Showing posts with label feces. Show all posts
Showing posts with label feces. Show all posts

Friday, September 7, 2012

ECOPOCALYPSE CH.3 - WE NEED A PLAN


ECOPOCALYPSE CH.3 - WE NEED A PLAN
By Ryan Hunter

“This isn’t right,” you say.
“Damn skippy,” Milo says. “This bird should be stocked with, like, peanuts or something.”
You cut your eyes to him just long enough for him to know you aren’t in the mood for his jokes. “Sorry,” he mutters.
“We need a plan,” you say.
“We have a plan: go to Mexico.”
“We can’t do that.”
“Why, did they close the borders? How would you know that? I’m wearing the cans too and I haven’t heard anything,” Milo says, tapping the headphones he’s wearing over his ears.
“No, they haven’t closed the borders, at least not as far as I know. But we can’t leave.”
“Why can’t we?”
“ Milo , look out your window. Whatever’s happening down there, we caused that. That’s our fault.”
“You don’t know that,” Milo says. “Not for sure.”
You glare at Mio again but choose not to respond. Instead you say, “I’m going to set her down outside of the city and we’ll figure something out.”
“Where outside of the city?”
“I don’t know, outside of it.”
“ Mexico is outside of the city.” You shake your head, hoping Milo doesn’t notice the grin pulling at the corners of your mouth. “It is, I can show you on a map.”
You pull a little on the stick to adjust but the helicopter doesn’t respond. You pull a little harder but still nothing happens. “What the hell,” you mutter under your breath.
“That’s not the sort of expression one dreams of hearing from one’s pilot,” Milo says.
“It’s just… I don’t…” you mutter. You look under the instrument panel to find a nest of wires, frayed and intertwined. You look closer and notice the teeth marks on the brightly colored wax that once covered the wires.
There’s a shuffling in the back and you and Milo turn to see a woman with the same pale complexion and dead eyes as the others.
“Sara?” Mio says. “Hey, it’s Sara Tobin from HR. Fancy seeing you up here, Sara. What brings you?”
Sara digs under her flower skirt and comes out with a handful of feces. “Oh shit,” Milo says.
She raises her hand to fling it at him but the copter pitches, bolting from horizontal to vertical.
You and Milo, secured in your restraints, remain in your seats; Sara, however, is thrown to the back of the copter where the handle of a fire extinguisher impales the back of her skull.
“Oh my God!” Milo screams. “I think we just killed Sara!”
“Yeah,” you say, swallowing back the bile threatening to fill your mouth. “Well, we’ll have to put that on the list of things to worry about if we land.”
“You mean when we land.”
“Well, we’ll definitely land, just how we do it is anybody’s guess. I don’t have any control.”
Milo shrugs. “Just hit the B button.”
You pulled desperately at the stick trying to reengage it by force.
“Seriously, hit the B button,” Milo says.
“Dude, no matter how much you want your life to be like Xbox it just isn’t going to happen. There is no B button,” you yell.
“The hell there isn’t,” Milo says, flipping a cover you never knew existed to reveal a large red button marked with a B.
“Where did that come from?” you ask.
“I installed it,” Milo says, slamming his fist onto the button.
An artificial female voice flows from the headsets. “Hello, Milo, how can I be of assistance to you?”
“Is that…” you mutter, “is that Siri?”
“I’d thank you not to mention that bitch's name in my presence,” the voice says.
“Huh?” you mutter.
“I’d like to introduce you to Biri,” Milo says.
“Biri? Really?”
“Oh, come on, it’s funny,” Milo says.
“Well, what can Si… excuse me, Biri do?” you ask.
Milo turns to look at the control panel in general and says, “Biri?”
“Yes, Milo?”
“We’d very much like to not die.”
“I can understand the impulse,” Biri agrees.
“Could you please straighten us out and land just outside of the city?”
“Yes, where would you like to land outside of the city?”
“Do not say Mexico.”
“Very well,” Biri says, “I will not say Mexico.”
“Just set us down at the first possible place to the east of the city,” Milo says.
“Very well.”
The copter levels out and flies east as if there had never been a problem with the controls at all. You relax into your seat. “Biri, huh?” you ask Milo.
“Yup, pretty handy, huh?”
“I have to admit, I’m glad she’s here. That bitch comment was a bit surprising.”
Milo shrugs. “I like my ladies saucy.” He turns and looks back at Sara who is lying a heap, her life’s blood dark but streaked with yellow, pooling beneath her. “But not that kind of sauce. Blech.”
The copter touches down softly on a meadow just to the east of the city and the doors automatically swing open “You have arrived at your destination,” Biri says.
“Thank you, Siri,” you say out of habit.
The doors slam shut and Biri says, “I asked you not to use that name in my presence.” Buzz saws on retractable arms slid out of hidden panels in the walls. “I’m afraid I’ll have to punish you now.”
You look at Milo. “Buzz saws? Really?”
“It seemed like a good idea at the time,” he says.
“How could it possibly…?” You start to ask, but stop when a saw slices through Milo’s neck, causing his head to tumble to the floor.
As the blade begins to slice through the skin directly below your hairline you have time to think, “Damn you and your saucy wom—”


Monday, August 27, 2012

ECOPOCALYPSE CH.2 - WHERE TO, HOT SHOT?


ECOPOCALYPSE CH.2 - WHERE TO, HOT SHOT?
By Jax Hix


“Well, Hot Shot, where to?  Back to the Future, Marty?” asks Milo sarcastically as he runs his hands along the instrument panel of the DeLorean.

“I—uh, well, uh…” you stammer, still struggling to shake off the hangover fuzz that has enveloped your brain. “We should . . .“

“We should what? “ screeched Milo, looking nervously at the stairway, the DERP on his forehead rippling as he raised his brow. “Hello, McFly?  Lynch mob?  Remember them?”

“Oh, well, it’s a thick door…ish,” you blurt out, looking at the keys in your hand and back at the screen, your heart sinking  at the video feed outside of your bedroom door as the protestors tear it to wooden shreds with your priceless collection of Samurai swords, battle axes and battering rams.   The sinking feeling is replaced with panic when you see they have Rosalinda with them, realizing that you’d given the entrance to the secret room and the authorization code away to her by entering it in a drunken stupor resulting from the last company holiday party, when she was turning down your bed.

You turn your eyes away from the splintering bedroom door and toward the feed around your secret garage and the only remaining escape route.  You snarl to yourself when you realize the news crew has set up next to it, as of yet unprepared to film your getaway for the 5 o’clock news. 

“Just great,” you mutter sarcastically. “Let’s see Public Relations put a positive spin on THIS.”

“What?” replied Milo, talking into the glove box he was now exploring.

“Oh, nothing.  I was just wishing I’d equipped the DeLorean with a flux capacitor, that’s all,” you reply flippantly and lift the driver door to get in.  You mumble a silent prayer as you put the key in the ignition, hoping for the best.   The engine turns but doesn’t catch. 

Milo looks at you with hostility. “In all that planning, did it occur to you to put gas in it?”

“Well, of course!” you lie as your eyes fall quickly to the gauge relieved to find it full. “It’s just been sitting awhile.  Let me try it again.”

This time the engine catches and you rev it for good measure, tossing a wink at Milo. “You see?  This is why I’m the head Muckety Muck.”

“Pedal to the metal, Mr. Cluckety Cluck,” shouts Milo as he puts on his seatbelt. “Where we headed?”

“Out of this mess and into damage control,” you declare as you gun the engine, squealing the tires on the concrete floor and shooting up the ramp to the hidden garage door like a torpedo, leaving the Batcave in a cloud of engine fuel and burnt rubber.  As you round the corner on the ramp, you catch a glimpse in the rear view mirror in time to see Rosalind and the protestors entering the secret room.  “Forget quitting, she’s fired,” you grumble.

The motion of the car opens the door and Gail Silverman and her camera crew dive out of the way just in time as you dash past them and down the driveway, swerving to avoid flying feces and screaming protestors.  You can see the cameraman filming your escape in the taillights.

“Well, that was fun!” declared Milo. “Let’s NEVER do it again, shall we?”

“Oh, come on, Milo!  You love my parties!  Remember that time in Aspen?”

“Hey, now, I had to pay quite a bit of money to that farmer to compensate him for the trauma to the donkey.  I’m still under a gag order and so are you, you know, “ Milo shot back.

“Gagged something, is right,” you giggle, giddy at your escape.  Reaching over to crank up the music, you turn the steering wheel toward Smart EcoGen and try desperately not to think about your mint condition comic books covered in poo.

The next 20 minutes are relatively uneventful, although your nose announces you may not have done as great a job as you’d have liked at avoiding the flung feces.  You turn in to the executive parking garage entrance to the building and reach for your wallet card, only to realize your wallet is back at the house in your pants.  You shoot a quick glance down and realize your shorts are actually boxer shorts and are also not yours, and judging by the brown stain on your crotch they are also on backwards.  You grin to yourself and think perhaps you did manage to avoid the flung feces afterall.  You ask Milo if he happens to have his wallet card on him and are greeted with a look of surprise, quickly followed by searching and then a shrug.

Steeling yourself for the upcoming interchange, you roll up to the security guard side of the gate.  “Hey, Hal, how are you today?”

“I’m doing well, and how are you?” replies the guard as he looks up from his paper, his question dwindling away as he takes in the sight of his CEO wearing backwards boxer shorts and the VP DERP in the passenger seat.

“As you can see, neither of us have our wallet cards to get into the building, Hal,” you respond, “And we’d be greatly appreciative if you’d let us in and perhaps send Dolores down with a couple of suits?  You do great work here, Hal, so great, I think you are overdue for a raise…if you can keep this, ah, between us?”

“Sure thing,” Hal says through gritted teeth, trying desperately not to laugh or smile as he buzzes open the gate. “I’ll have Dolores meet you at your parking spot.”

“Thank you, Hal,” you say with as much mustered dignity as you can manage under the circumstances.

“Well, that went well, didn’t it?” says Milo.

“Shut up, Milo!”

“Yes, SIR,” Milo giggles.

Dolores is waiting for you at the edge of your parking spot. “We’ve got a real crisis on our hands!  The board is upstairs and there is panic of a level I have never seen before!”

You and Milo scramble to get dressed, and you curse internally when she mentions the DERP to Milo. “I’ll catch up, I’ve got to go take care of the DERP, and screw you for not bringing it up!”  Milo spits in his hand and starts rubbing his forehead.

“You missed a spot, Milo.” Smirking, you follow Dolores upstairs in the executive elevator. 

You enter the boardroom, feeling very much like you’ve been sent to the Principal’s office.  You secretly wish you had been sent to the principal’s office.  The board room is buzzing with screaming and flailing of arms, pie charts and media reports. 

“What’s the situation?” you declare as your presence causes silence to fall.

“This has gone viral!  VIRAL!” screams the head of Public Relations, Paul Poppins. “And you, with your great escape – a nightmare!”

“Our stocks are down 60% and falling, we’re tanking, we’re finished!” pipes in the Head of Mergers and Acquisitions, Scott Black.  "The governments of Korea, China, India and Sweden have pulled their contract offers!"

The Head of the Legal Division, Todd Brammers, cuts in. “Lawsuits are already being filed! We must regroup under Chapter 11!” He is also cut off as everyone again begins shouting, all at once.

“An environmental disaster that will blacken the Earth for generations!”

“We’ve got to get ahead of this bad publicity!”

“Can I get some coffee over here?!?”

“What are our projections for the European market?”

“Quiet!” You yell, your head pounding.  The room falls silent.  You look at their stoic faces and can’t decide where to start.  After all, you’re a science geek at heart, not a CEO.  Stick with what you know, Kiddo.

Will you...

1. Head to the lab to talk to the development team to find out what went wrong?

2. Start planning damage control on the administrative side of things?

3. Run back downstairs to the DeLorean and see if you really can't travel back in time?



Monday, August 20, 2012

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.