Flight from Blotsky

Sophie’s Choice at Fulanarito’s

  “What would you like to eat?” the man asked.
  “You can have anything you’d like! What do you want?” his wife echoed.
  “What is it you’d like?” the man continued. “You can get a burrito with chicken, or with beef, or just beans and rice if you want. Or you could get tacos! You can get them with chicken or beef too. Doesn’t that sound yummy?
  “Or you could get a quesadilla! You can get one with chicken or beef, or just cheese! You like cheese, right?”
  The woman piped up. “Or you could get nachos! You love nachos, right? Those you can get with beef or chicken too! Or just cheese. Mmmm! They all come with tomato, lettuce, and... uh, what else?”
  “Sour cream!” the husband interjected. “Mmmm... sour cream! And you love the nacho chips, right? They’re crunchy!”
  “C’mon, what do you want?” the wife pleaded.
  “Tell us what you want!” the husband urged.
  Silence for several seconds.
  Finally, two-year-old Sophie uttered, “Gah-gah bleh bleh bleh!”

L’albinos affamé

Alone she was sitting at a small table by the window at The Gristle on a cool spring day in Stratum XVII. She took drags off a vanilla glucose durry in between bites of stale pound cake. Her rosy irises and downward chin painted her as distant and unreadable, and the brief cascade of whitish hair from under a silly blue beret was incongruous enough to invite ridicule.
  Which — this being The Gristle, in the town of Classic City — was ground zero for snide commentary from hipster and BärteHansa types. Such is the usual reaction when social anomalies show up on the radar of the Condescending Cool: Immediate Squamous Scene Rejectus.
  The woman was known to perform cringey acoustic folk songs at local venues, and this was added fire to the ridicule already heaped upon her.
  Okay, fair enough on that part. But her physical condition and being from Canadia were of course no choice she could possibly make herself, so the derision of others at those facts came off as immature cheap shots.
  As for the cringey folk music, there’s no shortage of it locally, and (as with many genres) the cringe factor is usually based on twee, self-serious, and oversensitive pretensions.
  None of which were apparent in the woman’s music, mien, or spirit. Just a quiet poignancy with muted earnestness, if anything.
  The woman continued to silently chew her cake at the lone table as the afternoon sun faded to a weak grey. Word has it that she soon thereafter made her way back north. Guess the local welcome wagon must’ve been a bit too much to handle.
  Creative cretins of Classic City: We know how much you care for the unconventional and downtrodden — as you relentlessly keep saying so — but is it too much to ask you to put aside your fashionable nihilism and jaded, low-T snark to afford a simple stranger their dignity?

Platinum Morning: Prelusion

The scene is set on the verge of Stratum V in a Dementia III simulacrum.
  The high sun bakes down upon the Pactolian Plage of Virgineola, as the gentle surf laps at the remains of a Spanish fort. Nearby, oblong flotation devices with viewfinders allow observance of the basking sphyraena.
  Town Crier Jones promotes a ciclomotor visit to the Devil’s Sinkhole as well as an esnórquel outing to view the sergeant major’s galleons. (Alas, the only ‘silver’ found was at the Bay of Achilles: purloined cutlery from an EAL whisperjet.)
  The song of Hesperis ushers in the dusk as the Pactolian Plage tinges pink by both the sunset as well as the presence of calcitic foram fossiloids. Night arrives and the events of Platinum Morning will soon commence.

For posterity, Town Crier Jones makes a pronouncement:
  “This young couple are charter members of the world’s most exclusive amphibious alliance and have qualified true tests of courage and sacrifice. To wit: An early morning natatory exercise and brandy sipping upon the site of Captain Somers’ shipwreck!”

Menko 24: Tubbalartrix Touchdown

‘High Epopt Scapegoats Free-Thinkers’

Kon-Braga, High Epopt of Gokhos Sakima, is blaming outspoken free-thinkers for undermining the regime to distract from the ruler’s failings — particularly with the economy.
  The Kon-Braga administration needed public figures take the fall for the planetary crisis, and the local lapdog media parroted the ‘threat’ in their lumivision broadcasts.
  To the High Epopt, certain detractors represent ‘deviant outlooks’ as a ‘heretical virus.’ The Gokhos Sakima Info Ministry has given three fault-finders memorable sobriquets so the public has easy reference.
  These scapegoats are referred to as ‘Spirit Leech,’ ‘Blue Babbler,’ and ‘Cheoltab Meoli,’ in planetary media. Citizens are accustomed to seeing vocal critics of the regime thrown under the omnibus during crises.
  Doctor Malcolm Eon, high dignitary of Gokhos Sakima, has again issued strident criticisms for Kon-Braga. Dr Eon’s disparagement of the leader’s political performance is nothing new.
  “Control freak Kon-Braga craves obeisance as to shore up his insecurities. When he was out of power he was ashamed of his home world. Now in command, he is suddenly oh-so-proud. Confused fools often conflate their planet with its government at any given time,” lamented Dr Eon.

This missive was republished from Eppulon Independent Samizdat and made available via subspace communiqué. Eppulon Independent Samizdat is neither licensed nor sanctioned by any governing bodies of the galaxy.

‘Spirit Leech: Enemy of the GS Regime’

Menko 24: Tubbalartrix Overhead

Rehash for ’24: Tai Chi in front of The Grill

The repetitions and rhymes of history...

Prank Spoiler: It Was All Just a Dream

INT. CLUBHAUS — EVENING
A pair of gloved hands rests the spherical fissile core into a metal shopping cart.
Jared Gutts (V.O.): “I got it from my uncle’s lab — it’s s’posed to be pretty powerful!”

EXT. NEIGHBOURHOOD — EVENING
Tittering laughter is heard as POV follows shopping cart being pushed down a footpath through the quiet neighbourhood of Huntt Tract.
Jared Gutts (V.O.): “This is gonna be great!”

Johnny Gutts (O.C.): “The young men had somehow snuck into one of the nuclear labs at Orville without authorised clearance. They had made off with one of our crepitium subcritical mass assemblies from under neutron drip. These lads don’t know the fire they’re playing with...”

Jared Gutts (V.O.): “Old Mr Orlosky will freak when he sees this!”

Johnny Gutts (O.C.): “Without the Tapfermann Mass Modulator, isotopic incontinence will reach criticality and spontaneous fission will be inevitable.”

EXT. SUBURBAN HOUSE — EVENING
Jared Gutts pushes the laden shopping cart up to Mr Orlosky’s doorstep, rings the doorbell, and dashes off into the darkness.
A blinding flash signals a nuclear event, as a roiling mushroom cloud rises above Huntt Tract.

Johnny Gutts bolts upright in bed, sweat beading his brow.
“That nephew will be the death of me, if not the death of Western Civ itself. Though my plaints fall on deaf ears, I say that the world is not ready for this young man.”

Strawberry Iceberg: New for 2024

An eructive reiteration of a classic refreshment

Day and Night on the Kenvil Cape

It was a rare interlude for the furley youth of Kenvil to be indoors, but there they were, enrapt with the teleprompter’s transmissions one late afternoon.
  A knock at the door set off their juvenile peevishness — ‘What is this interruption?’
  Father Nadoghy opened the door and welcomed in an elder gentleman, apparently a local acquaintance. The tall man was sporting a patterned neckerchief and navy beret, as well as a bright grin.
  “I’m gonna be on the teleprompter tonight!” he chirped.
  The old gent disclosed to Father Nadoghy details of some on-camera interview at Madeira Selváge regarding some picayune local issue. The irritated youth silently sulked at the obtrusion. The two fellows made small talk before the visitor left.
  Come evening, Father Nadoghy and the Kenvil gang were gathered around the teleprompter.
  “There he is!” someone pointed out. Indeed, the gentleman’s image flickered in the static of the monochrome screen. He was wearing the same getup as earlier, expounding into a mic with the Atlantic sun beaming down on his shoulders.
  But the inquisitive youth were confused.
  “It’s nighttime here and day there,” a youngster piped up. “The solar terminator must be here on the cape!”
  An understandable illusion in the young man’s eyes, similar to the day he watched the moon's “rotation” via Troxel-Scope — the moving lunar terminator was not a sign of rotation, but simply the heavenly body’s orbital motion passing through the Troxel-Scope’s field of vision at the time.
  But cut the kid some Slack for not completely grasping the idea of planetary physics. Or the concept of videotape playback.

Breathe the Pink: Praise™ Aerosol Nutriment Offering Valentine’s Inhalent

Eyes Bright, Vacant II

Keikai-Chū: Incident Response