ECOPOCALYPSE CH.2 - DAMAGE CONTROL

ECOPOCALYPSE CH.2 - DAMAGE CONTROL By Jason Campbell

“Jesus Christ, my head feels like it's going to split open,” you shout. “Would you all shut up?!”

You glance around the room, staring down all those who just want to keep arguing. Whether it's the bloodshot eyes or the smell of shit and alcohol that seems to permeate throughout the room, everyone's attention is turned to you. A couple of noses twitch in disgust at the smell.

Where is that smell coming from? you wonder.

“Well, what's the plan, boss?” your Head of Public Relations asks. The comment drips with sarcasm. You had meant to fire that weasel-faced little jerk months ago. Now here you are in the middle of a public relations nightmare, and all he could think of is insulting your intelligence.

“Aren't you the PR guy? Why don't you pull your head out of your ass and see if you can figure out a way to spin this and regain some of our market share? That is what I pay you for, isn't it?”

You stare him down until he turns away, but not before tossing a couple aspirins on the table. “You look and smell like shit. Take these, it'll clear the cobwebs. I'm going to need you clean and awake for any media campaign.” Pushing past the rest of the board, he leaves the conference room, nearly knocking Milo over as he enters the room.

Milo walks up to the boardroom table and looks around. You are barely able to contain a snicker. The skin on your VP's head is bright red. It no longer says VP DERP, but you could stop traffic with how raw and red it is.

“Well, what's the plan?” Milo asks, ignoring the fact that everyone is staring at his forehead.

“There isn't one yet. The PR weasel is looking into it,” you answer as you pop the two pills that he gave you into your mouth. Pulling a silver flask from your pocket, you wash them down with a swig of bourbon.

You turn your attention to the scientific side of the equation; it's what you're best at, after all. You never really did want to be The Face of the company. The science was solid, you were positive of that. Something else had changed, maybe an outside influence. Your nose twitches as an offensive smell permeates the air.

What is that smell?

You notice a couple other people are covering their mouths and noses as they dismiss themselves from the meeting. Even Milo is looking around for the offending odor. Very subtly you turn your head to sniff your own armpits. Nothing...

“Did you just smell your own pits?” Milo asks.

“No, my neck is stiff; I was just getting a kink out of it,” you answer defensively.

Milo is about to say something when the head of your Public Relations team walks back in. Right next to him is a beautiful blonde. She looks as if she just walked out of the pages of a magazine. You rub your eyes, sure that you are hallucinating, there is no way this little twerp knows this hot babe.

“This is a reporter for KWCM, Channel 32. Time to get down to the business of repairing the company's image.” He turns to the cameraman. “You can set up right over there.”

“Whoa, whoa. I thought I would have time to...Do you smell that?” You have to fight back a gag reflex as your nose is invaded with the putrid smell of human feces. Milo's eyes widen as he points towards the corners of his eyes. You shrug, not sure what he is saying. Again he points at the corner of his eyes and then points at yourself. Reaching up to the edges of your eyes, you rub your hand across your eyes.

They come away covered in a brown liquid. You begin to gag. The smell is horrifying, and it appears to be pouring out of your eyes.

“What the hell is going on?” You glance around the room and everyone is staring at you—everyone but Weasel-Face.

Your PR guy turns to reporter. “As I promised you, exclusive footage of what our flawed product can create. The human body literally turns to shit...Ooops, can I say that on TV? We are reworking our schematics and the chemicals involved in the waste recycling and will have a new model available soon.”

What?! You try to shout at that weasel-faced little ass, but brown sewage spews from your mouth. Your vision is blurring; you can see that it's leaking from every pore.

Your legs give out as your bones begin to liquefy.

“Unfortunately there is nothing we can do for those in these advance stages of the sickness,  like our CEO here. We have created an antidote for it and it has passed all government tests. Our VP here will prove that it works. The first pill starts the liquefaction process, the second set is the newly reworked formula which will reverse the process.” He hands Milo a couple of pills. The last thing you see as your body becomes a brown stinking pile of liquefied sewage in the middle of the floor is your Head of Public Relations handing Milo the same pills he gave you for your hangover.

I knew I should have fired him....

Oops...Return to Chapter 2

TIME DOUCHE CH. 2 - TIME TO DUEL

TIME DOUCHE CH.2 - TIME TO DUEL

By Jason Campbell

Dressed? Probably a good idea, you think to yourself as you slide the door open one more time. The three men haven’t noticed the time machine yet, but it won’t be long until you’re in full view. The compartment with the clothes slides open easily enough. Once you have the clothes spread out, you begin to rethink the idea of getting dressed.

“Pantaloons? Frilly shirts? Where the hell are the Nike and Christian Audigier?” You ask Thomas.

“Don’t you think you might stick out just a little wearing modern clothing in the 1700s?” He responds with his usual snobby attitude. “You really are a douche, aren’t you?”

Ignoring his remarks, you dress yourself in these God-forsaken clothes. It’s only slightly better than being naked. Outside the machine you can hear a horse neigh nearby. The three men are getting closer.

“Avons-nous côté avec le roi?” asks one of the men.

“French? They’re speaking French!” you say, holding the transmitter to your mouth. “How the hell am I supposed to communicate?!”

“Did you forget my warning not to fuck up history? No talking to anyone!” Nubleman’s voice explodes from the speaker in your pocket. It’s a little unnerving to hear your crotch talking to you. “But on the off chance you have to, second compartment down from the clothes you’ll find what looks like a small bandage. It’s a universal translator. Stick it to your neck and it will not only translate what they are saying, but it will translate your Neanderthal speech to them.”

The voices are even closer now; time is running out. You slap on the translator and prepare to step out the door to try and hide the machine. It’s then you realize that there is no material close by with which to disguise it. You glance around the side of the machine and realize that you are precariously balanced at the top of a tall hill. Without giving a thought to how this might turn out, you step back into the Time Machine and begin rocking it back and forth.

“Please don’t tip forward,” you whisper.

“What?” comes Thomas’ voice dripping with concern.

“Ahh…nothing,” you say as you slam your shoulder into the back of the machine. You feel it begin to tip backwards. Everything seems to be happening in slow motion. The heads of the men appear at the top of the hill as you punch the button to close the door. Your vertical world is all of sudden diagonal, then horizontal.

“Oh shit!” You shout as your body slams against the back wall. Gravity is a bitch and now she is taking her vengeance on you. Tossed around like a two-dollar salad at the local buffet, your body is pitched back and forth across the machine as it rolls down the hill. The blood stain of some poor critter appears on the outside of the glass walls.

Damn, I hope that doesn’t affect the space/time continuum, you think to yourself.

The machine continues to pick up speed and so does your stomach. It lurches once, twice, and then you feel the inevitable kick of your stomach trying to empty its contents. Swallowing, you fight back the gag reflex. That would have been nasty.

The machine seems to have hit a flat spot as the bounces don’t seem quite as violent. You try and catch a glimpse of the landscape but all you see is a blur of green, then blue, then green, then blue. This ride has to stop soon. As if someone heard your silent wish, the machine rolls to a stop…and then begins to fill with water.

“You’ve got to be shittin’ me! Can anything else go wrong?”

“What, WHAT?” Thomas is screaming into the speaker, “What have you done to my machine?”

“Nothing, why?” You respond while desperately reaching for the door button. The door slides silently open and you hop out and into a foot of water. The machine comes to a rest at the edge of small pond. Slipping behind the machine and about a foot deeper in the water, you begin pushing the machine out of the water.

“Why do I hear the sloshing of water?” Thomas asks in a panicked voice.

“Don’t worry about it, I’m dealing with it.”

“Dealing with what?”

Ignoring Nubleman’s wailing, you manage to, with some effort and a lot of grunting, roll the time machine out of the pond and behind a stand of bushes. Stuck in 18^th century France, you wonder what to do to kill an hour. I’m sure if Nubleman was here, he would just be sitting hidden in the trees, observing like some sort of voyeuristic bird-watcher. You seemed to have rolled to a stop in the middle of some peasant’s farm. Walking over to the fence, you hear the distinctive sound of metal crashing against metal. Could it be? Swords? A duel? They had those in the past right?

You vault over the fence like some fourteen year old Olympic gymnast and take off at a sprint towards the sound. Out of the corner of your eye, you spot the three men that you saw earlier. It appears at some point they have dismounted their horses. Maybe you didn’t get away as cleanly as you thought. They seem to be walking with a purpose straight towards you. Somewhere around the next corner the sword fight seems to be taking place. You pick up the pace and disappear out of sight of the three men.

With a fist pump and a mental Yes!, you find that there is a duel happening. The younger of the two men is dressed like the three men from the hill. The other is a little older and is dressed somewhat similar but in darker colors.

“Is a girl really that important to lose your life over?” Says the older man.

“I plan to ask for her hand in marriage,” replies the younger man. “Now let’s begin.” Without warning the older man’s blade flashes out, but just misses as the young man snaps his head to the side. The younger man thrusts back, cutting through a layer of the other man’s coat. It’s like a car wreck; you just can’t stop watching.

A sound somewhere behind you reminds you that the three men are still following you. It looks like today’s entertainment is going to be cut short. You figure with a quick jog you can get around the next curve, slip back up the hill and back down to the time machine without the three men being the wiser.

“What is that sound?” Nubleman interjects as if he just woke up. “Tell me it’s not the time machine. It sounds like a sword fight. Tell me you didn’t start a sword fight!”

“Shhh…” you whisper at your pocket. “There are people around!” Your warning comes seconds too late as the older man is distracted. The young man takes advantage of the interruption and skewers his opponent. The life in the older man’s eyes disappears. At the same time the three men come around the corner.

“Stop!” They shout in unison at you -- or you are assuming at you. The young man is confused and turns to you.

“You saw, it was a fair fight. Tell them it was a fair duel.” He pleads with you.

“I think they want me,” you answer.

“Why, what did you do?”

“Nothing I know of.”

“Come with me,” he says, “I might be able to help. By the way, my name is Napoleon.”

“Bonaparte?!” Both you and your pocket say.

Will you...

A: Take your chances with trying to outrun the three men following and make your way back to the time machine later?

B: Pick up the older man’s sword and prepare to fight your way back to the time machine?

C: Follow Napoleon and hope that your interference doesn’t change the course of history?

WELCOME TO HELLYWOOD CH.4 - BIDDIN' WAR!

WELCOME TO HELLYWOOD CH.4 - BIDDIN' WAR!

By Jason Campbell

“No bids?! My best years may be behind me, but what the fu-” your voice cracks with impending puberty.

Oh god no! Not puberty again, you think to yourself, I can’t go through this again. Anger, desperation, and frustration all wage war within you, leading you to drastic actions. A worn leather chair sits at the next cubicle over. You slide the chair over to the computer with eBay pulled up and sit down in front of the computer. Drawing again on your vast array of acting knowledge, you begin to channel your inner “hacker."

How hard could this be to hack? His password has to be something like soullessbastard or shallowcelebrity. Neither of those work. On the off chance you type p-a-s-s-w-o-r-d. The screen flashes and you have access to Dr. Skin’s personal eBay account. That was way too easy, you think. Undaunted, you push forward, scrolling through some of the evil doctor’s other auctions: a Baywatch actor, a has-been or two, and look! here’s an actress with multiple adopted kids. That sure explains the newly anorexic-looking body… but, yours isn’t there!

You logout and go back to the first page displayed, the one that had your skin for sale. There is no name on the auction, no registered seller. Sneaky bastard, Skin! The only way it seems that you are going to get your skin back is to bid on it. There is no way you can hide here for ten days to bid on it though. Using your own eBay account, you put in a bid for two million and one dollars. That done, you head towards the door, preparing to look for an exit. It is time to find a safer place to bid. As you reach for the door, you hear the computer ding behind you. When you get back to the desk you find that there is a competing bid for three million.

You’re a little shocked someone actually wants your skin as you enter your new bid for a dollar more. Seconds later it dings again, four million. Again you enter a dollar more which is the top bid for a millisecond, until the bid increases to five million.

“What the hell?!”

At this rate you will have used all of your last big paydays in just a couple more bids. You look for who your competition is. The account name says DWTSBergeron. The name sets off alarms in your head. Dancing With The Stars? Aren’t they always looking for washed-up has-beens trying to reclaim their former glory? Why would he need my skin? Does he have a host for it?

Ding – eight million.

“Shit, shit, shit.” Eight million and one dollars. You are nearing your last bid.

Ding – nine million. A couple quick key strokes and it’s nine million and one. You have nothing left if it dings again. One minute, then two, then five pass. Relief washes over you as you realized you’ve done it! You stand and head to the door again, but just as you step out into the hallway, you hear it, the sound of your skin being sold to someone else.

You want to drop to your knees and scream in wretched defeat, but with your new hormones, anger takes over and you storm out of the building, channeling your ninja assassin on more than one occasion to deal with the guards. You walk out of the front of the building, forgetting for a moment who you look like until you hear: “Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee, it’s Justin!”

“Oh fuck,” You shout as it dawns on you that you have just stepped into public looking like the most recognized face for girls under the age of 15. As if it was a call to arms, teenage girls pour out of every store, house, and vehicle in sight, and they all have their sights set on you. Like a knight riding over the horizon, a yellow taxi appears at the corner ahead of you. Using your new found youth, you sprint to the taxi; throwing open the door, you dive in, screaming at the cabbie to lock the doors.

“Quick, take me to CBS Television Studio.”

“Yes, right away Mr. Bieber. Oh just wait until I tell my daughter who I picked up today. She will never believe me!” The cabbie responds.

“Sure, sure, just get me out of here and I will sign autographs and take pictures.”

You look into the rearview mirror as the cab pushes its way through the mob of girls. It’s then that you notice that your ears are not perfectly even anymore. One sits a little lower than the other. The same thing has happened on your hand. Your middle finger is sloughing away from the bone. The cabby catches you fingering him and slams on the brakes. You are catapulted into his safety glass.

“I do not appreciate that, Mr. Beiber. I don’t think you want to walk -- Oh my God! What is wrong with your face?” The cabbie asks. His face is curled into a grimace. You look into the rearview mirror. Half of your face looks as if it is melting away.

“Nothing, just get me to that studio!”

The rest of the trip to the studio is a blur as you pull at your skin, trying secure it back into place, trying to make it look normal. When you arrive at the studio you look as if you have aged fifty years in the last ten minutes. You throw a wad of bills at the driver and storm into the studio. The Dancing With The Stars stage is to your left. You don’t make it more than two steps when you feel your nose slide right off your face. Michael Jackson has nothing on you as more pieces start to slide off your body. By the time you reach the doors to the stage, there is very little left holding you together.

The door swings open as you reach for the handle. There in front of you stands Tom Bergeron. He shakes his head at what is left of your body.

“You should have listened to the nurse,” he says.

“What? How do you know about the nurse?” you gasp as you fight for breath.

“Where do you think I find most of my clients for my little side business? All the has-beens and wannabes want to be on this show.”

“Dr. Skin?” You ask, just before the blackness engulfs you.

THE END.

Oops...RETURN TO CHAPTER 4