Pungent smoke wafted from the cigarette in his hand to Sal’s nose.  His nostrils flared slightly as he became aware of the smell.  Raising his hand to look at it, he had neglected it long enough for the last half to turn to ash, burning all the way down to the filter.  He could really use a fucking cigarette right about now. 

He dropped the filter to the ground and pulled the pack of cigarettes from his pocket to his mouth.  Extracting one, it was lit before the pack returned to his jacket.  He felt like his hands should be shaking but it was too practiced a motion.  He inhaled deeply.  Then again.  Then without the cigarette; a trace of cool air was present from a nearby window. 

To his right was Johnny, standing a respectful distance away in the hallway.  Ostensibly watching the hallway to make sure they weren’t interrupted.  Yet turned just enough that Sal could easily catch his eye.  His hands were clasped in front of him, emphasizing his bulky shoulders.  His head tilted just slightly forward.  A comfortable pose, useful for intimidation, standing watch or paying respects at a funeral.  Why have different body language when all you need is a single word.

“Johnny?  How are we?”  Sal didn’t know how long he’d been standing there, his instincts were to reacquaint his bearings.

Johnny’s feet remained planted in the hallway as he turned to face Sal.  “We’re tight.  We got boys watching the entrances and so forth.  Nobody comes calling we don’t got the drop on.”  Johnny’s head returned to its former position of not quite looking at Sal.  How expressive Johnny could be when he chose: Take all the time you want, Sal.

Lying in front of Sal was what was left of his brother, rolled slightly to one side.  A dark pool of blood had formed under his gut where the first or second bullet had blown through him.  A thinner trail of blood traced from the middle of the room, near a discarded gun, to the larger puddle underneath him.  Looking up at the door to the hallway it seemed pretty clear that someone had shot him from that angle and he’d fallen or dragged himself to where he now lay.  Another bullet pierced his right shoulder but there didn’t seem to be an exit wound.

There was a smaller gun in Vince’s left hand.  It was the one he kept in his ankle holster.  Sal tried to imagine his brother’s final moments.  He had pulled the gun out, did he have it pointed at his assailant?  He looked around the room for a bullet hole.  Did he have the chance to fire a shot? 

He looked at where Vince’s face should be.  Blood, brain matter and bits of skull were splattered along the floor.  A disgusting greasy mess.  After he’d been shot down someone had come to finish him off at point blank range.  Did they exchange words?  The gun in his hand made that unlikely.  Maybe they traded insults and then Vince made a play for his gun, ending it.  “Cocksucker.”  Vinny would’ve called him a cocksucker.

Sal looked at his cigarette, full of ash and almost down to the filter.  He brought it to his lips and inhaled deeply before tossing it to the ground.  He walked out of the room and down the hallway, Johnny effortlessly fell into step just behind him.

“Take him out of there.  We gotta put him in the ground properly, Johnny.  This isn’t for the somebody to complain about the smell two weeks from now.”  They reached the end of the hallway and turned to go down the stairs.

“Brad and Tony are bringing a van, they’ll take Vince.  Then we torch this place.” 

Sal nodded.  He knew there’d be evidence of them somewhere; like the cigarette’s he’d tossed on the floor.  Sal stopped walking.  “Fuck my mother, I tossed butts on the floor.”

Johnny held up his hand.  “You dropped three.  I saw where they landed.”

“You said you know the dead man that did this?”  Sal’s eyes burned with intensity.  There was a passion for bloody revenge that even startled Johnny.  Sal didn’t say anything more.  They were going to paint the town with intestines of Vince’s killer.  It was going to take days for him to die.

Johnny nodded. “Macks.  A detective.  Had to be.”  Sal turned back the stairs and continued walking down them.  “Vince had in his pocket or something.  Anyways, they were meeting tonight.  Hence the abandoned building and what not.”  Johnny waved his hand toward the stairwell the two of them occupied.

The exited the stairway and walked across the decrepit lobby toward the entrance way where two of Sal’s men stood guard.  “There might be a problem, Sal.”  This caused them to stop again.  Sal turned to face Johnny.  This time that intensity was directed at Johnny.  It caused him to take a step back, holding up his hand again. “No, I ain’t saying no to anything.” 

Sal turned his head slightly, like a cat toying with a mouse it just caught.  “It’s just, you should be aware, see, of --”

“What?”

“It-- his father.  Detective Macks is the D.A.’s son.  It could cause a lot of heat.”

Sal remained where he was.  His gaze focused squarely on Johnny clearly aware of the power he had to make people squirm.  Without moving his eyes, Sal reached into his left jacket pocket.  He withdrew a box of cigarettes and held it up to his mouth.  His eyes still locked on Johnny.  He bit the end of a cigarette and pulled the box away.  The package slipped back into his pocket while his right hand pulled a lighter from the right pocket. 

Sal held the lighter up to the cigarette and waited.  His eyes burrowed into his lieutenant for a few moments longer before finally shifting to the lighter.  Cigarette lit, he turned back toward the lobby door and started walking.

“I don’t care if Mack’s the son of the fucking Pope, Johnny. You take that cop out.”  One of the lobby guards opened the door and Sal walked out into the cool night air.

Johnny, still standing where he was, pulled the phone from his pocket and made a call.  He unconsciously glanced at the roof, imagining the scene two floors above him.  He had to get his hands on a lot of gasoline.  Tonight.

Noting that simplicity depends on a reasoner’s perspective throws the subjectivity monkey wrench at Occam’s Razor. Extending the insight, that it depends also on the laws governing your local space-time area which informs your perspective, is a masterstroke — of death!

The history of physics, from Earth-centric perfect sphere within sphere heavens to M-theory, is but the continual redefinition of what simple means. It contains long and irrelevant detours, often lured by the siren of elegance, beauty and other singularities. Detours visible only in hindsight, driven ultimately by variations of “I like the way this idea sounds.” The real world is infinitely inconceivably complex; we’re forced to settle for sound bites.

Simplicity is not some indivisible thing, Mr. Occam, but depends on flawed chains of reasoning, based on centuries of imperfect observation and a half-baked, and constantly evolving understanding, performed radically differently depending on who you talk to. As understanding grows ideas of simple grow more complex. It is subjective and relative and malleable. And screw meagre understanding: it may be that the fundamentals of reality are not even immutable. From the big bang’s rule bending to the ideas of a multiverse viewed likely by some string theorists, somewhere π is 3.

Oh sure, trust your our own judgment if you like, but the shifting sands of assumptions they’re based on already changed yesterday. Every time you think you know something, consider it another Nigerian penis-enlargement phishing scam you fell for. Planck’s constant and Heisenberg’s principle are offshore sending you mental spam.

Simple now looks like this:

     ...good luck incorporating that next time you’re trying to decide between McDonalds, Burger King or a goat. What does this mean? The new priesthood cannot explain it to me without years of detailed lessons to understand the principles on which it’s based.

We used to believe things fell down when dropped until outer space showed up and curb-stomped that idea. A few years back evolution took the assumption that nature’s forms are unchanging and shived it 17 times. The underlying principles of 52 years of cognitive dissidence recently dropped the soap in front of some dude capable of using an abacus. We’re all trapped in the same snow globe, inventing theorems explaining why it snows when an unperceivable child gives us a good shake. The next person who tells you he’s got answers, you punch him right on the nose and spit on his dog.

Swim instead in uncertainty. And of that simple platitude, I am cert... Aw Crap. 
                                      David Deutsch, _{you wily bastard,} you!
                    Curse me and my collapsed waveform!

Janine had been working on the quarterly financial statements for the last three hours. Deciding it was definitely time for a break, she pulled out the monthly income and expense sheets and pushed her chair back from the desk a bit. That was more like it. She felt a guilty pleasure at the thought of slacking off so obviously, but it wasn’t like anyone could see her. Well, there were the caged ones hanging from her ceiling, but she had them well in line.. they wouldn’t snitch on her.. she was pretty sure, at least. Janine picked up her broom handle and poked one of them.

“Get To Work!!” She yelled. There, that would keep them fearful for the next hour or two. Definitely enough time to review the income and expense sheet. Heck, compared to that dang quarterly statement, she was practically on vacation.

Janine spent the next two hours correlating the projected expenses with the actuals and then comparing them to the statistical averages. It was all going along nicely until she reached the stationery expenses. Hmm... very strange. The actuals were a full 18% greater than the projected. And that 18% difference was a full 67% above the average deviation. Janine spent another half hour working the numbers. That 67% actually became 68% when you accounted for the inflationary bias the projected expenses contained.

A voice inside Janine’s head seemed to speak up: So what, they used more stationery than they thought they would.

But Janine had a hunch; this wasn’t merely bad projection, something was going on here.

Janine’s first step was obvious: logistics. Among other things, the logistics department was responsible for the distribution of all supplies shipped into the compound. According to payroll, the head position was filled by a Norton O. Body. In actuality, it was filled by one Kelly Haryll. Kelly was officially a garbage-man... at least Janine was pretty sure that’s what he was. He had told Janine he was in charge of ‘removals’ but when she asked what he removed, he had just laughed and said “oh, things that have outlived their usefulness.”

The higher-ups in the revolution seemed convinced that having someone in charge of two positions gave an individual too much power. And a two or three day investigation would have easily revealed the double paychecks. But Janine would be the one to do such an investigation and she didn’t see anything particularly wrong with someone being in charge of logistics and garbageing.. er.. being a garbage-man. Nor did she see anything wrong with the percentage of Mr. Body’s paycheck that was regularly deposited into J.M. Inc. (Also known as Janine Melninchuk’s Swiss Bank account)

But kickbacks aside, Janine needed to talk to Kelly: “Hey there, how’s it going?”

Kelly looked up from his computer terminal. “Hey!” He pushed his chair back and stretched his hands out. “What’s up?”

“Well.. I need a favor. I’m trying to track down where all the stationery went last month... sort of a private little audit. Think you can give me a hand?”

“Sure,” nodded Kelly. “Just let me find my corpse.”

“What?” Janine asked, uncertainty covering her face.

“My corpse,” reassured Kelly. He pointed at his monitor. “I died, and if you don’t find your corpse, someone can steal all your stuff. So you gotta find it and get your stuff back before you log off.”

Janine looked at Kelly and then shrugged. Sure, why not. She sat down and waited

“Sooo... speakin’ of corpses,” intoned Kelly. “Ya’ hear about that Concorde crash?”

Janine nodded. “Yah, that was a real tragedy.”

“Tragedy?” screeched Kelly. “That was a thing of beauty! I mean who would suspect?”

Janine was taken aback. “Suspect? Suspect what?”

Kelly chuckled. “Hehe.. yah, that’s the idea.”

“What idea?” It seemed to Janine that Kelly had some odd interests for a garbage-man.

But Kelly changed the subject. “There’s that corpse. Now, it was stationery you were interested in?”

“Uhh.. yes. Yes it was,” Janine responded, only slightly reassured that Kelly was a competent choice for the position. “You see, it seems that there was a bit of a usage spike last month and I’m trying to figure out where it came from.”

Kelly thought for a moment. “Hmm.. let me check something,” he said as his hands flew about the keyboard. Before long the printer beside Kelly’s computer was spitting page after page of numbers into its hopper. “I know what’s going on, but let’s play a little game. I’ve printed out just the summaries, let’s see how long it takes you to spot it yourself.” The printer finished and Kelly handed her a stack of papers about as thick as a bible.

Janine smiled to herself, silly Kelly. She began flipping through the stack. “Hmm.. No.. Oh, hey, I see you’ve sub-categorized everything!” she squealed with delight.

“Hey, a guy’s gotta know what’s going where...” Kelly replied modestly

“Well, that makes it easier.. let’s see.. it’s obviously paper usage that’s up.. Hmm.. Oh, that’s it – shoot.. guess not...”

Kelly nodded “MmHmm, those quarterly projected adjustments had me going for a second, but then I realized –”

“It’s only the second month in the quarter!” They finished together.

“Hehe, how silly,” Janine laughed. “But I think I’ve got it.. it’s the R&D department, isn’t it?”

Kelly halted his stop-watch. “Bang-on! Wow, only a minute and a half! You’re pretty good Janine.”

“Oh, be quiet.” She blushed. “But seriously, where in R&D? I can’t seem to find that.” Janine put the stack of papers down on Kelly’s desk.

He shrugged. “Dunno. The R&D compound is as detailed as I get; they handle their own distribution of supplies. You’ll have to talk to them for any more details” He swiveled his chair back to face his desk. “But hey, Research and Development does use a lot of stationery.”

Janine thought for a moment. “No. there’s more to it than that...”

“Mr. Farnsworth?” Janine asked, speaking to a table of five young boys; all of whom appeared to be playing some type of card game.

One of them looked up. “Yes?” he asked, in a way that struck her as very rude.

“I’m Janine, from Accounting. I need to ask you some questions.”

“Listen,” he said, not just rudely, but obnoxiously so. “I’m about to tap over fourteen blue mana which will more than assure me a crushing victory against the obviously inferior decks of my opponents. Now if you don’t mind, I’m rather busy.”

Janine tried to stay out of office politics as much as possible. But one thing she did know, one thing everyone knew, was exactly how low in the pecking order R&D geeks ranked. She also knew where their sensitive points were. “Well, it’s just that I’ve been looking into the budget of Project: Lightsaber. It seems to me that the expenditures are rather high, but I guess I can just reduce funding without any consultations. Sorry to trouble you –”

“Please, call me Doug.” The table occupants had already scattered and Mr. Farnsworth was standing in front of her. “What is it I can help you with?” His tone had noticeably changed.

That was better; it seemed they understood one another. “Paper. Your department has been using a lot of it this last month. Why?”

Doug seemed crestfallen. “Oh dear, I’m really not sure.”

“What’s that?” Janine was losing patience. “You’re listed as being in charge of supplies here. It’s your responsibility to –”

“No, listen, I’m really not sure. We just put all the stationery in a cabinet – anyone who needs something just goes and gets it.”

“And you think this system is acceptable!?” Janine blurted. “What about theft? You don’t even have a sign out sheet! Where’s the accountability?”

“Theft? Oh, no.. I really don’t think any of the guys would –”

“Wait a minute!” Janine interjected. Her hostilities forgotten – she’d just had a brainstorm. “Are you following the recycling program?”

“Well... to be quite honest, at first we weren’t following it very well. But once you sent your men around, it’s been followed one hundred percent.” He smiled nervously.

“My men?” Janine asked.

“Sure. The guards that you sent. They gave some of the boys a few good beatings. The message got through; we’ve been recycling ever since.” He smiled again.

Flashback: Janine had instituted the recycling program about five months ago. About three months ago, she had re-sent the memo to James, one of the upper managers, and asked him to see what he could do about enforcing the policy.

Janine gulped heavily. Sometimes she forgot she was part of an armed revolution. But still.. her brainstorm remained a good one. She picked up a nearby phone. “Switchboard? Yes.. I’d like you to connect me to..” let’s see, who would have those figures.. “um.. Caged One A47, please. Thanks. A47? Hi, it’s me. Can you grab the figures for last month’s R&D recycling pickup? Sure..” Janine waited for A47 to locate the figures and read them back to her. “Okay, thanks.” Janine put the receiver back on the hook and turned to face Doug.

“Well, it seems the volume of paper recycled is 29% below the volume of paper that was ordered by your department. The paper arrived, but it never left!” Doug seemed to be getting nervous again, while Janine was starting to get into this. “Additionally, given that your department uses about 58% of the compound’s stationary, that 29% deficit becomes...” Janine did some quick mental calculations. “...about 17% ... pretty close to the 18% over the total projected that I uncovered.” She leveled her gaze at Doug. “This was no mere theft of office supplies, whoever took that paper first increased the amount ordered; definitely pre-planned.”

He looked about to faint. “Hey, it wasn’t me! I don’t order this stuff.”

She folded her arms over her chest. “Well, who does, then?”

“The computer! Johnny, one of our programmers, he wrote this program that does all our ordering for us.”

Janine was sure she was onto something. “Well how does the program work?”

“It bases orders on last month’s consumption.” Doug answered.

“I think I have a few questions for this Johnny character. Let me speak to him.”

Doug looked toward the floor. “Uh.. he disappeared about two months ago. He was taken away for failing to recycle some of his scrap paper and we haven’t seen him since.”

Janine gulped again. Still, it wasn’t like it was her fault. That was the ticket: it wasn’t her fault. Still, she was definitely onto something.

“Hey,” Doug seemed to cheer up. “What if it’s being used for one of the research projects?”

Drat! Then again, maybe she wasn’t.

Her time on the R&D compound had left Janine with questions. Ones she couldn’t answer. But she knew someone who could. The trouble was finding him; he was the type of person who was always underfoot until you actually wanted him for something – then he was gone. But Janine had learned, over time, how to find him.

Some people were creatures of habits. And Sam was a strange creature, with some strange habits.

She waited until morning.

And stood in one of the hallways. Waiting. Silently.

There! Southwest of her.

Janine rushed toward the sounds. First jotting east, to a connecting corridor, then south, a quick turn west, then south again. Stop.

Again Janine waited.

Listening.

She was close to their path, but still... not quite... Yes! South again, then west. She followed the corridor until it met another, then stopped.

And listened; this was it.

She waited.

Before long she could clearly hear the approaching screeches, along with the cries of surprise as the screeches grew nearer.

She watched as, from around the corner, they came.

Monkeys.

Bouncing from wall to floor to wall again, the herd ricocheted off hallway doors, ceilings, other occupants of the hallway, the carpet and especially each other. A mass of furry brown creatures in constant, frenetic motion. All the while howling at top volume.

Janine pressed herself against a wall and hoped for the best.

As the hairy, screeching mass swept past her she watched them. There he was. At the constantly moving center, was Sam. Screeching, jumping, shouting and occasionally biting in retaliation to the odd misplaced monkey-limb, was Sam. Despite a human birth and upbringing; somehow fitting perfectly into the adopted monkey tribe, indistinguishable even, was Sam.

Hoping for the best, Janine held her hands out in front of her and stepped into his path. “Sam!”

Sam stopped and hissed at her, but then seemed to snap out of some type of trance. “Hey Janine!” He said warmly. “Just a second.” The swarm was already starting to pass the two by. For some reason, perhaps her proximity to Sam, the monkeys had stopped bumping into her as much.

Sam shouted to one of the monkeys: “Marsel!” It came bounding over. Except for a few stragglers, the monkeys had already continued past them. “Marsel, you’re in charge. Finish the morning run. I’ll meet you at the training area.”

Marsel stared at Sam in confusion.

Sam, angrily, began to screech at him. Where she not actually present, Janine would have been unable to tell the difference between Sam’s screeches and those of the monkeys.

Marsel screeched back in response. It sounded... defensive.

Sam screeched again.

Marsel screeched back, then bounded off to join the now distant sounds of the pack.

“Damn it! He should be able to take verbal orders by now.” Sam turned to Janine. “So, what’s up?”

Janine briefly glanced toward where Marsel had gone. So many questions were pouring into her mind at the moment. She shook her head, clearing them all away. There was business to attend to.

“Sam, I’ve got some questions for you. About R&D.”

He suddenly seemed militant. “Hey, have they got my jet pack finished? I was supposed to fly to Brazil, like, a week ago.”

“Uhh…” Janine responded. Sometimes she forgot that Sam needed a little… handling. “Yah, I think it’s done. Now, as for my question. Are there any top secret R&D projects? I know there must be at least a few that I don’t have access to, but you would.”

Sam nodded.

“So I need to know if there’s any current projects that might be using up a lot of paper.”

“Hmm… Not that I can remember.” Sam pulled a small book out of his pocket and began flipping through it. He paused at one page and chuckled. “Oh…. That Liz, she’s a wily one.” He continued flipping until he closed the book. “No, I don’t see anything.”

“Are you sure?” asked Janine. “This is important Sam. There aren’t any papier maché monkeys or something?” She prompted.

“Wow! That’s a great idea! Are we making those? That’s awesome!”

“I don’t think so, I’m asking you if –”

“We should make those! Papier maché, why didn’t I think of that?” Sam opened his book again and began to write something in it. “This will work great in Afghanistan.”

“Sam,” Janine interjected. “So you’re telling me that there’s nothing they’re working on currently that should be using up a lot of paper?”

Sam halted his scribbling. “Nope. I’m sure of that. I would have known if they were making papier maché monkeys.”

Janine was regretting saying anything about monkeys. “And besides papier maché?”

“Nope.” Sam repeated. “There definitely aren’t any projects like that.” He pulled out his cell phone and started dialing. “Yet.”

Janine sat in her office, dejected. Her meeting with Sam had been fruitless and she was left without a clear idea of what to do next. She tried taking her mind off things by reviewing the weekly requisitions.

Someone was putting in requests for rocket launchers again. She nixed those in a hurry – the launchers themselves weren’t that bad, but rockets were expensive. And there was no way she could amortize those!

But in the end it was useless; her thoughts kept leading her back to the missing stationary. So what? It’s not even that much paper. But her mind would leave her no peace.

She started reviewing what she had learned so far. She knew that paper consumption was up in R&D. And thanks to the recycling figures she also knew that it wasn’t leaving the R&D division.

Janine turned her chair towards the computer and brought up the budgetary figures for R&D. Hoping for inspiration, she began scrolling through the data.

Sam had confirmed the paper wasn’t targeted toward any official uses. But someone must have created that increase in paper. She stopped scrolling when she reached the expense breakdown by project. Doug had told her it was a computer program that did the ordering. What if someone had modified that program?

She switched programs and began scanning through the list of project timetables – a list that could be broken down to display active members. Thanks to some of Janine’s earlier reforms it had become next to impossible to start any project without complete fiscal accountability. If she was going to be signing people’s paychecks she damn well better know why.

After running across a few promising candidates Janine had come to a conclusion: R&D has a shit-load of projects. She scribbled a note to herself to check into some of them (although she amended “a shit-load of projects” to read “quite a few active endeavors.” Then she wondered if she should perhaps write a bit more at the start, to clarify things. After that it became apparent she needed to back up her statements with a few figures. Half an hour and seven pages later, Janine emailed her completed memo to certain members of Accounting, Ops, Oversight, R&D, and Management). Finally, she came upon project J3725-B, ‘automated supply coordination utility.’ This was it.

Sure enough, maintenance entries were logged for a ‘John Westlock’ up until about two months ago. Janine paused. It’s not my fault. It’s not my fault. She continued – and discovered another ‘John Westlock’ entry (for 1.5 hours) from five weeks ago. How is that possible?

Then she noticed something: the employee code was different. That was it! Whoever was doing this had been unable to log the hours under the real John Westlock (possibly because his file was deactivated), so they created a second John Westlock. Janine smiled to herself.

Her fingers flew about the keyboard – tracing the false employee code. At first glance, it appeared to be non-existent. But a few minutes later it became apparent that that wasn’t quite the case. The duplicate John Westlock wasn’t an employee, he was a project.

If group members from one project assisted those on another project, it was possible that the project, instead of the employees, would be listed as putting in the time. Janine began to trace down this second project. It was an alias for another project, which seemed to be aliased to still others. The project wouldn’t be left holding those hours; they would be re-distributed to group members – but as a separate transaction!

Janine exhaled as she ran her fingers through her hair. There was no way to easily determine which employees had been loaned out to the secondary projects. Managers were supposed to keep records – but obviously that wouldn’t have been done. Whoever had engineered this knew their stuff; Janine was impressed. Because on top of everything else, at the end of the trail of project aliases, they had linked the program modifications to none other than A1138-R. Project: Lightsaber.

Project: Lightsaber. Janine sighed again.

It was the largest budgetary sinkhole that Janine, in all her accounting endeavors, had ever seen. It was the R&D geeks attempt to build a fully functional lightsaber, alá Star Wars, and involved (at last estimates) over 83% of R&D personnel to varying degrees. It was by no means an official project. Quite the opposite: the powers that be had done all they could to stamp it out. But they had eventually succumbed to the fact that (Janine briefly recalled the memo) “…other than killing every last R&D geek, there is no way to halt Project: Lightsaber. Even then, there is no guarantee that the project wouldn’t be revived by a fresh batch of recruits.” Management had instead attempted to ensure that Project: Lightsaber did not interfere with higher priority projects and that the geeks worked on it only when they should be eating, sleeping or doing other such recreational activities.

There was only one way Janine could track this down. If she were to tabulate each employee’s hours, as contributed to Project: Lightsaber and other projects, and compared those to the hours they had contributed in total, somewhere she would find an employee with a discrepancy of 1.5 hours. Janine shuddered involuntarily. With over two hundred geeks in R&D this was to be no easy task. She thought about trying to get her software upgraded to do the task – but that could take weeks. And it would be outsourced to R&D, she thought darkly.

There was only one group of people she knew she could trust.

It was time to mobilize the troops.

Janine picked up her broom handle and glanced above her at the caged ones. “Get up!” she shouted as she began banging various cages. “Play time’s over, folks. It’s time for you all to get some real work done!”

Approximately 37 hours, countless false leads, a veritable forest of printouts, a few naps and a near infinite amount of cross-referencing later, Janine had her man. William Arnold, emp#2491.

It had culminated with Janine emailing him a brief note. ‘Re: Failure to recycle. I know about Project J3725-B. Meet me in common area #7 at 13.30, alone, or face consequences worse than mis-filing an expense form during an audit period.’

Janine glanced at her watch. It was 13.38.

The common area, a small outdoor park, was relatively deserted. To the east of her were a couple of midgets having lunch. To the Northwest were a couple of monkeys and one of their trainers, Monique, on maneuvers. After Sam had overheard one of the soldiers use the phrase, he had insisted that they call all such monkey activities “being on maneuvers.” As near as Janine could tell, the monkeys, each of whom were wearing either an orange or green electro-shock harness, would climb up one of the trees and throw leaves at some of the other monkeys. Monique, meanwhile, cheered them on with cries of “excellent,” and “good form!”

It was 13.42 and Janine was starting to wonder if meeting Mr. Arnold had been the best of ideas. At the time she hadn’t given it a second thought. After such a long and difficult hunt, she had wanted to be the one to face him with the facts. What if he’s dangerous? She thought. Maybe she should turn her findings over to someone else.

That was some reasonably advanced book-work she had run across; what if there was more to it than she had discovered? She glanced around her. At least she had chosen a public meeting place – there wasn’t much anyone could do here.

Janine’s anxiety shrank somewhat as she thought things over. She squeezed the cell-phone in her pocket; reassuring herself that she could always call in support if she needed it. But she didn’t feel like letting one of the other departments steal the credit for her investigation. Not again. Not just yet, anyway.

Janine’s anxiety faded again as she saw Mr. Arnold enter the courtyard. Sweating, wheezing and making a desperate attempt to run, William Arnold burst into common area #7. Both the monkeys and midgets stared at him as he briefly stopped to catch his breath.

Embarrassed to do so, Janine waved him over.

William waved back, then pulled out an asthma inhaler from his pocket and took a few quick medicated puffs. He re-started his run.

Janine glanced at her watch again.

As he arrived, he burst out “I’m.. I’m.. sorry I..” Janine waved him to sit down on the bench. His thin frame collapsed on the seat as he took another desperate breath from the inhaler. “I.. I.. got here.. as.. as.. as..”

“Fast as you could?” Janine prompted. He nodded as he momentarily breathed through the inhaler. “That’s okay, take your time.” After a while his breathing seemed to return to a more even pace.

“Thanks. I just got your.. your message.” His expression was worried.

She took a moment’s pause to collect her thoughts. And let his worry grow. “It seems, Mr. Arnold, that you have been responsible for a few missing office supplies.” William’s complexion paled noticeably. “It seems you went to quite an effort to keep it unnoticed as well.”

“I can explain everything.” Janine leveled her gaze at him. He continued: “You see, a while back they came out with a.. with a new Player’s Handbook and De-Emgy - but they were so expensive! So Ted and I were thinking –”

“Ted?”

William’s eyes widened.

“You know,” mused Janine. “One person is a rouge element. Two people is a conspiracy. Much more serious.”

“Oh please, we can pay it all back. We haven’t even spent any of the.. of the money. We –”

“Mr. Wimples! No!” Both Janine and William looked toward the shouts. Monique was chasing after one of the monkeys, who himself was running quick circles around one of the trees. A second glance revealed the monkey to be excitingly mashing his fist against a metal box he was holding in the other hand. Monkeys in the green harnesses, meanwhile, were dropping to the ground as their muscles convulsed and lost their grip on the branches above.

Janine and William turned their gazes back toward one another. “Money?” Janine asked; her interrogation somewhat derailed. “You were charging people?”

“Well, yah. The stores wanted forty dollars a book! So Ted and I thought that if we could hack into Tee Ess Are –”

“Wait. I thought you said it was a De-Emgy? What’s a Tee-Eser? Is this about that card game you all play?”

William stared at her for a moment. “Um... not quite. The card game is Magic. This is –”

Janine waived her hand to silence him. “Whatever. But there’s a market for all this stuff?” Her hostilities forgotten, Janine’s thoughts were running faster than she could keep up. “What were you charging?”

William was caught off-guard; unprepared for this line of questioning. “Well, we charged fifteen dollars for the Pee Haych and twenty for a De-Emgy. And there’s lots of gamers, if that’s what you mean.” As if sensing there might be a way out of his dilemma, he added: “There’s a bunch of supplement books, too.”

“And what about the Tee-Eser that you mentioned, how much for one of those?”

He started at her a moment. “Uhh... about the same.”

Portions of a business plan were dancing inside Janine’s head, slowly falling into place. After some consideration, she spoke. “Right. This is how it’s going down. No more free paper, that’s coming off the gross. Your prices are going up, too.”

William nodded vigorously. “Absolutely.”

“You can also consider yourself as working for free in the near future. Ted too. And part of your net is coming to me, in exchange for my leaving your name off the investigation.” He nodded again.

Janine took a moment to size him up; he seemed easy enough to intimidate. “Those were some decent book-keeping skills you showed. Not accountant-quality, mind you, but still pretty good. Where’d you pick those up?”

“Well, my brother’s an accountant. I guess some of it rubbed off.” He smiled. “It just seemed natural, you know?”

Janine suppressed a smile of her own. “Well, you’re not bad. For a novice. You could get better – providing you stayed on the correct side of the balance sheet, if you get my drift.” He nodded again. “We’ll give you a chance; see if you can keep up with a real crew.” Janine fold her arms across her chest.

“Does that mean I have to live in one of those cages?” He seemed concerned.

Janine laughed. “Oh, I doubt that you’re that good. But don’t worry, one day you might get your own cage. If you work out,” she added ominously.

And as Janine ran over the details of her newest revenue stream, a feeling of relief crept over her. She had tracked down her mysterious credits, and turned the situation into a debit. Everything was working itself out.

There was only one thing left to do; one person left to talk to. The feeling of relief tightened itself back up into a ball of stress and Janine felt the vein in her forehead begin to twitch, ever so slightly.

Janine rapped her knuckles lightly against James’ office door.

“Janine! Come on in.” He motioned toward one of the chairs in front of his desk. Janine smiled as she sat down. “So what can I do for The Janine today?”

She shifted in her chair. “Well, it’s like this. I’ve been conducting a bit of an audit.” Janine noticed James’ eyes roll slightly as she said this. His face quickly returned to normal; the sort of gesture that would be unnoticeable had she not seen it so many times before.

“Audits! That’s great,” he cried with faux enthusiasm. “Glad to hear you’re keeping on top of things.” He took a sip from his coffee. “I’m just a little busy at the moment, though. If you leave a copy at the front desk, they’ll see I get to it.” He began shuffling a few papers about on his desk.

“Well, normally I would but there are a few irregularities I’d like to discuss with you.”

His voice strangely monotone: “Really.” It was almost like he was bracing himself for something.

“I discovered a bit of theft, actually.”

“Really?” His voice seemed to have regained some of its normal timbre.

“Yes.” Janine decided to have a bit of fun: “R&D stationary expenses were up by 18%, but that’s 67% more than normal deviation – well, 68% actually – for the month. They were quite devious really. Now R&D uses approximately 58% of our stationary. Per annum, that’s –”

“Janine.” James leaned forward. His forehead vein seemed to be developing a twitch of its own. “So what does that actually mean. How much was actually stolen?”

“Well, I can’t be sure, exactly. But I’d say... about sixty dollars worth.”

James leaned back in his chair. “Of stationary? Sixty dollars?”

“About that,” she replied confidently. Thinking further, she added “Although I understand the toner costs were hidden in a different way, so that figure might be a little low.”

“Oh, I’m sure. But really: sixty dollars? It’s just... I probably go though more than that in coffee for a month.” As if suddenly reminded, James glanced down at his mug, then refilled it from the automatic coffee brewer he had had installed on his desk. “But you’re right, we shouldn’t have people stealing from us.” James stood up, then sat on the corner of his desk; coffee mug still in hand. “Tell you what; how ’bout I send someone over to have a chat with this guy. Just let him know that we frown on this sort of thing. Who was it, anyways?”

Janine was briefly reminded of John Westlock. “Uh... I think I’ve dealt with the matter. But what I wanted to bring to your attention was what they were doing with the office supplies.” James raised his eyebrows questioningly.

“With nothing more than a dot matrix and a photocopier, they were running their own private printing press down there in R&D. Printing up all sorts of weird D&D books about Tee-Esers and such. Then they were selling them; undercutting the book stores.”

“Really?” James sounded positively interested. “Say... that’s actually not bad. Sort of a whole Tennasse Ford, company store kinda thing. I like it. So you’re thinking we make the whole thing official.”

“Exactly. And what I need from you will be a few laborers, while we prep to ramp up production. We’ll also be requiring an increased paper supply and possibly some better printers.”

“So what are we charging for these books?”

Janine briefly calculated what it would be after William’s regular, and generous, donations to J.M. Inc. “Oh... around thirty, thirty five..”

“Well let’s make it forty five, then,” he nodded.

“But that’s more than they sell it for at the stores!”

“Janine, Janine. You’re not thinking revolutionary enough. We’ll just make it mandatory that they buy from us.” As he paused, Janine wondered how he planned to enforce that policy. “Y’know, maybe we should branch off into forgeries. Those funny little trading cards they’re all so fond of. I’d hate to think we were turning this into some merely retail endeavor. You know, ‘revolutionary’ and all that.” James smiled at her.

She felt her pulse rate begin to rise. “Well, if you think so. I just think we’d have better luck if we stay with a proven business model.”

“I know,” James got off the desk corner and sat back down in his chair. “But these are frustrating times. We’ve got to get that cash flow rolling in. Fire engines don’t come cheap you know.” James took a sip of coffee.

“What was that?”

James’ eyes turned to meet Janine’s, then darted to his desk and back again. “What?”

“Did we buy a fire engine?”

James cleared his throat slightly. “Uh... why? Did you hear something?”

That clinched it. “Oh my god, you bought a fire engine, didn’t you. Why on earth did we buy a fire engine!? What possible use could –”

“Hey, Janine,” he said, interrupting her tirade. “It just came to me. Figure of speech, that’s all.” He chuckled slightly. “No one bought a fire engine. No worries. But I was thinking, you guys are a little low on funding, right? Well why don’t you take 10% of that markup we were discussing. You know, as a discretionary fund. For Accounting.” Janine continued to stare at him. “Uh... or maybe 20%?”

Janine decided to drop the topic for now. “Well, I’ll look into your suggestions. In the meantime, I’ll forward you the figures for the labor requirements.”

“Sure.” James nodded. “Sounds great.”

“And I’ll see you at Tuesday’s budgetary review?”

James winced, then smiled. “Of course, wouldn’t miss it!”

“Well, it was good coming by.” She concluded. “I’d best get back to it, though.”

“Absolutely.” James smiled. “Glad to help.” He seemed relieved to see their conversation drawing to a close.

Fire Engines, Janine thought as she got up.

Walking out of James’ office, she started preparing a mental list of things to check into.

Janine had another audit to perform.

The wind used to blow through my long long hair. As the sun’s warmth fell down from the sky to cover me in slowly stirring feelings of white. While the breeze played with the grass and the clouds where the two touched on the far far line of hazy imperfection. And the grass grew up around my silent body as the trees and flowers bent down to whisper in my ears of the things men and the moon did when the sun laid down to rest. I rolled around feeling the sun’s cooling warmth brush up against my skin as it stirred memories of feelings of times no longer here and I stretched as I smiled and washed myself with the deep deep blue of the patient sky and rolled in the purest white of the purest cloud as I watched the grass go by. I watched as the wind told me of all it had seen while the plants and flowers and trees wrapped me in their tall branches and big leafs and tiny petals going down my throat and nose as I tasted all of their scent and delicate coils of life until I turned over and listened to the ground tell me of its long long dealing with the sun and the stars balanced throughout the night sky. I listened intently as the ground showed me the history of the stars as they moved slowly slowly backward through the paths they had traced over the long long years until they reached the point they started from and faded until I was the only one left, surrounded by all the feelings of black as the now invisible wind blew through my short short hair.

Shaun Guthrie expertly piloted his space-fighter toward the hanger doors. The carrier space ship’s impressive array of weaponry growing larger as he made his final approach.

In the fighter beside his, Cliff also punched in the codes for their final approach. It had been a long hard mission of blowing up the enemy space ships; now it was time to come home.

Trailing them slightly, on the same approach vector as Shaun, Vladimir’s fighter limped into port as well. Damaged when one of the enemy had tried to blow him up. But instead he had blown them up; blown them up good.

“This is the S.S. Brunswick, I’ve got you on screen,” radioed James. “You’re lookin’ good. Welcome home Alpha Squad.”

After landing, the grizzled, war-hardened trio emerged from their fighter ships and convened on the elevator pad. Collectively, they decided it was time to relax and headed toward the pilots lounge that was on the ship.

As they entered, Shaun flipped up the collar of his fighter pilot jacket and said “I’ll see you guys later.” Then he walked over to where there were a bunch of hot chicks and they all started hanging off him because he was a fighter pilot and fighter pilots were cool.

Wishing him well, Vlad and Cliff sat down and had a round of drinks. Then Cliff got up and said “I’m gonna get me some babes too.” After he left Vlad decided he was going to get some hot babes. But he didn’t say that to anyone because no one was left at the table, so he just went off and got himself some babes too.

James wasn’t there because he was still on duty and helping people land their space planes. But later on he went off duty and then he had lots of hot babes too. And they were even more hot than the other hot babes.

The next day was pretty average. Vlad decided he would go down to the hangers and see how his ship was doing.

“Hi Vlad,” said Liam, who was fixing the ship. His gray overalls were spotted with grease and he had a wrench in one hand.

“Hi.” Vlad gently patted his fighter plane. “How’s she doing?”

“Well, it’s been touch-and-go. All the wiring was fused together and the landing gear and wings are all blown off. Plus the lasers don’t work because they were blown up too.”

Vlad nodded solemnly.

“But I think we’ll get ’er working again,” continued Liam. “It won’t be long before you’re back out there fighting the enemy.”

“Ya, that damn enemy,” said Vlad. The enemy were called Vishians. “Those Vishians are nothing but trouble.” And they were.

“It was their whole fault for starting this war,” Liam said angrily. “If they hadn’t attacked us, maybe we’d all still be on Earth enjoying things in peace. Instead here we are trapped in this tin-can existence, fighting tooth and nail just to survive.”

Vlad nodded that this was true and then said good-bye, heading back to where he was before.

Shaun was still hanging out with hot chicks and Cliff went to see a movie. Because there was a movie theater in the ship too, where lots of pilots went.

But the next day, the shit hit the fan! James called them to the meeting room to tell them about their mission.

Cliff and Shaun were already there. Cliff had a scar on his face on account of when he was injured and he was talking to Shaun about stuff like chicks and killing the enemy.

Then James came in with Kyle and Erron. Kyle and Erron were experts on Vishians, like how to talk Vishian and what they looked like. Vishians were like big octopuses and had eight arms that they’d use to strangle you, which is why you should never get too close to a Vishian. That was how Cliff got his scar. He got too close to one and it cut him with a knife, but then Wham! Cliff got it back and killed it.

“Okay,” said James. “Kyle and Erron are going to tell you about your mission now.”

Then Vlad came in, but it was okay because they hadn’t really started yet. So he high-fived Cliff and Shaun because they were fighter pilots too.

Kyle called up the display screen, which showed all kinds of information about their battle plans. “These are top secret, so don’t tell anyone about them,” said Kyle. They all nodded their heads in agreement.

Then Erron spoke. “What you have to do is, this is their home-world.” Erron pointed at planet Vishian. “And your job is going to be to blow it up while a bunch of other pilots get into fights with all the Vishian fighter pilots. So they won’t even see you coming.”

They all nodded that this was a good plan.

“Do we get any special weapons?” Asked Shaun.

“Okay, you can have some,” said Kyle. “We’ll give you some neutron bombs to take out their home-world. But you can’t be too close otherwise you’ll get blown into a million pieces because these bombs are so powerful.”

They all got excited about having those bombs. Vlad jumped up and started high-fiving everyone again, even Kyle and Erron. But not James, because he would have up and popped him one; that was just the kind of C.O. he was. You had to have discipline, which James did.

Later that day, after they’d had some lunch, they all got in their space fighters and took off. There were lots of other pilots out there too, so there was lots of chatter on the radio. But James would have none of that.

“Okay you guys, settle down.” James knew he was sending them out on a dangerous mission. And some of his men wouldn’t make it back. That was one of the toughest things he had to do: send good men to die. “Have a good mission and get ’em good for all of us back here. Because who even knows what the Vishians were thinking when they attacked us. But now its payback time!” Lots of pilots cheered at that one. “Good luck men,” he added.

Lots of pilots said good luck back, but not Alpha Squad. They were hard and they didn’t need luck, so they just switched on their hyperdrives and they were out of there. All the other pilots did the same and then they were gone; out into the void of space.

They jumped into Vishian territory and man were the Vishians surprised. They flew around all confused and a lot of them got wasted right off. But they soon re-grouped and then it was on!

People were blowing each other up left, right and center. It was crazy with so many ships out there. Shaun almost bought it but at the last second Cliff flew in and saved his ass. All three of them ganged up on this big Vishian ship and blew the crap out of it too.

“Vlad, look out!” Yelled Shaun, across the radio. Vlad expertly flipped his ship around and lasered his attacker; slicing it clean in half. The Earth ships had fins and big rockets, while the Vishian fighters were smaller and moved quicker; making them hard to kill. But that was okay, because the Earth ships had good lasers on them.

“Time to start the attack,” radioed Cliff. While the other fighters kept the enemy busy, Alpha Squad started their run at the planet. It was tough going and they had to fight off lots of attacks. But they made it through enemy lines until there they were: The Vishian home-world. Before getting to the bombing they made sure to shoot up some of the Vishian cities and satellites and even one of the space-stations.

Then it was time. “Prepare to fire neutron bombs!” radioed Cliff. But someone must have overheard them because out of nowhere a bunch of Vishian ships attacked them! Some other fighters came in to help them but even still, the best they could do was fight off wave after wave of merciless Vishian fighters.

They didn’t have time for this. If they didn’t get it on soon, the Vishians would be able to send reinforcements; they’d be doomed. Vlad radioed “Just fire when you get the chance. There’s too many of them.” But then they remembered what Kyle had said about the big explosion, so they all backed right off.

First Vlad fired, decimating much of the planet. Next Cliff, his shot taking out the entire lower half of the planet. Finally Shaun got off his shot and that one just fried everything. The three consecutive neutron blasts had completely wiped out the entire surface of the Vishian home-world.

Then all the Vishians died, because that’s how it works. As soon as you kill the home-world they lose their telepathic link and it’s all over. Their space fighters, filled with dead Vishians, were left floating in space.

The pilots didn’t even bother destroying them all. They just left them there, floating. It was time to go home.

To celebrate, they threw the biggest party ever. And they all hooked up with so many hot chicks that who can even remember them all. They laughed and they smiled. They talked about how they could finally go home. Liam showed up and Vlad shook his hand for doing such a good job at fixing his fighter.

Kyle and Erron were dancing and James made a toast that everyone clapped after. It was great.

But when it was all over, Alpha Squad met up for a last round of drinks. They knew what had been left unsaid during the festivities. Because they knew that the Vishians might not be the only enemy out there. Sure, they might go home to visit. But you would always find Alpha Squad where they were needed most.

Out there; fighting to keep us safe.

As I began to pass him, it seemed as though he suddenly took notice of me. "Oh! I'm sorry." he said and moved to the right. I mumbled something like 'No problem' and continued past. His face had been old, he had the wrinkles of not someone who is aged, but old, and his voice had been almost melodic as he apologized. For some reason "old-country" came into my mind as I thought of him. He seemed the type of man who came from a different time, who was genuinely sorry. As I thought of my utter hatred for him only moments ago, I felt ashamed. I probably would have just shuffled to my right and mumbled some halt-hearted apology at best. What reason did I have to have hated him, how was he to know I was there? Why wasn't I like that? He seemed like the type of man who liked to converse, even in that brief sentence he seemed to be drawing me in, waiting for me to reply but instead I had mumbled something he probably did not even hear. Maybe I should turn around. No, continue.

As I think back I would like to say I remember his face, that I will never forget his words, but even now they fade.

I wish we had talked.

Liam hoped in the car in what can only be described as a bouncy manner, the smile evident on his face. In a heart-warming ceremony just two days ago all his hard work had finally paid off. He had graduated from University. His loving family had been there to wish him well. But perhaps most meaningful, to Liam, was his professor. The professor was a kind, middle-aged man. The calm type, but with that special glimmer in his eye that seemed to say there was something he knew that you didn't.

He pulled Liam aside after the ceremony. "So, you made it after all. I always knew you would. You're the best student I've ever had, Liam." He gave Liam a fatherly pat on the shoulder.

"Gee, thanks Prof," Liam smiled.

"So I hear you've got an interview at InterTron." Liam nodded. The professor seemed like he was about to say something else, his face taking on a more serious tone, when his sister interrupted.

"There you are! We're about to go over to the dance, let's go."

He turned back to the professor, but the expression was gone. "Yes, best get going. And listen," his tone grew more somber. "Always trust your instincts." Then, in a friendly tone. "Good Luck!" As Liam walked away, if someone were watching, they would have noticed the professor's face grow ever more worried.

But Liam never saw that look. For him it was just some well meant advice from a favorite teacher. He had got the job, the interview went great. Something about his tour of the office made him feel that there was something odd about the place, but the money was really good and the interviewer seemed friendly.

And now it was coffee-time with the old gang. As they sped off into the night, Liam could hardly contain his excitement. "Hey guys, I got the job!" A chorus of congratulations was emitted from the mini-van's occupants.

"So when do you start?" asked Cliff, expertly weaving the vehicle through slower moving traffic.

"Uhh... next week some time."

"Excellent," said Sam. "You can come with us tomorrow."

"Yah, we're going to the naval yards," added James. "They're giving tours of one of the old submarines."

Liam's mood seemed to have suddenly quieted down. "No, that's okay, I'll pass."

"Come on," said Kelly. "They've got hot dogs and chips."

"No," repeated Liam. "I never want to set foot in a submarine." Almost. He almost added the word "again." Perhaps one day he would finally tell his friends about what happened. Oh, that fateful day aboard his uncle's submarine... Would that day ever cease to haunt him? No, never again would he enter a submarine.

Three weeks later.

Another depth charge rocked the sub, and therefore Liam; sounds of pipes bursting, metal twisting and screaming. The sub wouldn't take many more of these. And this bomb in front of him. How many such shocks could it withstand? The casing he had already removed, bypassing the wiring which, ordinarily, would have caused the entire thing to blow.

"Sir, the Australians have launched two more torpedoes!"

"Evasive maneuvers!" He shouted.

"Sire, they've also sent over this message." The corporal handed him the sheet of paper. Liam, I will destroy you and the Theta Device if I have to. You will all die! Sam. Liam would dearly love to make Sam pay - for all the hurt, the betrayal. How did he not see it coming? If only they had discovered earlier that Sam's mother was half-Australian. Perhaps he could have saved his sister's life.

And James. Brave James, shot during their daring raid on InterTron's research laboratory. How he would dearly love to pay Sam back, but firing the torpedoes would only detonate the device now staring back at him.

"Liam! We're running out of power," Kelly radioed from the engine room. "If we don't get out of this mess soon, we'll be sitting ducks." Liam could hear the tension in his voice, but still calm. He knew Kelly would keep it together even up until the end, should it come to that.

He pushed the intercom button. "Don't worry Kelly, we'll make it out of this yet," he reassured. With a gritty determination, he added: "No submarine is going down on my watch."

"Sir, the first two torpedoes have missed," said the Corporal. "but they've just launched two more."

"Evasive maneuvers!" He shouted, pointing emphatically towards the navigation console. Turning back to the bomb, he studied it carefully. His only hope of escape was to try to recall the schematic he had memorized while hacking InterTron's computer system. He recognized the power module and LED counter mechanism, but what were these other circuits. This explosive had been modified.

"They've modified it!" he exclaimed. What to do now? How could he be certain which chip to bypass?

Three more explosions rocked the sub as the depth charges grew nearer.

"Sir!" The corporal exclaimed. "There's a mine field, dead-ahead. If we go near them, we're doomed."

"Bring us about!"

"How do you drive this thing?" Yelled Cliff. "What do I do?"

Calmly. "Turn that dial until it reads one-eighty, then press the activate button." Grim tension as Cliff hurried to follow Liam's instructions.

"Okay, now what?"

"Now we need to try to get under those depth charges. Take us down to eight hundred feet."

"But Sir! We're only rated for seven hundred feet!" Exclaimed the Corporal.

Liam stared calmly at Cliff. "We're just going to have to take that chance." A flicker of doubt flickered across Liam's face. His uncle's sub had caved at only seven hundred fifty feet. Was he doing the right thing?

"Okay," nodded Cliff. "What do I do?"

"Hold down the dive lever until we reach eight hundred. The computer won't let you do it, so you'll have to turn the safeties off."

Cliff turned back to face his console, his brow mopped with sweat. He trusted Liam, but... He toggled the 'Computer Safeties' switch to the off position and began to descend down to eight hundred feet.

Liam tried to maintain his composure. He knew his men would instantly sense his fear, and that would spell disaster.

Six hundred.

If only his professor were here, instead of killed by the government and InterTron. They'd have the world believe there was no such thing as the Theta Device.

Seven hundred.

The professor's dying words were right. Bringing the Theta Device to the U.N. conference was the only chance.

Seven hundred fifty.

But would they make it in time? Or sink to the deepest depths of the ocean, the secret buried beneath a watery grave.

"Sir, eight hundred feet! And the torpedoes have sailed right over top of us."

"Good, now --"

"Liam! We're almost out of power!" Kelly radioed in.

Liam thought about this for a second. "Run on emergency power!" He radioed back.

"Sir! Four more torpedoes in the water, heading our way fast!"

"Evasive maneuvers, quickly!" He rushed back to the bomb. Oh, if only the professor were here, he could disarm the bomb. "If only the Prof were here," he mumbled to himself. "But what would he do?" Liam stared at the exposed circuits contemplatively.

"Torpedo's closing!"

"He'd trust his instincts!" Exclaimed Liam. He deftly attached the clips to bypass the primary circuit, neutralizing the bomb's trigger.

"Sir, torpedo functions restored!" Liam looked up to see the 'Torpedoes Online' light illuminated. Normally, he'd take a moment to congratulate himself, but right now, he just didn't have the time.

"Fire!"

A second later the explosion of Sam's submarine echoed throughout the hull. "Direct hit, sir! We've also avoided the torpedoes, but the destroyer is now directly above us, and they've begun targeting their depth charges for eight hundred feet."

Liam and Cliff rushed to the sonar console. A profile of the destroyer was clearly displayed as 'Depth Charges: 800 feet' blinked next to it.

"Quickly, before they have time to drop them in the water: Launch the vertical torpedo!"

"But that's never been tested," exclaimed Cliff. "With our power levels so low, it could malfunction. We could all die."

Liam gripped a nearby hand-rail. "If we don't make it to the U.N. conference, millions could die." He added quietly: "Maybe even billions."

Both the corporal and Cliff nodded solemnly and did what need to be done. They all held their breaths as the rumble of the vertical torpedo shook the ship. But it worked! Up above their heads, the destroyer was blown into a million pieces.

They all breathed a sigh of relief and exchanged some well deserved smiles. "Now," said Liam. "Let's get to the U.N."

One week later.

In full navy uniform, Liam, his left arm in a cast, quietly walked the rows of the graveyard. He hadn't even noticed breaking his arm aboard the submarine. Stopping before his uncle's tombstone, he placed a single rose on top of it. And with a peace he hadn't felt since his uncle died, saluted and returned home

Johnathan waited for inspiration, and a bus. The bus never came.

Susan sat alone at home. She should be doing dishes, or laundry. She should stop watching tv and get some sleep. She also had a strange urge to call a friend. But it had been so long since they spoke. Still, something told her she should.

The clerk smiled. She really wanted to say something to him. But what? "Thanks, have a good day."

Cold coffee. Cold outside. Bad music in the café. Such a good book.

That was my stop. I guess I'll have to walk back from the next one. I wonder where this bus goes.

Carol rushed to the theater to find her friends waiting there. Bill was with them! She suppressed a smile and bought her ticket.

Contents

• The Cofee Game
• A Café Conversation
• Enos Trick
• The Continuing Story
• Mind Map
• Making Time For Writing
• Random Ideas

The Coffee Game

Has nothing to do with coffee. So named because I invented it for amusement when my friends and I go for coffee.

Write down a number of really random things on a sheet of paper, I like to keep them to one or two lines (with plenty of whitespace between the entries). You could write down a provocative conversational fragment. If you're in a mall write stare at three different advertisements and just throw the words together. You could write down a bunch of essay topics too, anything you want. My preferences is to try to completely unhinge my analytical mind and just write really weird things down, too not necessarily make sense, but you might be different.

Try and come up with a couple sheet-fulls, then cut the strips up individually and place them in a can or something. When you're later looking for an idea, inspiration, or you're bored pull a couple out of the can and see where the ideas lead you. You could make this a group exercise and have other people throw random thoughts into the can, and maybe you return the favor.

A Café Conversation

Derived from a creative-writing night-class exercise. Go to a coffee shop or restaurant or mall. Sit quietly and unobtrusively eavesdrop on other people's conversations. One idea is to listen to their conversation and speculate on what came before, what came after. Maybe see if something they say triggers some idea in your head - free association is really great here. A variation I came up with is to just write the odd sentence or fragments you hear, from various tables or waitresses. Don't write them one line after another, place each fragment somewhere else on the page, write some stuff at an angle so when you stare it it, it resembles more the pepperoni on a pizza than some bizarre free verse poetry. Stare at the unconnected sentences and try connecting them in your mind. Where do these fragments lead you?

Eno's Trick

When David Bowie and friends went into the studio to work on his album Outside, producer Brian Eno recognized he was dealing with a group of very proficient musicians. Guys and gals with a lot of technical skill and able to play next to perfectly. To try to introduce some organicness, some sloppiness, make them work a little differently then they were used to and just generally get the juices flowing he had each of them play 'in character'. Before their sessions he invented a few characters, gave them a small background and described their playing styles: were they extravagant, self-indulgent, error-prone, etc. Giving them characters could also free them from embarrassment. The piano player could purposely miss a few notes, or try something they might not otherwise do all in the name of exploring their character's musical description. [and it's a great album by the way]

So maybe try something similar. I once saw a number of short films, each of which showed someone drinking a glass of water, each film done in the style of a different director. Try writing in the style of you favorite author. Try writing in the style of your least favorite genre. Be extravagantly over-descriptive, be very minimalist, focus on dialog, focus on scenery. Be Shakespeare, be Neil Gaimen, be Donald Duck. Write gothic, write romance, but most importantly, explore and make a few choices you might not otherwise

The Continuing Story

To be played with one or more other people. This one's actually really well known.

Start a story, write a page or two - then pass it on to someone else, who continues it, they pass it on to someone else, or back to you, or whatever. Variations can be introduced by writing only writing a paragraph, or only a sentence at a time. You can try it one word at a time, but that tends to get silly.

I think the real possibilities occur when you start introducing rules into the equation. Without guidelines, it's easier for these exercises can degenerate into a lowest-common-dominator thing - which can be just fine if you just want to have fun or see what happens. But guidelines can serve to either focus the writing, or to present challenges to the writers. You can do things like setting the genre, characters or major themes and events ahead of time. Or you could just agree on some basic "what we are trying to accomplish" things. Are you going to discuss what's happening in the story and ideas while it's being worked on? Or will you absolutely not discuss it, and just see what other people do - this can be really important to do if you don't want the writer's ideas to converge. It's an interesting call because discussion might cause ideas to really converge, and then you're working from a pre-defined outline, but not discussing it might cause opinions to vary too widely and introduce way too many plot twists or other undesirables.

Will it be drama? Will it be humor? Silly humor? Sophisticated humor? Is this something anyone can work at, or do you want only writers with a certain skill level (whatever you determine that to be).

I feel it's important to remain a gracious author throughout. If you had a really great idea that just became impossible thanks to the latest installment, don't re-force it into the story. Take any unexpected developments as a challenge to work with: Don't think "how can I get my idea into the story" think "where do these new developments lead me?" Also, continuously introducing wildly unexpected plot developments gets old fast. There's only so many times a character can switch sides, or unexpected twin-brothers can appear.

Although I've never tried it, you could also try things in a non-linear format. Where you don't necessarily continue where the other person left off. Instead you contribute pieces that will fall within the timeline, somewhere. Then try to assemble them. Seems interesting, but also really really challenging.

Mind Map

Write down an idea in the center of your page. Let your mind roam freely and see what ideas come to you. As you think of something, write it down somewhere near the first idea or word and draw a line between them. Concentrate on the first or second idea, what comes to mind? Write it down and draw a line between the two.

The idea is to encourage you to free-associate. Don't get wrapped up in wether the ideas are related or not. Just keep going and see where the exercise leads you.

Making Time For Writing

• Pick out ideas you can complete and work your way up to bigger projects. If you've never written much before, maybe a 600 page novel isn't the best place to start
• Go somewhere else to write (in the name of removing distractions)
• Try dedicating a specific time for your writing, or committing to a certain number of hours per day, or week. Having a set time might help
• Set mini-deadlines for larger projects (helps if your a last-minute type). Having a due-date can cause time to miraculously appear. Promise to show your works-in-progress to someone. Not necessarily to review, but to get that external-pressure going. Due-dates with no penalty don't always provide the required motivation.

Random Ideas

• Listen to music, let your mind wander
• Sleep on it. Suggest to yourself before sleep that your subconscious will find the answer.
• Go do something else for a while. Go for a walk, do housework.. but be careful it doesn't turn into procrastination
• Keep an idea journal or get a tape recorder.
• Take judicious notes in case you have to take a long break or are prone to forgetting (most of us are)
• Idea: Don't write until you're out of ideas - save yourself a place to start next time. Sometimes it can be easier to write once you're on a role.
• Crosswords and cryptograms. Playing with words helps sometimes.
• Stare at the blank screen/page and just begin writing whatever comes to mind. Maybe it isn't even the story you're working on, maybe it is. You can always edit later, and maybe it'll get the flow back.

Assignment 1-1: spend an hour alone in your favorite restaurant (or a restaurant you've always wanted to check out); eavesdrop without being obvious; write notes (on the setting, characters you see and hear; speculate about what came before or after that conversation; imagine their home lives)

I didn't mind that Marla talked more than I. But the reason for that changed over time.

"He worked at the Salvation Army store and although he's going to University and everything, it was just like he was going no where. I couldn't take that, so I told him so."

"A lot of friends I went to University with had extra jobs," I said, irrationally defending Marla's latest victim. "He was going to University, right? He had a future." Irrational not because he wasn't necessarily worth it but because disagreeing with Marla generally encouraged her.

"Maybe in comic books. I mean, he thought wearing Spiderman underwear was cute. Yah, I'm real in the mood."

At first I didn't mind hearing Marla's tales because they were interesting.

"Well what else was he like?" I prompted. Now her tales just saved me from having to speak, myself.

I had realized the difference between Marla and I when one day we ended up talking about our periods (these things just happened with Marla). I'm the type to use euphamisms if I have to discuss it at all. Marla's the type to complain loudly and graphically.

Two years ago when we met at a friend's party I had been intrigued by her. The way she seemed so fearless. Now all I wanted to do was go home. Be anywhere else than listen to her latest tale of her latest failed three month tryst. But it was more than just that. It was realizing you hate pink after buying twelve cans of paint, but using it anyway.

"You know what I mean?" she suddenly asked, mid-ramble. I had no idea what she was talking about.

"MmmHmm," I nodded. How long had I not been paying attention?

But she continued on.

Until she finally looked at her watch some ten minutes later. "Oh shit. I've got to get going." Rising from her chair she collected her jacket. "See you later tonight though, right?"

"Sure." I nodded and she left the small café we'd been lunching at.

As she walked out the door she gave a slight wave backwards.

Why couldn't I do that?

Star Trek: The Alternate Voyages

"Bashir Bonks Everybody"

Vash look about the room, wondering, vaguely, why the bar was on its side. Ah! That was it.

Picking herself up, Vash tried to retain an aloof composure, which was not easy, considering how she was flat out drunk. She stumbled about the room, bumping into something, she apologized to the wall and continued on her way. She thought back, not an easy task, for someone who had just guzzled three Bluvarianoze Wally-Wally-Bing-Bangers. She looked at herself and realized she was still wearing the evening dress she had worn to her business meeting. Damn! She wished she had been able to sell those statues. They would have kept her alive for at least a few more months.

SMAK! Who was this, groping desperately at the figure in front of her, she recognized Julian Bashir.

"Hey Julie-baby!" she managed to mumble.

"Vash? That is you isn't it?" The doctor managed to spurt out.

"Hey come 'ere. I wanna show you something. <hic>"

"I think I had better take you back to your room." He said, and began the lumberous task of half-walking, half-dragging Vash to her room. Upon arrival, the door slid open and he managed to dump the semi-conscious Vash on her bed.

"OUFF! Hey Julie, come here. I got a secret I wanna tell you."

Dr. Bashir felt her nails dig into his chest as she grabbed for him. Although he did put up a bit of a struggle, he had to admit, he was not entirely reluctant. He felt Vash's hand trace a curved path down his front. As it slowly made its way to his lower thighs, he felt her apply the slightest amount of pressure.

He heard the door swish closed behind him, but by that time, he was to occupied to do anything but grunt.

"Well, if it isn't the little slut." It was Q the one and only, Vash sat up in bed, looked down at herself, she saw her breasts heaving in and out in rythm to her breathing. She looked around, Julian was not to be found.

"Oh, don't worry about him, I've fixed him good." That malevolent grin she knew so well crossed his face.

"Q, it wasn't his fault. What have you done?"

"Well, lets just say, I've made things... interesting."

Captian's Log, STARDATE: 2514.8, I have recently had the pleasure of rejoining my Transporter Chief, as we have docked at space station Deep Space Nine. When, to my surprise, the worm hole opened up. And out of it came the Enterprise, registration NCC1701, the original craft. For which the NCC1701-D is named after. It was shortly after this that I learned of Dr. Julian Bashir's disappearance aboard D-S-Nine. I can only hope that these two incidents are not, in some way, related.

"Julian!"

"Dax!"

"Julian!"

"Dax!"

"OH! JULIAN!!!"

"DAX!!!!"

"OOOOOOOOHHHHH! YES! AAAAAHHHH! OH! Do it again! Julian"

"Perhaps another time. There are many other things I have to do."

"No, Julian, please. come back. I want to do it again. Please."

Captians Log, STARDATE: unknown. After our successful mission to get high ratings on late night re-runs, we now find ourselves... thrust into unknown territory, It seems like Federation space, only the person in charge of the other ship is a bald old man. Which stands against current Federation policy that the captain of the ship must be attractive and non-boring. I have consulted with Spock and he tells me that we have been brought here by a man named Q. Apparently someone too stupid to have more than one letter in his name. Bones has taken up arguing with an android called Data, who, according to Bones, is even more annoying than Spock, whereas Spock has decided to go to his room and masturbate, saying "This is way too fucking weird for me"

Acording to last report, my communications officer, Uhura, transported over to the other ship and was speaking to, ugh, a Klingon. My chief of Enginering, Mr. Scott, is apparently over on the other ship as well, deep in discussion with Mr. LaForge as to how he could join them in a future episode. I believe their last idea was for Scotty to get sucked into a ship resembling the death star and then survive in the transporter for 80 years.

The planet we are currently orbiting, I am informed, is called Bajor. We have of course sent the ritual security officer down to be slaughtered.

"Dax! What are you talking about? I thought we had an understanding?" Sisko watched Dax admiringly. He had never seen her naked in her new body. He had to admit, it was a very pleasing sight.

"I'm sorry, but I just can't do it anymore." She looked down at herself, realizing she had forgotten to put her clothes back on. Oh well.

"But it was every Tuesday and Thursday. What's happened?" He watched her closely, following ever subtle movement.

"I'm sorry Benjy, but after Bashir, you just don't measure up, Literally."

"OOOOOOOHHHHHH!"

"Kira, your tits are so --"

"OH JULIAN! OOOHH!"

"Kira!"

"JULIAN!"

"KIRA!!"

"JULIAN! JULIAN! OHH! Oh, Julian, your fabulous. Hey, Where are you going?"

"Lets just say, I have other things to do."

"No Julian, please. Come back..."

"Well, Kira, Did you enjoy yourself" Odo stared at the Major wondering, briefly, what her bra size was. Wishing that one night had gone further.

"Odo, what do you mean?" She stared back at him, thinking, comically about his attempts to make an erection.

"Don't play games, Major. I know you and the good doctor had a rather interesting encounter last night." He stared longingly at her.

"Oh, so what were you this time?" She laughed to herself as she looked at his nose.

"The bed covers."

"Hmpf!" And with that eloquent statement, she left.

With a flash of light, Q appeared in her room. Vash sighed and turned around. She watched him, as he slowly made his way toward her. She was bored, so why not.

She slid off her clothes, leaving nothing.

"OH BASHIR!"

"Beverly, please, call me Julian."

"JULIAN!!!!!"

"Omf!"

"I'm sorry Jean-baby, I'm just going to have to call it quits. I mean, your nice and all, but after... Bashir. Well, I'm sorry."

Picard looked around his briefing room, vaguely wondering what the inverse cube of 49 1/2 was. He reached out to fondle Beverly's breasts, he was surprised when she drew back. "Beverly what's wrong, its nothing we haven't done before."

"Jean Luc, I'm sorry." With that, she left, thinking of the glorious night before.

Hmm... What should he do? He could not help thinking of Beverly, in her tight, blue uniform...

"I'm sorry, what were you saying?"

"Sir, I was merely stating that if something is not done to save the planet Bajor within the next 2 hours, it will be environmentally crippled." Data stood there, unblinking, thinking of Tasha, her firm breasts caressing him, his --

"And how is it that neither Deep Space Nine or the Bajor officials have spotted this problem?"

"It wasn't sweeps week."

"Oh, ok. So, what do you propose we do about it?"

<INSERT VERY TECHNICAL EXPLANATION HERE, WHICH INVOLVES PICARD GOING TO THE SURFACE OF BAJOR>

"Ah, alright, then, I shall depart immediately."

"PLEASURE! INTENSE PLEASURE!"

"What! Deanna, please, I'm sure we could work this out. We could go back to my room, have a little Octurian Brandy, you could sense me, I could blow my horn..." Riker gave her that sly grin she new so well.

"I'm sorry Will, I just can't"

Sisko watched in amazement as the panel in front of him danced with a million colors, reds, greens, blues. They definitely had to get some better special effects on this show.

"O'Brian! What's going on here! what's with these stupid cheap effects? They look lie something 100 years old!"

"I canna' say, sir, perhaps i' is the ol' Enta'prise bein' here."

"Scotty? What are you doing here? I asked for O'Brian."

"Aye sir. That ya' did, But I 'm jus' practicin' for when I'm here as a regular."

"Well, that's very nice but --"

 _____   ______   ______   ____   _
|  _  | |  __  | |  __  | |  __| | |
| |_| | | |  | | | |  | | | |_   | |
|  ___| | |  | | | |  | | |  _|  |_|
| |     | |__| | | |__| | | |     _
|_|     |______| |______| |_|    |_|

"Hey! What the -- Where's all the lights...?"

"Sir, I canna 'splain i'. The pow'r 'as been completely drain'd"

"OH NO! It can't be... It is... AHHHH!"

"Wha' i' i' sir?"

"ITS A CHEAP PLOT TRICK!"

"Why, Nurse Chapel, you hair looks so... old, But you have nice legs."

"OH BASHIR!!!!!!!!"

"Oh Chapel!"

"BASHIR!!!! (Please, call me Sheena, Sex Godess)"

"But I just don't... Understand.. it. How ... could you? How could you... do.. this to... me?"

"Jim, I'm sorry, but it takes you the same amount of time to get an erection as it does for you to complete a sentence."

STARDATE: Oh, who cares <hic> We the Romulan people (No, not now, maybe later, meet me in my quarters tonight) Nooow where wuz I? Ohya, we juss declared war on the rest of the <hic> galaxy, but I dunno if they bulived us. I tell ya though, jus between yous and me, mr. Computer, HQ gave me a helluva first officer, those tits of hers, YAA! (what, no go 'way, no I don't know where the key to the liquor cabniet is) Well, anyways, among today's plans, we'ze gonna ransack that pittsy little D-S-Nine and go steal their liquor <hic>

"JULIAN!!"

"UHURA!"

"JULIAN!!!!!!!"

"UHURA!!!!!!"

"JULIAN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

"What do you mean you cannot see me any longer?"

"I'm sorry, Worf, you got big ridges and all, but compared to Julian, you just don't measure up."

"Hmf, True warriors are NEVER turned down."

"Ya, give it a rest... I guess true warriors don't last more than a minute either, huh?"

"Alright... is everybody here? Sisko... check. Odo... check. Riker... check. Kirk... check. Worf... check. And of course me. Well men, I know, the ecosystem of Bajor is up in the air, the Romulans are ready to invade, D-S-Nine is suffering not only from a power failure, but from cheap special effects, and, as last I heard, Mr. LaForge informed me that Mr. Data is dreaming and the Enterprise thinks its an old west movie. But, today, we face a far more serious problem... BASHIR."

At this moment the room erupted into general chaos, this, however, was no match for Picard, who merely tilted his head in the right way, cleared his throat in his Picardian way (that he does so well), and straightened his shirt, at which point everybody spontaneously paid attention to him.

"Right Men, I know we'll probably get fired for this one, but I say we use some violence." Said Picard, at which point Kirk wondered what was wrong with violence, stating that it was standard protocol to beat other races up on his show. Riker ground his knuckles and hoped maybe he would rip his shirt, Worf Grunted, stating he had wanted to use violence all along, Odo said, he didn't see anything wrong with violence, and (during his moonlighting as the T-1000) he had killed many people already. And Sisko was busy bragging about how he had punched out Q ("only the most powerful being in the universe") and that he could take Bashir on single handedly. Picard, of course, straightened his shirt and protested that it was in the script.

"Right then, its decided, lets go."

"BASHIR!!!!!!!!"

"GUINAN!!!"

"BASHIR!!!!!"

"GUINAN!!!!!"

"BASHIR!!!!!!! Oh, Bashir, who are those men in the door? Picard, Riker? is that you? Kirk? Hey put those phases down..."

 _____   _____   _____   _____   _____   _   _   _   _
|___  | |  _  | |  _  | |  _  | |  _  | | | | | | | | |
   / /  | |_| | | |_| | | |_| | | |_| | | | | | | | | |
  / /   |  _  | |  _  | |  _  | |  ___| |_| |_| |_| |_|
 / /__  | | | | | | | | | | | | | |      _   _   _   _
|_____| |_| |_| |_| |_| |_| |_| |_|     |_| |_| |_| |_|

"Oh! Great! Now just what am I supposed to do on a Friday night..."

Captians Log, Stardate: 2519.3 Our vist to D-S-Nine now concludes, with sweeps week over, we find ourselves one character less, Bashir has, unfortunately died. He was found in airlock this morning, we can only presume the multiple phaser blasts to his head were an accident of some sort, the Producers are, of course, irrate, but it is expected that everything will return to normal shortly. The Bajorn environmental problem turned out to be the local citizens simply not recycling their Coke bottles. The Original Enterprise has disappeared through the worm hole, this time with the bizarre idea of turning themselves into an animated series in an effort to re-capture their old ratings. D-S-Nine's power has been restored (it turns out that somebody merely hit the wrong switch in the control booth). And the Romulans have left Federation space upon discovering that any type of fun is prohibited (especially non-synthaholic liquor, which is strictly forbidden in any Star Trek show) and went off in search of a -Quote- REAL -Unquote- planet.

“More tea Mr. Riseborough?” James asked.

James imagined Cliff to say “Why yes James, I’d love some tea,” instead of what he really did, which was mumble through the gag in his mouth and make a half-hearted attempt at escaping from the ropes that bound him.

“Lovely,” James said, pouring Cliff some more tea. “And you Mr. Harll?” A repeat of the above performance ensued, featuring Kelly.

Cliff began mumbling fervently and struggling against his bonds. James gave a sigh, then got up to remove his gag and restraints (although he left Cliff’s feet tied to the chair).

“What the hell is going on here!?” Cliff screamed.

James sat down again. “What do you mean Cliff?”

“Do you have any biscuits?” Asked Liam. James nodded and pointed to the plate behind the milk.

Cliff ignored Liam. “I mean what the hell are we all doing here?”

James looked around at the people surrounding the table once more. “Why, we’re having tea, Cliff.”

“But why the hell have I been tied up? And why are we having tea?”

James looked confused. “Um… because.” He stared at the table. “More tea?” He asked hopefully.

“No I don’t want more tea! I want to know why the hell we’re here!”

“Are you sure? It’s chamomile,” voiced Sam.

“Mmmm…” said Liam. “These biscuits are wonderful James.” James smiled.

“I don’t care what kind of fucking tea it is, I want to get the hell out of here, or you’re going to tell me why not.”

“Uhh…” James stared around the room. Then he fixated on a point on the wall and his eyes just kind of glazed over.

“Shhh… Cliff.” Liam whispered. “You’re going to ruin the story.”

Cliff stared at his sometimes friend/sometimes enemy Liam. “What story?”

“The one he’s writing right now.” Liam winked knowingly at Cliff.

“Oh for christsake! Is this some god-awful story? Well what the hell are we doing here then?”

Liam shrugged. “Hey, give him time, he’ll probably come up with something, besides I like tea.”

“No. We’re sitting in some stupid room drinking tea. This story isn’t going anywhere.”

“Hey!” shouted Liam. “Shut up about my story!”

Cliff looked confusedly between James and Liam. “What? I thought James was writing this story.”

“I am.” Liam said. “It’s me, James.”

“Now I’m confused,” said Sam.

Kelly mumbled in agreement.

“What? I’m the author.” Said Liam. “I can do whatever I want.”

“But that’s just confusing,” said Cliff. “If you’re writing the story, you should be the one speaking.” Cliff looked over towards James, who was daintily arranging biscuits around his tea cup.

“Hey, shut up you.” Liam said. “It’s my story, I can do whatever I want.”

“Well, yes, you’ve proven that. Don’t you understand, you’re violating some fundamental laws of story writing? Not only are you talking to us as the author, but you’re doing it through one of your characters, and one who’s not you.” Liam looked disheartened. “And what the fuck are we doing here anyways.”

“I like tea.” Said Liam.

“But is anything going to happen?”

“Like what?”

“Like something funny, or interesting.” Cliff sighed. “Is there a plot even?”

“Hey ya,” said Liam. “Do something funny. Why don’t you guys go to the center of the earth again?”

“What? We did that already. That was another story… and a much better one than this.”

“Ya… you remember when we all had funny names?” asked Liam. “I was Legion, and you were Immortal Goose. Liam was Mighty Viking and I’d tease him about spam. You remember that?”

“No,” said Sam.

“See, that was a mildly amusing joke,” said Cliff.

“What!” cried Sam. “I don’t even know what you guys are talking about. Hi, I’m Sam.”

Cliff burst out laughing. “What the hell was that?” He said, pointing at Sam.

Liam smiled. “See, you do like my story.”

“But that had absolutely no place in the conversation.”

“Hi, I’m Sam.” Said Sam.

Cliff stared at Liam. “What the hell are you doing, James?”

“But I thought you guys thought that was funny.”

“Well… it is, sometimes. But that’s just stupid.”

“Hi, I’m Sam.” Said Kelly.

Cliff stared in disbelief at Kelly. “Now how the hell did he do that? I thought he had a gag or something.”

Liam looked around nervously. “Um… he does.” Kelly mumbled, as if to assure this point.

“Then how did he say something?”

“Uh… I took his gag off for a bit back there.” Liam nodded.

“Well you have to say that you took off his gag then.”

Liam took off Kelly’s gag back then when he said something.

“Well you can’t do it now!” Cried Cliff. “You’re making a mockery of the writing process. I’m quitting your dumb story.”

“What?” cried James. “You can’t do that! Do something funny now.”

Cliff turned to look at James. “So now you’re James, huh? Is this some sort of bad imitation of the exorcist?”

Liam cleared his throat. “Uhh.. I mean, What? You can’t do that! Do something funny now.”

Cliff shook his head in dismay. “Listen, we’re just the characters – it’s your job to make us do something funny.”

“Oh…” said Liam. “How about if I do a jig?” James got up and began dancing a jig.

“No, this is dumb. Who else wants to play Canasta?” asked Cliff.

“Sure, why not.” Said Sam.

“Sure…” said Kelly.

Oh, but Liam took Kelly’s gag off again before he said that.

Liam pulled out a deck of cards and began shuffling.

James sat down again. “Hey, c’mon guys, let’s go do something. Hey I know. What about if some diamonds were stolen. Ya, that’s it. Hey guys! A bunch of diamonds were just stolen! Let’s go rescue them.”

“Would you just shut up already,” said Liam. “It’s bad enough you were making me speak. But you didn’t even have me eat any of the biscuits that whole time.” Liam scooped one of the biscuits from the plate and began chewing.

“Yup, sure, great idea.” Said Cliff as he rearranged his cards. “Why don’t you go rescue them with a bunch of other people.”

“Oh ya, well…” James looked around.

“You have no facial hair!” Finished Claire.

Cliff looked up in disbelief. “Claire!? Where the hell did she come from? And besides, Liam’s bald. See!” Cliff pointed emphatically at Liam.

“What do you mean?” asked James.

Cliff threw down his cards in disgust. The rest of the players stared at Cliff for a moment, then decided that Liam would just play for Cliff. “You said at the beginning. We were all in this little smoky room. How the hell did Claire get in here?”

“Uh… those vents.” James said, pointing at one of the air vents. “She crawled in.”

“To say ‘you have no facial hair’? And besides, Liam’s bald!! Look! He’s bald!” Cliff pointed more emphatically at Liam.

“Yup, pretty much.” Nodded Claire. She bent down and crawled back out through the air vent.

“Why did she say that anyways?” asked Sam.

“Because that’s what she said last night,” nodded James.

“And our readers are supposed to know about this how?”

“Oh, right!”

Flashback: Last night we ran into Claire and she said that Cliff had no facial hair.

Liam was staring in revulsion at James. “That was the worst flashback I have ever read or experienced.”

“Hey, it’s not that bad.”

“Yes. Yes it is. James, end this story, now.” Liam looked around. “Oh, but first let me eat some more of these biscuits.” Liam grabbed a number of biscuits and began shoving them into his mouth. “Where did you get these anyway?” He asked through a mouthful of crumbs. “They’re delicious.”

“Oh, just the supermarket. I can show you where.”

Liam smiled and nodded. “Ok. Now end this story.”

“Oh... come on.”

“C’mon, do it.” Said Cliff. “To think… I’ve utterly wasted my time here. I could have been in some porno story instead of this.” A huge smile crossed Cliff’s face. “Ya…”

“Well, ok. Thanks for coming guys.”

“I liked the story.”

“Shut up Sam.”

“I liked the biscuits.”

“Shut up Liam. I swear if you prolong this any more I will erase your nads in my story.”

“Sorry.”

Either way. Adventures in CLab is done and hopefully I'll be able to send out copies soon. In the mean time you can always read the preview I posted a while ago.

Happy Christmas, New Years, and all that jazz =]

Finishing my first novella is the best way I can think of to ring in the new year.

buy

buy and eventually the cacophony just fell to the background. It was with childlike joy I glanced upon the world - a paper-cup of Sprite with a straw shoved into it in my hand. Purchased from the pizza and donair shop not an hour earlier, my proof of consumerism. The label affixed with which they could hope perhaps more money might fall from my wallet.

So it was in this state that I happened upon shop upon shop upon shop staring at the sore-ridden venom spit forth by the fat-boiling witches inside. I strove forth because the hall did end, eventually. The womb from which it had all sprung.

Nothing heard made sense to me, enveloped into the digital clicks and whistles that made it all seem high tech. Merely disguising the fact that nothing made any sort of sense when listened to for longer than a soundbite. The Christmas jingles mated with Money M hyphen DigiPopBand a few seasons ago and all we've been hearing since is their bastardized offspring. But it all faded by the wayside once I returned to the Womb, proof-of-consumerism still in hand.

As though I could take out all my problems by hanging it on Sprite T M and pretending to be a solder-boy (no patent pending merely a wishful dream).

The hall had ended itself and all that was left was this store. So like it or no this was the end of the trail. The man said they didn't have my shows in wide-screen format, and those words rattled around as I took my wares down the escalator. I stood aimlessly for a while in a manner only possible in a place of commerce. The way words spoken aloud would be rantings but put to pen make a tale (and the coffee is 5/7 spent so get on with it). I turned and stepped and there I saw. Before me was a counter with five holiday tired patrons plugged into it's cerebral cortex. This was what laid at the heart.

Some beast feeding upon the shoppers five at a time. I now know it to be called a listening booth, reprogramming the zombies to accurately reflect our behavior and properly breed in the outside world. Right there was the heart of it all. And like any gestating organism it has no thoughts or taboos as to which of it's internal organs you happen upon. It's only thought how to destroy competing memes over the next few generations so in the end only the consumerism feeding frenzy will prevail.

I couldn't stomach it, and these thoughts mostly came later. The moment only lasting briefly. Less than a second.

In my warrior guise I turned to my trusty Arab stereotype lieutenant and we swiftly left the beast. Time to record it all on pad with a now spent coffee framed to the upper right hand side. My jungle hat quietly resting on the chair beside me. The Arab evaporating back to whatever anonymous jungle he came from and me caching in my experiential chips for java and cash and a large box case of amnesia.

The revelation is too deep. What are any of us to do but sit relax and trust in the mother creature to oversee our new destiny. If we suck from her nipple, I'm sure it will all make sense.

The following is an out-take from my upcoming short story Adventures in CLab.

Lunch Time: I meet Friendly-Guy, Katrina-The-Cleaning-Girl[1] and The-Other-Consultant again for lunch. Friendly-Guy (who works as a techy-type) relates the following tale: They have a laptop that they need to open up. This laptop has special screws. He's asked around: No one has a screwdriver for it. They need to contact Compaq for it. They have put in a request to have someone from compaq come out so they can open up this laptop. Switch Perspectives: You are Compaq-Screw-Guy. Your sole job is to go out to client sites and unscrew things. Switch back: Now the thing I love is, they can't just bring in a screwdriver, they have to bring in Compaq-Screw-Guy. I ask Friendly-Guy about this. He tells me they tried that, but the Guy-Above-The-Guy-Above-Friendly-Guy[2] said “no, bring in the guy.” Mere mortals cannot unscrew this screw. This is a job for: (booming voice) Compaq-Screw-Guy!

When I later related this story to my Co-Worker-Who-Knows-About-TheRestaurant we began wondering how this guy operates. When you're done do you get a note that says You've been screwed? Perhaps he makes you answer questions or fill out forms before he actually gets down to the actual screwing. “Where do I put the screws when I'm done? ... Well, I can put them in a cup, or place them on the desk. I'm here to help you out, I'm flexible. You just tell me what you want ... Oh no, I'm afraid I couldn't wait for you. You'll have to give me a call back if you want me to screw them in again. That'd be a separate service request.”

Friendly-Guy digresses into detail, because, don't worry, there's more to this story: Apparently this is a French Laptop. They got it by mistake, or something. But whoever got this laptop sees it's a French Laptop (different keyboard and everything) and rolls it out anyway. Now we come to the user, who is English. English-User gets French-Laptop...and starts using it! But apparently, after a while (not right away. English-User is apparently the determined sort), English-User finally gets fed up with it and sends it back. It sits on a shelf for a while with everyone kind of avoiding it. That's when it comes across Friendly-Guy's desk (well, he doesn't so much have a desk as he has a pager), because they need the hard disk swapped out of it. This is definitely a job for a screwy guy.

Maybe it'll make sense to him.

[1] Katrina Story II: Katrina is my current hilarious-quit-smoking-attempt-story champion. My brother has been bumped to second place: Reasoning that whenever you drink, you want a cigarette; if he could manage to drinking without smoking, he'd be set. You have to admire the shear style of a week-long drinking binge under the pretense of quitting smoking. Katrina usurped my brother as the all time champ: To curb the pangs of nicotine addiction she began using chewing tobacco and smoking cigars. Thankfully both my brother and Katrina have realized the folly of continuing these attempts over the long term.

[2] Or maybe the guy above him, I'm not sure

A stream of consciousness rant I wrote sitting in the middle of a mall, surrounded by near-Christmas consumerism. I don't really know what it means.

The object form of pseudo-intellectual capitalistic endeavors on a global consumer scale forced into a pro-democratic revolutionary endeavor covered with think tank dogmatic of the people and for the new inalienable rights of the consumerized voracious ineptitude of media-listic solitary and grief stricken knowledge like the intro-genus hyperwave of once great intellectually deprived of property-oriented real time multi-lingual hyperbolas awash in the spectrum of digital bandwidth direct into the neural lode washed down in an acidic bath of the long state's continual improvement mantras learned by ethnically diverse radical free thinking automatic pathways driven through the religious tenants of a still great and utterly believable infogram expounded from the larger version contained inside the universal storehouse of low-bit knowledge to be abused by the bureaucratic socially anachronistic endeavors of a small to mid-sized startup religion with the largest initial public open-ended gains satellite beamed to the stead state ocular implants networking us throughout the cosmically challenging yet still ethereal methods expounded upon by our ancient masters on an infomercial played between the SuperBowl and the family barbecue hosted on the tarmac holding the jet-set crowed of teutonic barbers filled with a self-loathing unimaginable just two centuries earlier wisdom suggests a dramatic upheaval creating a paradigm unlike the cotton plantations set afire by the cyber tubes threading snakelike infestations of a rabid and uncontrollable democracy run by an iron willed ruling elite wanting nothing more of their limousine furnished day-glow passbooks filled with stamps of places they've never been going to the revolutionary meeting but changed their five second decision making process patent pending a full senate review to decide the future policy of this or any other library.