“Listen, the evidence of polar melting is scarce at best–”
“Ah ah ah,” says Caitlan, flipping open her diploma-badge. “Oxford.”
“That doesn’t automatically mean you’re right!” rages Colby.
“Actually, if you care to review section 8 of U.N. Resolution 1723, I think you’ll find that–” She stops with the document halfway out of her uniform’s hidden pocket and cocks her head. “Do you hear that?”
“What?” says Colby. “No.”
Caitlan nods firmly. “The Oxford Signal. I must away!”
“Oh for petesakes,” says Colby, but Caitlan’s already shrugging into her official Oxford jetpack, which burns the clean, renewable hyperfuel called “petrol.”
“You have the worst business cards,” says Branwyn, examining it as they vault the wall.
“It’s not a business card,” says Ed.
“It’s got your contact information.” They land and scoot for the shadows.
“It’s a promotional mini chakra!”
“It doesn’t fit in my wallet,” hisses Branwyn as she peeks around the corner with a tiny mirror. “One bogey, your right.”
“No, no!” Ed groans. “I’m an assassin, it’s my trademark kill, Jesus!” He zings the little disc through a guard’s neck. “See?”
“Maybe you should cut out the middle, make it clearer–”
“But then it wouldn’t double as a coaster!”
Friday, September 30, 2005
Dudley bursts into the director’s office, panting. “Just came from the cuh. Coroner’s office, ma’am! C-cause of death was acute graphragmia!”
The director’s lips move for a second, then her eyes go wide. “Writer’s block,” she says. “Quick onset?”
“Yes,” Dudley manages.
“Contagious?”
Dudley’s face says it first.
The director stabs the intercom. “Get me the CDC. Get the Surgeon General. Hell, get me the Joint Chiefs!”
“Can we beat it, ma’am?” asks Dudley.
“This doesn’t leave the room, Dudley,” says the directory grimly. “But if we don’t have to resort to the nuclear option, I’ll call it a win.”
Wednesday, September 28, 2005
“No,” says Rob, at the threshold.
Darlene’s already inside, working a mortar and pestle. In an arc to her side are slivers of white bone; to the other are tiny plastic bags. Splayed out on the floor next to her is the angel, white and dessicated. Its face is hidden. All its hands are crooked, its endless recursive wings, the savage spine–
“Don’t get squeamish,” grunts Salem, and shoves him. He trips and crashes, cuts his hands. White dust. He looks up at Darlene, and his eyes are black.
“You haven’t taught me anything,” he whispers. Darlene’s face is suddenly fearful.
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
“But I don’t want to,” says Brody, eyelids sagging. “Not until we’re actually married.”
“Being engaged totally counts,” says Leta eagerly.
“Mm mmm.”
“Okay, think about this. Every time you turn me down, you’re making more unmarried sex happen.”
“Mm mmm.”
“It’s math! There are, like, a million sinful couples having sex every minute. More at night. And if we don’t have some of that sex, we’re forcing them to do it instead!” Leta bounces onto the bed. “Quantum statistics! Butterfly hurricanes!”
“I can smell that logic,” mumbles Brody, “and I’m not even awake.”
“I don’t think good horny!” snaps Leta.
Monday, September 26, 2005
“You said you’d never watch a Guy Ritchie movie again,” laughs Dee.
“My words!” cries Rupert. “They’ve come back to haunt me!”
“These aren’t ghost words,” growls Nikki. “They’re zombies!”
Rupert’s got a machete; Nikki loads shells one-handed. “Head for the pointy part of the speech bubble,” says Dee. “Maybe we can barricade it!”
Nikki fires, gets lucky, takes out Ritchie and I’ll with one shot. Rupert swings at what he thinks is Never’s head. The machete sticks.
“No!” screams Dee as he stumbles. Nikki’s dragging her back, lips tight. Never moans, and its teeth lean in toward Rupert’s neck.
Friday, September 23, 2005
“You fuck your mother with that mouth?”
“No, I fuck yours! With your own!”
“What? My own what?”
Felten hesitates. “Your–your own mother.”
“That can’t be right,” says Donna. “Let me get some paper.”
DING
“You fuck your mother with that mouth?”
“Yes!”
DING
“You fuck your mother with that mouth?”
“She’s dead, you prick!”
“Oh jeez.” Donna flushes. “I didn’t mean that.”
“You didn’t know,” mutters Felten.
Pause.
“You’re not really a prick,” says Felten.
“Well, not anatomically.”
DING
“You fuck your mother with that mouth?”
“That’s good,” says Felten. “Can I use that?”
“It’s trademarked,” Donna says shortly.
Thursday, September 22, 2005
Daniel knocks the board up onto an edge stand–a nerdy trick, but it lets him dodge a low sweep. He kicks the board into that mook’s chest, catches it on the reflect and ducks. Another swing misses; Daniel puts the board on his feet and rolls back into a flip, letting it catch a second ninja’s chin. Ball bearings rattle, and he turns a landing wobble into a nose stall.
Dylan’s watching. He notices, and pauses long enough to grin. “Ta dah!”
She raises her eyebrows, then broadsides an incoming goon with somebody’s Harley.
“Four wheels beats two wheels,” Daniel mutters.
Wednesday, September 21, 2005