of such brilliance, it burned her thin skin; she tried to guard herself from it, but she was naked. But before long, a figure of some sort appeared from the light. Nanny knew who it was, and she screamed his name!

"Loooord!"

A wind of great magnitude and heat blew across Nanny.

"Have mercy on my soul!"

The figure was close enough to where Nanny could see a set of clenched, angry teeth; no eyes or nose, just a mouth with teeth - and it spoke with fury.

"First you took the life that I gave you!"

Nanny screamed, "Have mercy!"

"Second!" the figure screamed, "You failed the test to enter my kingdom!"

"NO! NO!"

"Therefore, you will spend the rest of your soulful existence in the realm of Purgatory!"

"Have mercy!" Nanny bellowed.

"You will stay there the length of time it takes for you to forget this meeting, and when you have forgotten, you will be tested once more. If you fail that test, you will have the option to remain in Purgatory, or spend your eternity in Hell."

"Faaather!"

"You've been!" The figure pauses and waits for the echo of his tremendous voice to subside, and when is all silent, he screams, "Clu-ster-fucked!"

Nanny screams.

As the figure leaves, the light escapes, the burn on Nanny's skin subsides, but a tremendous pain arrives when she encounters a new light.

She arrives back to Earth like a ruptured bag. Nanny is hunched over the coffee table, bleeding from a cut in her abdomen, staring at a pool of her own bodily fluids. The Collective Soul song, Thunderstruck is playing off in the distance, probably from Fuckle's room, Nanny imagines. She cannot move, she cannot speak.

Is the boy home? Nanny wonders.

Suddenly, Fuckle appears at the upstairs railing, looking down at Nanny's dying body. He is nodding his head to the music, and sings along to this particular part of the song...

You've been...
Clu-ster-fucked!

Nanny hears the boy and tries to see him out the corner of her eye. All Fuckle has done is changed the word "thunderstruck" to "clusterfuck"; as the two words share the same amount of syllables, changing the lyrics in such a way is quite simple.

Yeah, yeah, yeah
Clu-ster-fucked!

All Fuckle did was sing at the landing, watching from above as Nanny experienced a very slow and painful death.

The boy grimaced, "I'll see you in about five minutes, dead face. I am your God."

Nanny dead face 2

Before Nanny ended up at Whispering Oax Nursing Home, or as she quite often called it "the prison", she was not, in fact in the nursing home slash prison, but living in her son's house with his wife and two children. No doubt the wife, or whom Nanny would love to openly call "daughter-in-bitch" or simly "bitch", hated Nanny's presence. After all, Nanny was a very high maintenance individual, even though she only voiced support:

"Is there anything I can cook?"

"Can I help?"

"Let me fix those rolls for you."

"So... what are you thinking for supper?"

"This is delicious."

The catch was that Nanny wasn't really capable of carrying out all of these things she offered to do - and she knew this as much as the rest of the family. It seems that Nanny, therefore, only says this shit to seem "nice"; though lets not get carried away, her face is getting dead - she knows this, and these nice words have no real substance, but are only "brownie points" for God; she hopes that this will get her into "heaven". Nanny likes to believe in heaven; you might too if you had a dead face.

Nanny is sitting at the breakfast nook table with her grandson Fuckle, who has been ordered by his mother to oversee Nanny's cooking of a frozen entre. The boy is trying to send the signal to his grandmother that he doesn't enjoy being around her, but since Nanny has recently suffered from a stroke, she is not very perceptive of people's feelings. Nanny unconciously smiles at her grandson; he hates her old withered face. Fuckle knows that the traditional inquiry is about to commence...

"So, Fuckle, how was school."

"Fine."

"Did you have any tests today?" Her voice quivers and flunctuates and yips and yaws and does all this crazy shit that makes talking to her so much worse.

"No."

"Do you have any tomorrow?"

"No."

She purses her lips and nods her head in aknowledgement. A span of a minute or so goes by before her brain is able to work up the next query, "What do you suppose you'll have for lunch tomorrow?"

Fuckle doesn't know - who keeps track of that kind of shit? Who plans ahead that far in advance? Lunch for tomorrow? Jesus Christ lady, get a life!

"I - I don't know."

"Well tell me and I'll fix it for you tonight."

The irritating thing about old people is that they always seem to be thinking about what they're going to have to eat. Constantly. And when they aren't talking about that - they're speculating over the weather. And if they've already talked about weather and food, they will try to ask their children and grandchildren some of the most impossibly answerable questions which deal mainly with "plans for the future".

"So how long do you suppose you'll have this job?"

"What colleges are you thinking about going to?"

"What are you planning on majoring in?"

Usually, after one has tried to answer or not answer these obscene queries, enough time has lapsed to where they can then talk about food again...

"So, what do you want for supper?"

And after this tremendous production is complete, and the dishes are clean and the belly's full, they will settle down for the local evening news to catch tomorrow's weather, even though they've recieved the forecast twice or thrice that day. Then they go to sleep; Fuckle is glad that he doesn't know much about this process, because he stays away as far as he can from Nanny's bedroom before she goes to bed. He's heard the noises - the gargling of Listerine and other noises pulsating behind the closed door - and he's even glimpsed her in a nightie; all of this is enough to put the boy off enough that he looses all interest in imagining having sex with a women for the eveining.

"Fuckle... I can fix you something tonight. If you tell me what you want I can make it for you."

"Don't worry about it, I buy lunch at school."

"Oh." She nods. But Nanny doesn't like it when her plans to "be helpful" are foiled. Her thoughts try to process a rebuttal, but since part of her brain was deprived of oxygen for a short period of time a couple years back, Nanny's mind doesn't usually succeed in coercing young feeble minds - even though those young feeble minds might also be stupid in their own ways.

Suddenly, some shallow pop music blasts out of a tiny over-extruded cell phone speaker and scares Nanny to the point where she leaps about a half inch out of her chair. It is, of course, the boy's cell phone, and the phone is, of course, too high tech for a boy his age; but he flips it open like a mothafuckin' gangsta.

"Sup."

Caller: "Sup, Fuck."

"Whatchu callin' me fo?"

Caller: "Seeing if you wanna see a movie."

"Ah..." Fuckle enters the other room, out of Nanny's hearing radius. "I can't man. I gotta stay home with my effing grandma."

Caller: "Aw, that sucks, man."

"I know bro."

Caller: "You gonna sneek out tonight?"

"Sure - what time?"

Caller: "One o'clock - the fort?"

"Yeah."

Caller: "I'll text you if that changes."

"Holla calla."

Click.

Contact with his outside world - Fuckle's "real world" was rejuvinating; he faced his grandma with a kinder heart now because of it.

"Who was that?"

"Oh," Fuckle flips around his phone, "just a friend."

"What'd he want?"

"Nothing"

The timer in the kitchen beeps; of course, this arouses Nanny's supreme attention - this is her rejuvination. This is her time. But Fuckle reaches into the burning hot oven with his thirteen-year-old mitts, since Nanny's skin was so thin and loose, who knows how fast it would cook; more realistically, she has poor motor skills. She knows this, which is why it's so obscene that she offers to help out with cooking and cleaning so much.

Nanny was a housewife, and that time passed long ago. When her children left - when her husband died - her purpose of living, or so it had seemed her purpose for the past five decades, was now reduced to caring only for herself. Soon, she found ways around this - like babysitting her grandchildren while her children went out to get piss ass drunk and have wild and crazy sex in a hotel room which they would only use for less than an hour at the most. Now Nanny's grandchild was monitoring and helping her - she was most definitley on the downward-slope-portion of life. Some might say that the old become more and more like children, but her appearance and conservative values say otherwise - she is more like a spoiled special-needs child who costs more money the longer she lives.

Fuckle and Nanny sit at the table, eating their frozen entree, which Nanny praises as if it were a home cooked meal that she slaved over for hours. Actually, she didn't even buy the entree, and all she did was slit the plastic covering open - Fuckle had to do the rest. He had to preheat the oven, whose controlls were not analog knobs but digital buttons that really threw Nanny for a loop - she couldn't even press the buttons correctly. And he had to put the entree in the oven and remove it from the oven. But Nanny still seemed like she thought that it was all her doing. Like she was the master chef behind it all.

"Mmm."

Nanny likes the way it tastes. She couldn't even wait a proper amount of time for the food cool down; she shoveled it in her mouth even though Fuckle warned her otherwise. Thus, she gasped at the heat, and made an assortment of obscene sounds and faces which all siad, "Ooh - this is hot!" Fuckle looked at Nanny with a face that said, "Maby you should have listened to what I had to say you effing idiot."

After she was done gasping, "Hot." With an emphasis on the "t" which spewed a little entree out of her mouth.

"I told you. It said wait five minutes."

"I did."

"No. We just pulled it out of the oven."

"Well - we shouldn't have to wait any longer. It took over an hour to make anyway."

"It's not like we had to do anything. It cooked itself. Maybe if you would have just sat down in frot of the TV and not worried about the food, you would notice that you had to do nothing."

"It needed to be watched."

"For what?"

"To make sure it was cooking properly."

"You couldn't even see it. The light was off."

"Well I didn't know how to turn it on."

"It's the button that says 'light'."

"Well - I don't know these things."

"Yes - you do. I think it's impossible for you to not figure that out. If you know how to turn on lightswitches around the house, I don't see why you can't master an oven light."

"Well I couldn't, Fuckle. Now please, let's just eat. I would like to eat my food."

"That's all you ever want to do."

Nanny gasps, "We didn't say grace."

"Yeah - that and grace. Eat pray sleep that's all you do. You're a nutcase. No wonder you can't turn on an oven light."

"Dear lord thank us for the food we are about to recieve, amen."

"Feel better? What if you forgot to say grace? Would you go to hell?"

"Fuckle! Don't say that word! Your mother would me mortified."

"No she wouldn't, she named me Fuckle!"

"I don't know why she did that - your mother - you have too much of your mother in you, boy."

"You and your damn prayers and your saying grace and blessing food. It's effing food! It's like - wheat and dead animal meat!"

"That's why we bless the food."

"No you don't. You don't give a shit about the animals. You say the blessing for yourself - so that you can get into heaven. And you don't even know if there's a heaven!"

Nanny blows on her entree.

"That's like saying to my parents, 'well - I'm thinking about getting a degree in Boobology. But Fuckle, that isn't even an area of study. Oh, but I'm planning that by the time I get to college, it will be. Because that would be great'."

"Please pass the margerine."

Fuckle passes the margerine. "It must be nice to just kind of - you know - bullshit. I mean, believe in bullshit and not get questioned about it."

Nanny struggles to open the lid to the margerine container, and lifts it - gesturing to Fuckle, to please open this for her.

"I don't believe you." Fuckle rips open the lid to the container, "I've seen you move. Oh yeah, I've seen you walk fast. You do it for food. The other day when we were all in the family room and Amy had a jar of peanut butter that she was eating with a spoon. All of the sudden you kind of left at your normal slow ass walking speed, but then you returned to the room like a split second later, walking just as fast as anybody else - spoon in hand - out in front of you - right on target to dive into the jar of that ooie gooie peanut butter. It was like 'wham bam' and you had that spoon full of it and in your mouth - savoring, no, I'm sorry, what do the commercials in the Oprah time slot say? Indulge. You indulge in that smooth, creamy taste that melts in your mouth."

Nanny's fork rattles against her plate, she is craving some sweetness. Her mind dozes off, and Fuckle's talking just kind of disappears - she is now in a land of cupcakes and chocolates and doughnuts and Cinnabon and Sarah Lee snacks - all floating around. Nanny plucks a chocolate dildo from the vaccum of space and starts to eat it.

"Mmm..." Nanny moans, "cream filling."

"Yes - yes. Secret passageways leading to chocolate storage facilities - this is your heaven, isn't it, Nanny. Allow me - allow me to fufill your dreams, dead face. I am your God."

Nanny dead face

The epoch of a person only ends in Grotesquanny; Nanny's end is near, and her children and their children are trying their damndest to comfort this woman who has transformed into such a wreched person over the past couple of years - no doubt her anger has only been tempered by the hypocrisy that she has slowly been realizing over the past few final years of her one hundred. Nanny lay in this hospital bed, which is now her permanent bed, as she spends her entire life now in a socialist complex called a "nursing home". This retirement villa is nothing more than a prison, she has realized, and to think that she has spent her entire life propagating democracy only to end up in an autocracy is nothing more than blatant hypocrisy, and therefore a dismal ending to her being. She holds "Bible Code Annotated" against her bosom...

"Fuck this place," her children and grandchildren stand around her bed, "I'm in a Rat's hell!"

Her voice rasps and cackles like she's a witch - the grandchildren realize this stereotype, and therefore suppose that she has gone mad - their parent's assume this, also, as do the nursing staff, their administrators, and the President of the United States, who made the mistake of congratulating Nanny on reaching her 100th birth day...

You dumb bastard, it was my one hundredth birthday nine months ago! You savage hypocrite - on one hand you say that aborting baby fetuses is killing humans, but then on the other, you don't even recognize that the time I spent in my mother's fucking womb was part of my lifespan. You're a terrible person Mr. President, and I hope you rot in hell!

Though Nanny isn't really mad, she's perfectly sane - she has just lost all patience in dealing with hypocrisy; and after one hundred years of living on this planet, who wouldn't? She has felt the effects of neo capitalism; when her husband died, his pension went with him - and so did Nanny's. Her family was left with the bill of keeping her alive and well, which is why they moved her into a nursing home.

"You children ready for Christmas?"

The younglings nod with all honesty.

"Have you been to see Santa?"

Again, they nod.

"And," she touches one of the children on the hand, they flinch, understandably, "what kind of eggs, I mean, gifts, did you ask for?"

The little girl answeres quietly, "A cell phone."

"I'm sorry darling, what is it you said? Baskets?"

One of the parents impatiently pipes up for their daughter, "A cell phone, ma."

Nanny's face withers in confusion, "What the hell does she need a cell phone for?"

Constance, the daughter-in-law, and the source of the children's attention deficit problems, pipes in like a cornerstone bitch, "So we can stay in touch with her. If there is a problem, she can call us."

"But the girl is only five years old. I don't understand, why would she need to call you for anything?"

"It's just," Constance huffs, "what she wants."

Nanny's son reassures his mother, "But Santa will be the one who decides."

"Santa?" Nanny seems pissed, "Well tell Santa that little kids about five don't need any fucking cellular telephones."

The little girl's eyebrows crease in sadness.

"And if Santa gets you a cell phone, darling, let me know, because I'm going to write him a nasty letter if he does."

"Ma..."

"What happened to dolls? When I was a girl we got dolls for Christmas. And when we got the doll - we didn't even play with the damn thing. We just put it on a shelf and let it collect dusts. I played in my imagination. Start giving kids cell phones as toys - what the hell kind of message is that sending to them? It's not a toy - it's something that's high tech and flashy so she can walk around and show her friends, 'ooh look at me, I'm a hot little bitch, I've got a cell phone'."

Nanny then took the little boy's hand, "And what did you ask Santa? Not another cell phone I hope."

"I've allready got a cell..."

Constance yelps, "Just answer Nanny's question."

"I asked for an iPod."

"Oh now that sounds like fun, what does that do?"

"It play's music."

"Oh - you mean, like an instrument?"

"No, you put songs on it, like from C.D.'s and stuff."

"Oh."

"You can even watch video's on it."

"Oh my. That sounds nice."

"There's a codec on the internet that you can download, and It'll let you put any kind of video on there."

"I see."

"So I can put all my porno on there."

"Your what?"

"Porno."

"What?" Nanny laughs, "Pornography! You're only eleven." Nanny looks at Constance, "What's this about pornography?"

"Oh, he is into porno now. You know, he's getting to about that age, Nanna. We got him an account at a fairly clean website where he can you know, look and whatnot. Just so that he can get it out of his system before he gets into high school - his psychologist says that repressing sexual interest could be damaging in the long term - so we let him just, feed that interest, because it's going to happen anyway."

"I'm sorry," the Bible Code Annotated has slipped off her bosom and into the boy's hands, "I think I've slipped into one of the lower circles of hell. To save me, you must read that book in it's entirity."

"I can't Nanny."

"But why?"

"Dr. Psychologist thinks that religion might confuse my sexual desires."

"But," Nanny grasped the young boy's wrist, "I'll die."

The boy removes Nanny's hand from his young arm, "I'm sorry Nanny, but I can't, and you can't have my skin again, and you can't have my age again. You have built your own castle of despair, and I will not be the one who crashes it down, that will be you and the dusty wicker baskets that cloud your mind and hold nothing but a thin, arid air which only exists in the presence of moth balls. This arm you want again will not happen, and you can read these pages all you like if it makes you feel better, but it makes me feel like masturbation is bad, so although I feel sad, I've had enough of your brew, your doctrine; the nation you built was once yours, but now it's mine, and the grave we will dig for you one day will sometime later be subject to redistricting when I get tired of watching porno on my iPod. I would suggest cremation since cemetaries take up too much of my space."

"They've got my kids, Lord," Nanny whispered. "You motherfuckers! They've got the kids!"

Luciferians 3:676

Serviced Merchandise

Ditzig scratches his signature down on a three thousand one hundered and fourteen dollar check he just wrote to Service Merchandise. He exhales from his 29 (plus four months) year old lungs as he hands over the check to the African American cashier; she has long red nails which are a perfect accessory to her typing in his account number - the bright red fake plastic nails create an enjoyable aesthetic for everyone, including Shaniqua.


Ditzig knows that the check will clear; he has been saving up for this purchase for quite some time now - he isn't clearing out his bank accout, mind you - Ditzig is an adult and spends accordingly to his need and wants. He writes down the purchase in his check book, accounting for the purchase so that when he recieves all of his checks in the mail at the end of the month, everything will balance out perfectly - like he's running his own little company or something.


But Ditzig doesn't own or run a little company, he is only an accessory in a very large one that was started by someone who was likley much more fortunate than he was, and certainly more wealthy. His apartment was no indication of affluance; Ditzig assumed a humble, quaint hospice on the corner of Corning and Crown, within a building that holds many other hospices much like his. Ditzig couldn't wait to get his new purchase back to his apartment.


After the check cleared and Ditzig was given a record of his purchase, Shaniqua pointed towards a Service desk, "Your computer should be waiting over there."


Yes, a computer. Ditzig had bit the bullet and bought a computer, a machine which would satisfy many of his needs - word processing and digital accounting for home use, as well as games with arcade-quality graphics, and at some point down the road, an America Online account. This was exactly the thing that Ditzig was waiting for all of his life - a machine which could deliver both productivity and entertainment.


Soon, the purchase was sitting squarely in a shopping cart - there was the computer itself - the CPU, and then there was the monitor - the CRT. And to Ditzig's luck, Service Merchandise was running a special - buy any combination CPU, Monitor, Keyboard, Mouse and Speakers and receive a free Inkidyne color dot matrix printer with a ream of perforated feed paper. So there were three boxes in his cart - he couldn't fathom at the moment how he would be able to take all of this up to his apartment in one trip, less three, without making himself look like a weakling, which he was by stereotype.


Ditzig simply adorned Janett - that blonde down the hall from him. His first trip was the printer, as it was the lightest item; he was pacing himself. He hoped like hell that Janett would not pop her hot little body out into the hall, to observe Ditzig making a weak fool of himself. He sweated with anticipation and worry as he approached his door, knowing that the first trip was over, and the next trip, he would be carrying a more heavy item. "I should have started with the monitor first," thought Ditzig.


But he carried that monitor secondly, and low and behold, as Ditzig was making his way back to the elevator on the first floor, Janett has somehow materialized out of nowhere - possibly his own imagination - right in front of the elevator doors. Now Ditzig would have to ride up with her.

He sweated profusley as the doors to the elevator closed, thinking only what she could be thinking - but what he didn't know was that Janett was actually thinking about the black italian sling-back stilettos she just saw at the mall - thinking to herself how sexy she would look wearing them. Janett was thinking about this the whole way up the elevator and down the hall to her room, until she opened her door and discovered that she had left the TV on; then she was thinking about the electric bill thereafter, and how she needed to put it in the mailbox.


Ditzig was thinking about her, though. Mainly, Ditzig was thinking that Janett was thinking he was ugly, sweaty, weak and smelly, and was probably a nerd since he was struggling to hold up CPU that was packaged with Lucas Arts' TIE Fighter and Microsoft's Flight Simulator - and cleary stated this on the outside of the package. Ditzig wish that the computer wasn't called CLICK!, because it didn't look as professional as an IBM, but he knew after careful research and word-of-mouth that the two computers were basically the same on the inside. The processors were the same - both Intel 486's. The operating systems were the same - both running of Microsoft's DOS, and packaged with the Windows 3.1 graphical user interface. Both had 256 kilobytes of the same random access memory as well as the same 512 megabyte hard disk drives - and who can forget the optical CD-ROM for playing spectacular interactive games and Microsoft Encarta videos like the fist moon walk.


12 months later


Service Merchandise had managed to sell Ditzig a two-year warranty which covered the imminant death of the computer, as well as other problems that might have been involuntarily caused by the user. So on this day, exactly one year later, Ditzig stumbled into the service department at Service Merchandise with his CLICK! computer in his bare hands. Blood was dripping out the back of it's casing; something was wrong.


"Please," wimpered Ditzig, "help me."


His manner and sudden presence startled the personnel behind the service counter. They only asked the next possible question, "What's wrong?"


Ditzig had made it to the tall counter and was struggling to put the CPU on it, "My computer is bleeding."


A woman at the service desk covered her mouth with a cold, pale hand; she had never seen a case like this before. She signaled for Benji, the computer repair technician.


"What's up?" Benji asked right before he saw the pool of blood forming on the counter.


"My computer is bleeding."


"His computer is bleeding."


Benji was a bit confused, but he aknowledged, "I see."


The woman asked Benji if he had seen anything like this before, and he said no.


"But I'll have a look."


Ditzig waited in the lobby in tears; waiting for the diagnosis. Nobody else seemed to understand the peril he was going through. Ditzig had spent the best year of his life with that computer, and there it was, corrupted. But why? Why was the computer corrupted? It was only a year old. It made Ditzig sick. The woman at the service counter tried to console Ditzig, saying that everything will be fine.


"But I don't understand," said Ditzig between tears, "Click's only a year old."


The woman held his hand, "Sometimes - these things happen. But you know what? We fix these kinds of problems. Benji does this every day."


Ditzig then saw Benji emerge from the technician's room; he stood up, awaiting the diagnosis.


"Mr. Ditzig," Benji continued in all honesty, "I must say I've never seen anything like this."


"Well," Ditzig was anxious, "tell me what the problem is."


"It seems that a human tissue has been substituted for the computer's random access memory."


~


After some careful investigation by local authorities, it was confirmed that Ditzig had used the flesh of Janett for his computer's random access memory. He encased the flesh in two pieces of plate glass, which held the skin together, and measured it all so that it would fit properly in one of the expandable RAM slots.


The mortician was held as an expert witness for the trial of The People vs. Ditzig, "Underneath Ms. Janett's left breast, we found an incision, and within that incision, was a piece of - what I could only describe at the time - a piece of silicon with solid state memory modules fused to the surface."


The autopsy revealed that the RAM missing from Click was implanted into Janett. It seemed to the authorities that Ditzig was in the beginning stages of tying to emulate Janett with Click.

"We also found - in Ms. Janett's trachaea - what seemed to be red, yellow and black cables that might be used to power certain internal pieces of hardware in a computer system."


In fact, the blood that was dripping from Click's case, was from the blood of arteries that Ditzig had removed from Janett and installed inside Click. Though they were a jumbled mess by the time of the investigation, Ditzig's testimony reveals that he was using Janett's arteries as cables to power an aftermarket processor fan.


"And possibly the most interesting item was found in Ms. Janett's vaginal cavity - that being a three and a half inch floppy disk removed from it's protective casing."


In his response to the floppy disk, Ditzig mentioned that the important thing was not the floppy disk itself, but what was on the disk. Forensics reviewed the disk and uncovered the data; the only data on the disk being a text file that repeated the word "spermatazoa" an unspeakable amount of times.

"I will tell you one thing," said Ditzig, "I did try to use what I believe was Janett's clitorus as a means for overclocking Click's processor, but my efforts seemed futile so I stopped trying. That's when I broght Click in to be serviced."