ECOPOCALYPSE CH.1 - MONDAY

ECOPOCALYPSE CH.1 - MONDAY By Tomara Armstrong

You’re vaguely aware that the sun has risen. Shades of pink paint the inside of your eyelids, while the memory of last night is a blur of alcohol-scented flesh-colored money. You just want to sleep it off, but the swamp of saliva you’re resting in keeps bubbling and tickling 

your nose, preventing a deep, restful sleep.

The door rattles and footsteps cross the room. You’re pretty sure it’s Monday, which means Rosalinda, your cleaning lady, is here to clean up your weekend shenanigans.  She kicks a gaming controller across the floor on her way to the kitchen and flicks on the television. You don’t care that she’s cursing you in a foreign tongue—your leather sofa is like a cloud 

sent from heaven, cuddling you ever so gently.

Your head throbs, and you groan as Rosalinda pitches last night’s bottles and cans into the enviro-bin. You roll over, covering your head with a pillow, exposing your bare ass.

At what point last night did you lose your pants?

You shrug it off and smile, trying to ignore the draft and push further into your cavernous sofa.

She turns up the volume on the television, loudly announces that she intends to run the vacuum, and strongly suggests that you seek the comfort of one of your many bedrooms. You grunt, pulling the pillow tighter around your head, trying to drown out the TV.

… Our investigative reporter Gail Silverman is live on the scene. Gail?

Thanks, Dave. I’m standing outside of Smart EcoGen, President and CEO...

Your eyes pop open. Did she say your name?

Surely not. You close your eyes again, trying to get comfortable.

Picketers have started camping out in front of the mansion since reports first started pouring in that their popular waste recycling generator, the Environaut, is responsible for a slew of health related problems cropping up around the world. President and CEO…

You sit up. She definitely said your name. You fumble for your glasses and accidentally spill a beer on your cover of Scientific American. “Shit!”

...has yet to make a comment, but a Smart EcoGen representative stated early this morning…

You jump up, flinging the beer across the floor and onto the TV. Rosa shoots you the stink eye and stomps off down the hall.

…are looking into the reports, but insisted that the safety of the public has always been first and foremost…

You’re ashamed. Ashamed that you had too much to drink, ashamed that you had too many friends over, and ashamed that you burned the other copies of Scientific American to make s’mores—ten copies with you on the cover, sacrificed in the name of snacks.

…What started as a peaceful display of vulgar signs and chanting has become more…

While you mentally make the vow to NEVER drink again, something hits your window.

…Oh my god, Dave! Protestors are flinging…feces at the mansion! This peaceful protest just got ugly.

Your stomach turns as the clods of human waste thud against your home. Rosalinda is going to quit for sure.

“What happened to your pants?” You swing around and see your best friend, Smart EcoGen VP, Milo Sabe, sprawled out on an angora rug. While he has pants, he also has a moustache and “DERP” written across his forehead—you’re guessing with Sharpie.  You keep the information to yourself as you dig a pair of shorts out from under your couch.

“You hear what’s going on?” you ask, slipping on your shorts.

“Protestors outside—throwing shit? Yeah, I heard.” He rubs his eyes, shaking his head.

“What’s that about?” You walk over to the window and peer outside. “Uh…”

Outside, picketers have scaled the outer walls of your property and are quickly crossing the lawn toward the house. They’re dirty—real dirty. So dirty, in fact, you think that they’ve covered themselves in the very stuff they were flinging at your home moments earlier.

Milo jumps as a window breaks. You back away slowly at first, but as the bodies begin pulling themselves into the room and blood drips down the broken class, you decide it’s time to go.

“Come on!” You pull Milo’s shirt and run off down the hall, leaving the protestors' incoherent shrieks behind you. They’re still trying to get into the house and starting your way.

Heading toward the center of the house, you slip in a puddle of water in the hallway. You skid to a stop, but Milo slams into you, sending you through a bathroom door. You quickly hop to your feet, averting your eyes. “Sorry, Rosa.”

She is sitting on the toilet with her head down. The water is on, and the tub is overflowing.

“Rosa?”

She lifts her head, and looks at you, chewing on her thumb.  “Are you ok?”

Her bloodshot eyes stare through you, as she peels the fingernail off with her teeth and spits it at you. You watch it hit your chest and fall to the floor, sinking into the pool of water collecting at your feet. Drops of blood swirl for a fraction of a second then disappear with the current.

You feel beer vomit tickling the back of your throat as Milo pulls you back into the hall and gives you a shove. “Time to go!”

The sickness fades as you run toward your bedroom. Once inside the room, you slam and lock the door.

“What now?” Milo’s eyes scan the room as you palm your bookshelf, remembering the access combination for the secret passageway. “Plan ahead” was your motto when you had the house built five years ago—it’s finally paying off.

“Aha!” The door swings open and you pull Milo into the dark hallway.  You can hear protestors banging on the door as you close the entrance and head down toward the emergency bunker below the house.

Your hand traces the wall, flipping on the light. The fluorescent bulbs buzz and pop, illuminating a massive room filled with cutting edge technology.

“What the hell, Bruce Wayne? How long have we been friends? You never told me you had a Batcave. I hate you,” Milo says.

“Oh, shut up. What’s the point of having all this money if I can’t indulge in a little frivolous spending?”

“A little?” Milo snorts, looking over the extreme gadgetry and flickering control panel. “I want a raise.”

You fire up a large display, push several buttons, and instantly you can see the whole perimeter of the house as well as many of its rooms. It’s quickly filling with protestors. You see their painted faces and wild eyes on the monitors. A thought creeps into your head and you shiver. They’re hunting you.

Milo is staring at the screen too—the color drained from his face. “What button do I push for the Batmobile? You have one right?”

“Uh… Yes and no.”

You press a button and the room begins to vibrate. A door opens, revealing an impressive display room filled with boxes of comics ordered alphabetically. Action figures fill glass displays—some loose, others with original packaging. In the middle of the room, on a pedestal, sits the Batmobile—a miniature replica fit for a circus clown.

“Shit.” Milo deflates. “That’s not going to get us out of here.”

“No, but I have a car.” You smile and press another button. A garage door opens, exposing a custom DeLorean DMC-12.

“Of course you do,” Milo rolls his eyes. “Does it run?”

“Sh-yeah.”  You think it does anyway.

Milo hops in the car and you grab the keys, pondering your plan of action. 

Should you:

A. Head to Smart EcoGen HQ and see if you find out what's going on;

B. Hold your ground and take back your house; or

C. Screw this! Just drive!

HARDWOOD BLOOD CH.3 - TELL THE 'TROTTERS TO HANG

BLOOD ON THE HARDWOOD CONCRETE CH.3 - TELL THE TROTTERS TO HANG

By Tomara Armstrong

“Just hang tight. I need to talk to the chief,” you tell Curly over the phone. 

“Yeah, well, you just missed him,” he says. “Said he had an appointment…”

“Appointment my ass,” you laugh as you look at your watch. “It’s Happy Hour at Manny’s Chicken & Waffles.”

Curly starts in on “nastiness” and “level of taste,” but you turn the phone over and set it on the counter. “Make it stop,” you eye the receptionist. She quickly flips it over, presses the red button, and returns it to you.

“Thanks, doll.” You wink before turning and exiting the premises.

A hop, skip, and a jump, and you’re standing in a parking lot full of black-and-whites. Inside Manny’s, every table is occupied by men (and the occasional manly woman) in uniform. Well, almost every table. Chief is plain clothes, but he sports the same copper belly as the rest of Manny’s.

He sees you through the plate glass. Rolling his eyes, he motions you in with a wave of his hand.

As you pull the heavy door open, the crowd looks up from their syrupy stacks and hot wings. A few grumble or make obscene noises on your behalf.

“Heya, chief! Your dick is lost again,” one meathead booms. The laughter follows.

“Shut it, McNally!” The chief yells.

You casually adjust your hat, flipping McNally the bird. He’s a little touchy—slams his beefy hands on the table and bolts to his feet, sending his chair flying into the patron several feet behind him.

His ugly buddies are on their feet too, trying to anchor the beast. He puts up little fight. You laugh, shoot him a wink, and make your way toward the chief in the booth in the back.

Sitting with his back in the corner, the chief has a view of the whole place. His napkin is tucked into the collar of his shirt and his hands and face are sticky with buffalo sauce. Your stomach turns at the sight of him—pieces of skin clinging to his bushy mustache and chin.

He slurps, sucking his fingers as you slide into the seat in front of him.

“Who else knows about this case?” you stare at him as he pops a wing into his mouth. “Jesus, chief. Slow it down.” 

He eyes you and plunges his right hand—black fingernails and all—into his gaping hole to retrieve the chicken bones. Tossing them onto the plate in front of him, he says, “Waaah fugh gobbly-gorbin, muurtha fraknar misen pashla.”

You stare at him, wide eyed. What the… “Come again, chief?”

He returns your stare and repeats himself, attempting to accent each incomprehensible word, splattering your face with Tobasco and god-knows-what.

You force the bile back down your throat, shaking our head. “Someone planted the flasher as a distraction,” you say, reaching for a napkin as he pops another wing in his mouth. “For crying out loud! Stop stuffing your face and talk to me.” You slam your fist onto the table. “I will ask you again… Who else knows about this case?”

The chief slams his fists on the table, his eyes blazing red. Time stands still, the pressure builds, and the last chicken wing explodes from his distorted face at record speed. Your gaping pie hole plays catcher’s mitt.

You gasp, trying to expel the urge to purge the content of your stomach in Manny’s fine establishment, lodging the wing in your wind pipe. You feel the chicken barbs splinter and dig in.

You panic and grab your throat, falling backward in your chair, but the chief is already on his feet preaching about disrespect to the room of Manny’s patrons. Your gurgles are buried in a sea of “Yes, Chief!” and “No Chief!”

On the sticky floor of Manny’s Chicken & Waffles, your life flashes before your eyes—the good and the bad. You’re ready to accept your fate, ready to head to that big house in the sky, but you want to find that last memory that makes it all worth it. 

To hell with it. 

You close your eyes and leave it to fate. That comical genius blesses you one last time with some weirdo’s junk.

Crap.


THE END.

Oops...Return to Chapter 3

TIME DOUCHE CH. 5 - Caught With Your Hand In Your Pants

TIME DOUCHE CH.5 - CAUGHT WITH YOUR HAND IN YOUR PANTS

By Tomara Armstrong

“Okay.” You look around. How is it that you find yourself in a situation once again? Big French guys have busted in on your chance to score with a royal hottie in hiding, and you’re not supposed to be upset? You’re either incredibly unlucky or someone has had it out for you from the beginning—some sick, sick sadist is controlling your fate. Regardless, you’ve had enough.

“Dude, do I look like I know what’s going on here?” The brutes glance at each other and eye you up and down. They seem to have come to the general understanding that you are not French. “Look, I’m a guest of Napoleon. Yeah, I helped him out earlier, maybe saved his life and stuff, but I don’t have any idea what all of this is about. Who’s Marie Therese?” You shrug and shoot a wink at the girl. “And what’s with the entrance? Aren’t you on the same side? And you just come busting thru the door? If I was Napoleon, I’d be pissed.”

“Uh… um…” both men shift their weight, looking nervous.

“I know your type, throwing shit around, trying to be all tough. Napoleon’s in the other room; dude’s gonna come unglued when he sees you’re tearing shit up.”

You’re loving every second of making these men sweat. In all probability, they could stomp you into a pulsing mass of goo on the floor. “You know what? Let’s get Napoleon in here,” you smile, but notice that Marie looks nervous. “Strike that. Why don’t you two dipshits go and find him?”

The two share a look, shrug, and sulk out of the room.

You’ve got a goofy grin on your face, replaying the moment in your head: tough talk, ninja moves, and naked girl slathered in chocolate.

Slap.

You barely have time to cover the stinging handprint on your face when Marie grabs the front of your shirt. “Why did you do that? Are you out of your mind?”

She’s not really pissed—she totally digs you. Naked girl… chocolate…mmm.

“Why are you smiling like that?”

Shaking your head, you grab Marie’s hand. “Let’s get out of here.”

She doesn’t resist. You’re feeling pretty confident as you head out into the night with Marie in tow. You just stole a girl from Napoleon Bonaparte. How cool is that? Of course, he would probably kill her if he knew who she really was, but still, pretty cool.

You’re overly zealous, jumping logs and lifting Marie over brush and puddles of mud. You’re pretty sure you’re getting close when she collapses to the ground in tears.

“Oh man.” Leave it to a woman to lose her cool at the worst possible time. You try to comfort her, but what started as a few tears has now turned into a full blown boo-hoo with accompanying snot bubbles. “Shush now,” you pat her on the back. “It’ll be okay.” She tries to speak but you can’t make out any of it. You glance around trying to determine how close you are to the time machine. “We’re close.”

“Close to what?” Finally the girl is making sense again.

“Don’t worry. I’ll keep you safe,” you say as you heave her into a secure piggy back. She wipes her nose on your shirt and kisses the side of your neck softly. Does this make her my girlfriend? You smile and trudge on toward the machine.

You see the machine in the distance, slide Marie onto her feet, and hurry toward it. “What is that?” she asks.

“Never mind what it is, Marie, we need to get in it and get out of here.” You start pacing in front the machine trying to think what to do. “Damn it, Thomas. You’re being quiet.”

You reach in your pants, and look at Marie in shock. She blushes.

“Oh no,” you panic, running around the perimeter. “Where is it? Where is it?”

“Where is what?”

“Oh god… I didn’t lose it, did I?"

“Is this what you’re looking for?” Napoleon steps from the brush holding the communicator in his hand. He looks pissed and your hands are still in your pants.

Will you...

A. Screw Nubleman--get in the machine with Marie and start pushing buttons.

B. Take on Napoleon. You’ve watched plenty of WWF, and he’s particularly puny. You can take him.

C. Pretend to hold Marie hostage and offer to trade the communicator for the girl.

TIME DOUCHE CH. 1 - MOVE THAT MACHINE

TIME DOUCHE CH.1 - MOVE THAT MACHINE

By Tomara Armstrong

“Are you getting dressed?” the transmitter buzzes.

“Uh…” you fumble and dump the contents of the drawer onto the floor. The blue-suited men on horseback haven’t noticed you, but they’re getting closer. You stir the clothing around, confused. “Uh, Thomas… Is this a dress?”

“It’s a workman’s smock,” Thomas Nubleman spits, “with coordinating breeches.”

“Breeches?” you drop the clothing and shudder. He has obviously put way too much thought into this. “I can’t wear that. I’m pretty sure I’m allergic.”

The horsemen are drawing nearer. While Nubleman attempts to exhaust his vocabulary bashing you, you decide to abandon the whole “getting dressed” idea and focus your thoughts on moving the time machine.

You quickly push out the door and begin to survey the landscape. The earth is soft from a recent rain and the breeze tickles your nether regions. There are a few trees in the area, and if you can somehow move the machine closer to one, it might shield it from view.

“I can do this,” you breathe.

“What’s the plan then?” Nubleman’s voice carries from inside the time machine. You left the communicator mingling with the breeches on the floor.

“I can do this.” The machine looks really sturdy, but you have a gym membership, and occasionally you go. Occasionally is, actually, rarely… never. The chances you can move this thing are highly unlikely, but what the hell. You crack your knuckles, loosen your shoulders and neck, and give the machine a good shove.

Nothing.

You glance over your shoulder to check on the progress of the men on horseback, dig your feet into the wet ground, and try again. Sliding in the mud, you grunt and it give all you’ve got.

Nothing. It’s built like a brick shithouse.

With a quick glance over your shoulder, you take several steps back, staring down the beast. You’re not afraid… much.

Barreling toward the machine, you lose footing and slam into its side. It wobbles—almost tipping, but the wet ground suctions it back in place.

“Ugh!” Throwing yourself onto the ground, you kick the damn thing in full tantrum mode.

“What’s going on?” the communicator buzzes. “Has disaster been averted?”

The irritating voice of Thomas Nubleman brings you back to reality. You roll onto your stomach and look for the horsemen. Something has gotten their attention and they are headed your way.

Think fast, think fast.

You roll around in the mud, covering yourself as the horses move closer. On your feet, you strike a pose. If you don’t move, you’re fairly sure they won’t see you.

The three horses move dangerously close, but you hold your stance, barely breathing. One of the soldiers dismounts and starts slowly toward your position.

They don’t see me. I am invisible. I am earth and air. They don’t see me.

“Qu'est-ce que c'est?” One of the soldiers on horseback says as he points at you.

“C'est un cochon couvert de merde,” the other spits, and they both share a laugh, most likely at your expense. You try not to smile—keeping very still.

No, they don’t see me.

The dismounted guard approaches you with musket in hand. The bayonet is extended and reflects the sunlight directly into your eyes. You’re blinking erratically when he shoves your right shoulder, and you stumble, “Votre nom, le cochon?”

They see me. Shit.

“Shit! Uh…” you search your repository of useless information. You took French in school, but somehow you’ve buried that under the catalog of movie quotes and trashy pick up lines. “Um… Les chinois et les chinoises ne sont pas grands.” Found it!

You smile.

He doesn’t.

With a swift move of his hand, his bayonet pierces you through the left collarbone. You fall to the ground, crying for your mommy.

When you finally open your eyes, all three men are standing over you—blades mere inches from your chest. You hear Nubleman still droning on about chronotons over the communicator in the time machine, while his French friends turn you into a pin cushion of temporal debris.

Ouch doesn’t even cover it.

THE END

Oops...RETURN TO CHAPTER 1

WELCOME TO HELLYWOOD CH.4 - IMPROV

WELCOME TO HELLYWOOD CH.4 - IMPROV

By Tomara Armstrong

You grab your prepubescent member and scream like the quasi-girl you’ve become.

“You will get used to it, my dear,” Dr. Skin smiles.

“No! I want my soul back.” You snatch at the jar in his grip, but he pulls it out of your reach.

“Sorry… no refunds or exchanges. You agreed to these conditions.” Your eyes widen as he plays the recording of you nodding your head in acceptance to the photo of Justin Bieber—a crazed smile on your face.

You struggle to rise from the bed, but restraints snake over your body. Dr. Skin places a firm hand on your shoulder and instantly your mouth seals shut. “You need your rest.” You're trapped tightly to your bed. Your eyes dance wildly. The nurse shoots you with a syringe and the lights go out.

The doctor’s blood red eyes permeate your dream state, floating in and out of focus. In the jar clutched to his chest, your soul flickers like a thousand fireflies. He laughs and laughs as you feel your body expand and contract inside your Justin Bieber skin. You’re almost certain you’ll explode at any moment… but you don’t.

Sunlight tickles your toes and you sleepily open your eyes, blinking. You’re alone in a hospital room—strapped to your bed. Balling your fists, you grind your teeth. How am I going to get out of this one?

You close your eyes and scan your repository of acting roles. What can I use? You’ve played an invalid, a school teacher, a love-sick yoga instructor, an android sex fiend, a psychic pizza delivery person, a cat, comic book super villains, a ninja assassin, and a computer. You smile—glad you were never limited to romantic comedies. What can I use? you ask yourself again.

Outside your door, you hear footsteps, the ruffling of papers, and a heavy hand on the doorknob. You slink into your sheets, fake sleep, and wait for the turn of the knob and the footsteps to near your bed.

“Good morning.” The nurse/receptionist nudges you. “How are you?”

Your eyelids flutter open and you exaggerate a yawn. “Better, thanks.” You smile. She looks at you suspiciously. I shouldn’t have smiled, damn it. You look away and shake your head. “What did you give me?”

She busies herself at the workstation on the other side of the room. “Oh, just something to take the edge off. I am sure it’s difficult to accept the change, at first, but you will get used to it. Are you in any pain?”

“No… how come I am not in any pain?”

“Recovery time is hard enough without having to deal with the pain of the procedure…”

“What’s hard if there is no pain?” You ask with a laugh.

“Your body could reject the new you,” she turns to you in all seriousness.

Your jaw drops open, “Reject?”

“Oh yes, so we want to monitor you for several days --”

“For several days?” You’re trying to remain calm and channel your inner “lovesick yoga instructor," but you feel the sides of your mouth twitch and your jaw tighten.

“Yes, to watch for signs of rejection.” Your head is spinning now, but she continues. “First there is sagging at the eyes, mouth, and around the ears. Then it turns to drooping and gaping, like the skin is trying to slink off the body altogether.”

“What happens if my body rejects it?”

“Oh, no worries dear. We will replace it.” She smiles at you. You attempt a smile back, but don’t want to overdo it.

“These restraints are very tight. Can you please loosen them for me? My foot keeps falling asleep and it’s driving me crazy.”

She hesitates momentary, and you do your best to appear non-threatening. “Sure,” she smiles.

The restraints drop away, and you sit up, stretching your arms. “So much better, “ you say, pointing and flexing your feet, warming up your muscles. This new skin feels pretty good.

You channel your inner “ninja assassin” so well, you aren't even sure when you begin. The body of the nurse now lays on the floor, out cold, and you are standing on top of your bed waiting for the cameras to flash a perfect ninja still.

You quickly jump down, push the door open, and tiptoe out into the hallway. There are other recovery rooms like yours, but you pay them little attention. Down the hall, the door labeled “Skin Lab” is cracked, emitting a light pink glow.

You waste no time entering the lab and slowly lock the door behind you.

In the room, tubes stretch from floor-to-ceiling. Most are empty, but a few contain a thick pink liquid and trapped air bubbles.

You stare open-mouthed and run your hands over the warm tubes that weirdly resemble an old lava lamp you used to own as a kid. As you make your way to the back of the room, you notice a door marked “Vault” that emits a yellow glow—much like your soul in the jar Dr. Skin was holding.

You rush to the door and press your hands against the latch. It’s locked. The tube closest to you immediately grabs your attention.

Your old skin is floating in the pink goo in all its imperfect glory. Dark holes for your eyes, nose, and mouth cause your new skin to crawl and a great uneasiness overcomes you.

Near the bottom of the tube, a small computer screen is illuminated:

Celebrity HAS BEEN full body skin

Item Condition: USED in fair condition

Time Left: 10d 3h 42m

Bid history: 0 bids

Starting bid: US $2,000,000.00

Your max bid: US $

Shipping: $250.00

Delivery: Get in time for the holidays!

Estimated between Tue. Nov 30 and Mon. Dec. 6

Returns: 3 day money back, buyer pays return shipping| Read Details

You gasp as you see the picture from the other night’s paper is attached—even more shocking—there are no bids.

You’re furious. Trying to regain your focus.

You decide to...

A. A. Turn your back on all of this “skin-level” nonsense and save your soul?

B. Bust out your skin and attempt to find a way to get back INTO the “old” you?

C. Begin a bidding war with any/all bidders and win your skin back via eBay auction?

RED PLANET STOWAWAY CH.10 PISTOLS BLAZING

RED PLANET STOWAWAY CH.10 - PISTOLS BLAZING
By Tomara Armstrong

Smoke rises off the bodies on the floor, and the room is ripe with the smell of singed hair and skin. Your pistol begins to beep and you toss it to the floor--the battery is low.
Scavenging the fallen, you acquire new Martian pistols, a little larger than your NOSSA issue – you can’t help but smile at how light they are. You come across several small baubles each marked with a luminous green spade. Gas or grenade, you think as you stuff them into your pocket.

Either way, I win.

You hear the shuffling of feet outside the office. Crawling across the floor on your stomach you approach the door and crack it open.

The “King” is standing back as a small Martian army closes in on the door. From your crouched position, you have a clear shot of his royal highness. You think on it for a moment, and decide you have nothing to lose. You’re probably not going to make it out of here alive, so you might as well go all out.

Steady, aim, and fire…

You hit!

The King’s head explodes into the air and his body convulses. He doesn’t collapse. His arms flop erratically as his Martian innards gush skywards like a geyser back home.

You jump up from the floor and pump your guns in the air in victory. Maybe he was just a janitor, but who cares? That was cool as hell!

Your move has confused the Martian army, so you use this to your advantage. “I am an assassin!” You yell as you push open the office door, firing your pistols intermittently.

Ducking behind the Mars-A-Bon stand, you do a quick count between fires and are happily surprised that you’ve bagged a good eight to ten Martian toughs. Not too bad for flunking Firearms at Academy.

The sticky cinnamon buns are trying to break your focus, but you are on a winning streak. You slide the data cube across the concrete plaza. It sings as it soars to a stop fifty feet from you. You aim both pistols and fire.

They hit! You are on a roll, Assassin!

The shots ricochet and multiply--thanks to the prismatic components of the cube--and unleash sheer mayhem on the Martians. Body parts are disintegrating left and right as foreign-tongued screams of agony fill the air. You laugh hysterically, firing on the wounded to finish off the job.
Wearing the marks of war--Martian splatter on your boots and across your face-- you continue to fire at what is left of the Martian toughs. They are all down, but a few attempt to pull themselves behind garbage bins or try to shield themselves with their fallen comrades.

You are firing at everything, including the mannequins in shops outside of the hotel. You have accidentally maimed a few players from Team Earth in your killing spree, but you don’t care. You’re an animal. A weapon. A killing machine.

Bad Ass.

Silence.

A timer dings at the Mars-A-Bon signaling a fresh batch of yummy goodness. You drop you pistols and make your way to the stand, wiping your hands on your pants. A celebratory Mars-A-Bon is in order. The only thing that would make this moment better is a frosted mug of 2 % milk.
A moan makes you jump and reach into your pockets. The baubles are cold to the touch. You crouch down and scan the area. The only movement is a bloody mess a few feet away. You realize that this is not a threat and walk casually over to examine it thoroughly.

The Martian is missing both legs and has a massive wound to its middle. What can only be its Martian guts writhed out of the hole that sneaks a peak at the pavement below.

“Sucks to be you.” You laugh, accidentally dropping the baubles you were holding in your hand.

“Uh oh…” You jump back, but your foot is tangled in Martian guts, and you fall to the ground.

A green liquid leaks from the broken bauble and snakes toward you on the ground. “Shit!”

You vaguely remember something about that spade symbol. “What is it? What is it?”
You try to pull away from the mangled Martian, but the more you tug the more you become entangled.

The liquid slides closer as if it senses your presence. “What is it?” you shout.

It reaches your foot and slides up over your boot, into your sock and up your pants. A burning sensation overcomes you and you begin to convulse. It’s coming to you now. The spade… the spade… Martian testicles!. Harmless to Martians, Martian semen is capable of altering the physical state of the human form... breaking down human DNA and rebuilding a Martian-human hybrid.

Another REALLY helpful Academy class, and you slept right through it. Way to go, dumbass!
Covered in spunk, you lose consciousness, melting and folding in on yourself. Your NOSSA uniform flattens as you slip out of your collar and form an undulating green blob. Your eyes roll to the surface and patches of hair move across the new you.

Way to go Freakshow.

Congrats on the makeover.

THE END

Oops...RETURN TO CHAPTER 10

RED PLANET STOWAWAY CH.7 CONTINUE TO THE HILTON

RED PLANET STOWAWAY CH.7 - CONTINUE TO THE HILTON

By Tomara Armstrong

You stare blankly at the map. Choices, choices.

I’m really not hero material, you think. You remember the time you were sitting in counting class and little Sally Baker smashed a spider on your desk – you passed out and three kids from your class had to carry you to the school nurse.

After debating it, you bite your lip and decide to go for it. You don’t technically have to be the hero to follow the three musketeers and Bob in the car in front of you, right? You could just absorb some of their information and seek out a “real” hero later.

“I guess I’m going to the Hilton, then.” You glance around the compartment for something—anything— you can use, but the only thing you find is a travel blanket and a pillow. You strip off your NOSSA regulation hat and shirt and stuff them under your seat. You slide the Team Earth hat onto your head, tie the blanket around your neck forming a makeshift cape, and shove the pillow case into your pants— just in case you need it later.

You sit and wait, watching as Cydonia looms closer. The city is massive. You have to give the Martians some credit; their architecture is amazing. Skyscrapers tower over you on both sides. They appear to be of smooth stone–-no seams or imperfections, just solid polished rock. Now that you think about it, you’re pretty sure you read somewhere that the city was created from the top down. Cydonia was carved out of the Martian soil, like an archaeological dig site on Earth; years of gradually peeling away each layer, creating the city using grids and complex math.

You consider using the sensory device in your car to further research this impressive city, but there is no time. The shuttle car pulls into the Hilton, and you prepare to exit the automated vehicle.

You watch as Malloy and company leave their car. You try to follow, but trip over your cape and stumble out of your car. Luckily, no one was paying attention. You follow them through the giant glass doors into the grand lobby of the Hilton.

A small grey-haired woman bumps into you and sneers; you are apparently in her way. The blue dog in her arms starts to bark and growl at you. You rush quickly into the bar off the lobby in hopes of not drawing any more attention.

At the bar you watch Malloy’s crew in your peripheral. They are standing in the lobby discussing something.

“Can I get you a drink, buddy?” The bartender appears in front of you.

“Uh, sure…” you say glancing at Saleen, who is clutching the front of Bob’s shirt, her face mere inches from his. “Whatever you’ve got.”

The bartender pulls a green bottle etched with Martian deities off the shelf, grabs a tall shot glass from under the counter, and pours. “You a super hero?” he asks as he slides you the drink.

“Nah… I’m training to be one though.”

“Really?” The bartender asks without a fraction of interest.

“No…” you say staring into your shot glass. “Not really.”

The bartender walks away, and your attention focuses on the large hologram above the bar. While stats are scrolling across the bottom of the image, sportscasters Chuck Hern and Gus Johnston are exchanging harsh words over who is going to win the game tomorrow: Team Earth or the Martians. They are at each other’s throats, and a mediator steps in. While the mediator is trying to break up the brawl, he is taking blows to the nose and mouth. He’s bleeding all over the place.

More than half of the people in the Hilton lobby are pressing into the bar to get a view of the sportscasting madness. They are pushing up behind you a little too closely. You turn your head and stiffen. Peter Tan is standing right next to you.

The hologram begins to flash “technical difficulties” and the crowd begins to disperse, but Peter Tan is still standing beside you. You keep your head down and avoid looking at him. He takes a seat at the bar beside you and catches the bartender’s eye as he taps the counter. “Nice cape,” he says.

“Thanks,” you say as you rise from your seat and head toward the lobby. You don’t see Malloy, Saleen, or Bob anywhere.

You head toward the reception counter, when someone taps you on the shoulder. “Hey, you dropped this,” says an all-too-familiar voice.

You whirl around and Peter Tan is holding the pillowcase you conveniently hid in your pants. You see the recognition on his face, and take off at a sprint.

You breeze past the reception area and through the kitchen with Tan on your heels. Weaving through the dining area, you notice a garbage chute. Surely Peter Tan wouldn’t go down there, right?

You gain speed and dive in through the swinging door.

Down, down, down you fall into a steamy room full of decay and rot. You’re pretty sure Peter Tan isn’t following you down here. You aren’t sure how you are going to get out, either.

You wade around in the shin-deep sludge looking for an out. There is an intercom device on the wall with several unlabeled buttons. A loud and extremely annoying voice booms through the device, “I got you at last, dirtbag!” Malloy laughs maniacally as the room begins to whir and buzz. “Let’s see you get yourself out of this one!”

The room starts to shift and grind against its edges, closing in on you quickly. You’re going out with today’s trash.

You begin pushing the buttons on the intercom; the walls are still moving closer. You scream into the device. “Shut down all the garbage mashers on the detention level!”

But it’s no use. You are seconds away from being a pancake, and all you think is: Sooo not the hero.

The End

Oops...RETURN TO CHAPTER 7