ECOPOCALYPSE CH.6 - APPEAL TO ARTIE

ECOPOCALYPSE CH.6 - APPEAL TO ARTIE

By John Elrod

So in the Monopoly game of your no good, very bad, shitastic day, you’ve just managed land on “Go to Hell”; go directly from potential savior to dead man walking, and do not collect $200. You’re pretty much fucked, but you’ve come too close to solving this thing to give in, now.

“This is alright. This is fixable. I’ll just hop on a flight to D.C. and talk to this Artie character. I’m sure I can show him the new shitbox and convince him to let me fix this. I mean, I’ve given speeches to rooms full of billionaires and scientists--and billionaire scientists, of which there aren’t very many; I can convince some second-tier Jefferson Smith to--” Your spiel is interrupted.

“He’s actually on his way here.” Sneedon’s interjection is weighted heavily in condescension.

This information kind of kills your zeal for confrontation; you won’t have nearly enough time to prepare for the meeting, but that shouldn’t be a problem… because of the earlier thing about all the speeches--billionaires, etc--that really had a lot more pop when it was coming from you a few moments ago. That doesn’t matter now. What does matter now is that this jackass is coming to get you and probably plans to make use of pomp and circumstance to parade you around in front of big crowds, to make sure everyone knows “we” are committed to international diplomacy, even if it means throwing you--their potential hero--to the proverbial lions (you assume the lions would merely be proverbial, but who really knows?).

Sneedon eagerly returns to the room, after having exited toward a private conversation, “Artie is going to meet with you right upstairs. There’s a nice conference room up there for you two to try and come to some kind of an agreement, okay? I’m really pulling for you to get out of this.”

You try to slowly walk out of the room and make your way toward the elevators, but Sneedon is really pushing you along. Maybe he wants some alone time with Madge? You could tell him he’s barking up the wrong vagina, there, but it’s always more entertaining when they find out for themselves. You barely have time for parting remarks before he’s ushered you into the elevator and you’re back to the solitary confinement of one of these moving boxes. This elevator differs greatly from your own, though; it’s littered with fliers and the air is smothered by that damn Muzak… and the torturous dinging. How any of these CDC bastards can get any thinking done is beyond you.

Following your dreadful ride up 18 floors, you exit Dante’s infernal elevator to a dark, cavernous corridor, and you’re carrying an even emptier head. Sneedon rushed you out of there so quickly, and the elevator ride was so hellish, that you’ve not managed to prepare a single coercive word for this Artie fellow.

I’ll wing it; piece of cake.

Your thoughts have returned, but they aren’t quite as helpful as you would have hoped. Nevertheless.

Your feet chirp against a clearly government-issued linoleum, as you struggle to make your way toward a single light at the end of the seemingly abandoned level of this building. With every step, your knees grow weaker, your stomach churns tighter, and each breath of the cold, medicinal air reaches ever heavier heights. There’s something wrong here. Wouldn’t Artie have security guards? Shouldn’t Secret Service members be frisking you harder than a horny TSA agent, right about now? This isolation doesn’t make any sense. Then it hits you; Admiral Ackbar is screaming out from the mind of the childhood movie marathons you and Madge used to have on rainy weekends: this is a trap.

You turn for the elevator, but it’s too late. There, amidst the silence that permeates everything that isn’t you, barks the smallest crunch of splintering glass. There is to be no pageantry to your death; you will not be paraded across the world’s stage to appease the chattering crowds of a global lynch mob. Your demise is a relatively uneventful one; an assassination carried out by some Jack Bauer wannabe from the roof of some adjacent building. He’s probably not even occupying his carefully chosen perch, anymore. No, he did his duty, and now you’ve been left to ponder what could have come of your plan to save the day, as your shoe lets forth a final chirp against the cheap flooring, and you stumble into the light.

Oops...Return To Chapter 6

ECOPOCALYPSE CH.3 - TO THE LAB!

ECOPOCALYPSE CH.3 - TO THE LAB!

by John Elrod

Without saying anything more, you turn and walk right back out of the boardroom, leaving the actual suits to deal with public relations, lawsuits, and market projections. Frankly, you’re not usually any help with those things, anyway; you’re a scientist. You belong in the lab, which is exactly why you spend so much time there that, when you were having this state-of-the-art, skyscraping monolith constructed, you had them incorporate a private express elevator with three stops: the basement lab, where you almost always want to be; the boardroom, where you almost never want to be; and the roof, for when you want to be anywhere but here.

It takes a total of 47 seconds for the elevator to go from the boardroom to the lab. There is no ignominious Muzak or senseless dinging noise. In fact, the inside of this elevator is entirely without distraction; without those things shopping malls employ to keep you from realizing you don’t need to spend half a month’s salary on those shoes; without those tactics hospitals use to make you forget you’ve just seen a loved one for the last time. Yes, this elevator was absolutely boring in every way; you'd made sure of that because it takes a total of 47 seconds to go from the boardroom to the lab, and that’s 47 seconds of pure, unadulterated thought. It was in those 47 seconds that you had finally been able to think of how to bring the Environaut’s consumption-to-production ratio over 200%; it was those 47 seconds that had given you the idea for the iPoop, a toilet USB port that attaches to any toilet and uses your waste to directly charge any compatible device; and, on days like today, it’s those 47 seconds that simply keep you from going insane.

The opening of the elevator doors brings your serenity to a screeching halt as your ears are flooded with an expletive-laden tirade.

“How the fuck could this fucking happen? I fucking told those motherfuckers not to fucking use fucking mercury. This is un-fucking-believable.”

It’s Milo. He’s yelling at an empty room, but you know exactly what he’s upset about. Back when you and Milo were developing the Environaut, you hit upon a problem: it was introducing too much toxicity into the surrounding environment. Your solution was to replace the mercury you were using as a coolant with a gallium-indium alloy. It was an easy fix, but the Smart EcoGen board members weren’t thrilled about the expense of controlling the alloy’s wetting and aggressivity; it wasn’t cost-effective, but they agreed to the change—or so you thought.

Milo sees you come out of the elevator. “Can you fucking believe this? You’re the President and CE-FUCKING-O!”

“I know.”

“I’m the Vice Fucking President, for Christ sake.”

“I know.”

“This is just—”

“I know, and now we get to say, ‘We told you s—’”

Your snarky quip is interrupted by a video call from the boardroom. Milo is very eager to answer and throw some obscenities their way. He hurriedly presses the button, but on the screen is nothing but an empty boardroom.

“The damn thing must be broken.” Your voice tries to console Milo’s rage.

“Goddammit!” Milo’s rage is beyond consolation.

Suddenly a face come into the video’s frame. It’s Hal, the security guard. He’s still smiling through gritted teeth, but something is different about him. His skin is a jaundiced hue, his eyes are glazed over in a buttery haze, and his face is fixed in the same dead expression as those protesters who stormed your home.

“What the fuck?” Milo’s rage has given way to confusion, now.

“I don’t kn—”

You are interrupted once more, this time by a slurpy growl that seems to be coming from Hal’s throat. The gurgling gets louder, as Hal’s bite loosens just barely and his lips are overtaken by a thick, brown slurry. The sludge dribbles down Hal’s chest, while the lab has become a swamp of palpable fright. Slowly, Hal backs away from the camera, and you notice some of the board members are ambling about. Then you see it. There in Hal’s left hand, held firmly at the tuft of its neck, is the severed head of Smart EcoGen’s CFO, George Quellen Field.

“I second that ‘What the fuck?’” Now you’re the one speaking to the empty room as Milo has hastily evacuated to the elevator.

“Let’s make like Schwarzenegger and get to the fucking chopper!” How Milo can simultaneously make a pop culture reference and shit his pants, you don’t know, but he must be shitting his pants, because this is absolutely a “shit your pants” moment.

25 seconds into the longest 47 seconds of your life, and Milo is still rambling on about not knowing what is going on. Why doesn’t this elevator play music, or fucking ding, or just do anything to distract you from the thoughts wildly rampaging through your mind? There’s nothing to stop you from going insane! What sadistic bastard designed this torturous, 47 second device? But it’s not 47 seconds; not this time. This time, it’s 68 seconds, because you and Milo are going to the roof. More specifically, the helipad on the roof, and the two of you are getting as far away from this building as possible. Let the government come in and deal with this—literal—shit storm.

On the roof you both hop into the helicopter, but not before exchanging reassuring looks with one another. You’re both absolutely positive things are going to be fine. Maybe you’ll head down to Mexico for a couple weeks while things blow over. Sure, it’s a PR nightmare, and the stock is going to take a hit. Blah, blah, blah. None of that concerns a couple of genius lab rats like you and Milo. It’s fine.

You’re the pilot, of course, since you are the one with a pilot’s license. Milo, for lack of a better word, is your co-pilot, even though he can’t even manage to write with a Pilot pen, let alone have anything to do with piloting a helicopter. You set your heading for Mexico, and—

“What’s that?” Milo is gesturing downward.

You don’t want to look, but you have to. What you see are the streets clogged with abandoned vehicles and crowds of people moving at two distinctive speeds. Those running are doing so from those walking; those walking are those who didn’t run fast enough. You’ve seen this in movies, and you’ve lived this in video games. You’ve always thought it might happen, but you didn’t have any idea you could cause it. You can’t go to Mexico; you have to do something, because everything is decidedly not fine.

Do you...

A. Land the helicopter at the hospital, where your sister works, and see if she can help--if she's even still alive.

B. Land the helicopter at the police station, where you're sure to be abel to the get hold of some firearms, them come out blasting.

C. Land the helicopter somewhere outside the city and try to devise a plan.

HARDWOOD BLOOD CH.4 - CLUCK FOR YOUR LIFE

BLOOD ON THE HARDWOOD CONCRETE CH.4 - CLUCK FOR YOUR LIFE

By John Elrod II

Faced with the immediacy of your mortality, your mind scrambles, and you begin clucking maniacally. Sinclair struggles to process just what’s going on.

“Hey, what kind of jive are you trying to pull over?” he inquires, while taking a step back.

While continuing to cluck, you get your wits back about you and decide to use his confusion to your advantage. You stand from your crouched position and proceed to flap your arms while prancing around the room. Funnily enough, this isn’t much removed from your earlier dancing technique. The puzzled look on Sinclair’s face persists.

“Now, you quit this baloney, right now, you hear? You’re no hoofer, and you never will be!” Sinclair’s aggravation is only getting worse. You push the envelope further.

“Come on, Clive, don’t be such a bluenose. Your mother was into it.” This seems to strike a nerve.

“Horsefeathers! Leave my mother out of this. I’ll bump you off; I’m serious.” Sinclair’s sincerity seems scarce. Perhaps he isn’t the killer you’ve thought him to be.

From behind him comes a startled “Clive—” Sinclair pivots and pulls the trigger before thinking. He actually has shot his mother now. The fun, if it can be described as such, stands still for what feels like several tocks of the old ticker. Clive hot-foots it to his mother’s side, but it’s no use; he’s killed her.

He turns his attention back to you, “This is your doing!”

You lay an egg.

“Whoa, now, Clive, cool your hot box, pal.” You play the only card you have. “Look, I think she’s still alive!”

With his attention turned back to her, you scram out of there, with gunshots ringing out in your dust. In your haste, you make the tactical mistake of fleeing down a dead-end hallway. As you try to think of your next move, Sinclair catches up to you, cornering you near a window.

“What do you think you’re going to do now, copper? We’re six stories up, and you know chickens can’t fly.” His eyes are crazed over.

What does he know? Just a few days ago, you were a cop who regularly worked with the Globetrotters. Earlier today, you took on a job as a fetishized mascot, and you danced provocatively with an old woman whom you seriously planned on showering with. Honestly, your actions have gone against the logical at every turn. Why should this be the time you act rationally? He says chickens can’t fly? Well, there’s only one irrational reply that you could possibly provide him with.

“Nerts to that!” You yell, rushing the window and leaping through it. “This chicken can fly!”

You quickly realize the flaw in your thought process: you are, indeed, not actually a chicken, and you are now going to plummet to your untimely demise. Your final thought can only turn to the legacy you will have left behind.

The newsies are going to have a field day with this. QUITE THE FOUL UP: BALLED UP COPPER FALLS FLAT, the headline will read.

THE END.

Oops...Return to Chapter 4

TIME DOUCHE CH. 2 - GET TO RUNNIN'

TIME DOUCHE CH.2 - GET TO RUNNIN'

By John Elrod II

“Actually, it is Buonaparte. Napoleone di Buonaparte… although, now that you mention it, Bonaparte sounds much more French. Plus, it totally sounds sexual, as in: You hear that, old man? I’m going to be boning your daughter apart!” An unexpectedly immature Napoleon stands before you, gloating over a dead body of his making and thrusting his hips into the air.

You make the decision to run for it, leaving Bonaparte to himself.

Bolting for a nearby wooded area, you reach the tree line and duck behind one of them. The three men are speaking with Napoleon; they’re smiling, so maybe he -- nope, no he’s pointing them in your direction.

“Bastard,” you say to yourself.

“What?” From your pants, Nubleman’s voice carries genuine concern; it’s likely not for you, however. “What have you done now?!”

As you pull the communicator from your pocket, you place it near your mouth and whisper, “Nothing, now be quiet. I’m hiding.”

Napoleon and the three men are still speaking with each other, but that quickly vacates from the list of things with which you’re concerned. A series of bright white lights flashes before your eyes. You’re momentarily blinded, and you let out a girlish squeal and fall to the ground.

“I… I feel strange, Thomas.” Your speech is slurred.

“What happened? I hate this! I’ve been relegated to endlessly wondering what the hell is going on, while you experience everything!” Nubleman’s voice no longer carries any concern whatsoever.

You manage to stumble to your feet, not having heard a single thing Thomas said. Propped against the tree now, you turn you attention back to the four Frenchmen.

Wait, your thoughts pause.

Where the four men were, there are now two. The others must have come searching for you. In a panic you try to scramble away, but your body feels as if its bones are missing. You fall forward, back into the propped position, and concede that you will simply have to be captured; you are unable to run any more.

Wait, your thoughts return to the two men from before.

That one guy, he’s not wearing the correct clothes; he’s wearing clothes more closely resembling yours. It… it is you.

“That’s ridiculous. I must be hallucinating.” you speak directly into Nubleman’s box, absentmindedly.

“What’s ridiculous? Tell me what is going on! I demand it! Or so help me…” The mighty Thomas Nubleman musters all of the empty threatening power he can.

You continue to ignore Nubleman, as your gaze has been enraptured by what the two men are doing. The you one just hit himself in the crotch; what the hell?

More flashes blind you, and this time they are extended in duration by nearly ten seconds; they are painful.

Grimacing and sweating profusely, you see the men are now fighting, but it’s no longer you; it’s the old man from before. Just then, a man surfaces over a hill beyond the dueling men--it’s you!

The flashes return, once more, but they are no longer surrounding you; they are radiating from you.

You desperately cry into the speaker, “Thomas! I’m seeing flashes--I am flashes! It hurts like crazy! I see other times! Why am I?!” Your cognitive dissonance has imploded.

“Oh god.” Nubleman’s voice finally expresses concern for you. “I’m sorry. Your matter has been corrupted, and the resonating chronotons must diffuse you to stabilize the continuum.”

“Diffuse me? What does that mean?” You force through your painfully clouded mind.

“In layman’s terms: time particles will attach to your atoms, tear you into microscopic pieces, and spread those throughout the wormhole reparation.” His voice cracks. “If it’s any consolation, my machine will suffer the same fate.”

“No it’s not any consolation!” You scream, throwing the transponder against a tree; it disappears in a flash of white.

You stumble out of the trees, toward the men. Your body is now a confused mess of luminosity, varying from head-to-toe and accompanied by a bit of periodic tonal ringing. The men can’t see you, yet you attempt to speak with them; a beam of white light replaces your words. With every movement of your mouth, the light becomes hotter. Your sight is still with you, but your eyes have become empty, glowing, white-hot torches. You drop to your knees and look again at the men; the other you has dropped to the ground and his crotch is smoking. You stop fighting the inevitable and give in to time. Your last sight is of a Frenchman putting a bullet through your head, before your entire body flashes three times and disintegrates into empty space.

THE END

Oops...RETURN TO CHAPTER 2

TIME DOUCHE CH. 1 - IT'S ABOUT TIME

Time Douche - Ch. 1 - It's About Time

By John Elrod II

“What is your life worth? Hmm? This is a rhetorical question we are forced to ask ourselves constantly. Though there can be no concrete answer, we still ask it. What does it even mean? Is that how one measures a life? With dollars? Of course not. What do we use? Hmm? Yes: time. Our lives are measured in the time encompassing them and the impact we make on this time. It is absurd to use any other measurement for a life. 'One needs time for everything.' Does anyone know who said that? Eighteenth Century French philosopher, Voltaire. Of course, he was referring to some form of evolution, but--"

"Oh! I know this one! He was Dracula, right?" you try to interject some humor into the room, but your joke falls flat, as Thomas Nubleman, this evening's host, takes the question seriously.

"No. Voltaire was not Dracula. Anyway, time..."

Nubleman continues his soliloquy on time -- nobody is actually listening -- and you've just about had enough of this insanity. Your thoughts have grown desperate.

I get dragged to this freaking dinner--by the way, where's the fucking food? Some dinner without morsel one--and this boring bastard has been droning on for twenty doggone minutes about temporal shifts and chronotonal ballasts and aaaaah! I just want some chicken! If he doesn't shut his mouth soon...

You turn your focus back to him.

"... Although we often think of time as its own entity, in fact, time and space are intertwined. They exist on the same plane. This means, theoretically, when we move through space, we are also moving through time. What does this mean? Hmm? If we can learn to move through space, we will move through time, as well..."

You don't have thoughts, anymore, as much as you have threats.

If this motherfucker doesn't give me some goddamn chicken...

He continues.

"... thus..."

Oh, he did not just bust a 'thus'! That's it. I have to leave.

In agitation, you quickly search your surrounding area to find any excuse to leave. Then, you spot the wine: a beautiful Merlot. You'll wear it well. With a swift motion of your arm, a nearly full glass of wine splashes onto your shirt.

"Aw geez! Aw geez!" you exclaim. "Geez, I'm sorry. I just was so engrossed in what you were saying, I made a complete mess of myself. Can I use your restroom?" They should invent an award to give you for this performance.

Nubleman, visibly perturbed -- although, he kind of always looks like that -- responds, "But of course! Just up the stairs, there. Feel free to take a shirt of mine from the closet, too." His offer is accompanied by a forceful push to your back, as he turns and begins his rambling, once more, "The reason I've asked you all here, under such secrecy, is because I am planning a trip to France, but..." he continues, but you've finally managed to get outside of earshot.

You've got to hand it to this guy. As pompous as he is, his house is exquisite. An oak banister lines a marble staircase, and all of the windows appear to be complemented with silk curtains. The only unsightly thing about the entire place is all the clocks. This guy really wants to showcase his hard-on for all things time. Your eyes can't wander three feet across the wall without running against some intricate timepiece -- the higher the intricacy the higher the price, most likely. Within the bathroom, you're visually accosted by its stance in complete opposition to the foyer. There's nearly nothing decorative about this room. Everything is stainless steel and sterile, still with a shine but somewhat subdued. Then you're almost shocked into words by the stark contrast of what you seen in front of you to literally every other inch of this bathroom.

"Wow, look at that shower."

Your astonishment is warranted. This shower seems to have been crafted from one piece of solid titanium alloy. It stands at a looming eight feet tall, enclosed with what has to be, at least, two-inch thick two-way mirrors. Upon closer examination, the door opens automatically, on touch. With a soft swish, you're presented with the view of a convoluted interior, housing numerous buttons and knobs, but the most intriguing feature is centered squared right at you: a chair. This is no ordinary shower chair your grandmother might use for bathing. This is hard, cold, reflective metal. This is not built for comfort. This is built for business. This is Captain Kirk's shower chair. In back of the chair are several compartments. You open the largest of them.

"Clothes. Weird clothes. I guess he did say I could wear his clothes. It couldn't hurt, if I use his badass shower."

Naked and staring at your shivering reflection in the contraption's door, you touch it. The wind from the door's movement gives you chills. Second thoughts race through your mind. Maybe you shouldn't. What? You're standing naked in this man's bathroom; a man who promised you chicken, and gave you nothing but a headache. You're doing this. With that, you lob yourself into the chair.

*WHUSH*

The door whizzes shut, as a low, ominous hum grows rapidly into an angry whir. Lights flicker, a screen on the backside of the door illuminates your face, and your heartbeat quickens. In an attempt at calmness, you focus your attention on the cold steel seat sucking the heat from your exposed skin. It is to no avail, as you only grow more frightened with each passing beep. Beep. Beep. In a frantic haze, you lash out at everything in sight, pressing button after button. Nothing. Just as you think to scream: silence--darkness. Nothing remains but the illumination of the screen to capture your momentary relief. Did you break it?

No.

The hum returns, this time growing faster to the whir. The whir, this time, escalating to a pulsating roar. Faster, the beep dramatically crescendos into a sustained tone, and, after a tremendous flash, the bathroom is vacant -- and showerless.

------

In a blink, silence returns. You're sweaty and tired, but you can read the screen glaring you in the face. It reads: open. You press it, opening the door.

"There's no way this is a shower." You state one of the most obvious statements of the obvious to have ever been stated.

Again, your relief is short-lived, as you realize there is a breeze entering the doorway. Upon standing, you're presented with the view of a confusing exterior: a bucolic countryside. You promptly close the door, and return to your seat.

"Okay... okay..." you exhale.”Okay... think this out. He's an inventor... geez, what was he talking about? Dracula. Wine... shit! Traveling! It's a teleporter!" Why this seems to comfort you is a mystery.

"I've been teleported somewhere. I'm probably just outside his house." Ignoring the fact that this man's house is located in Boston, you open the door and step out. After a quick look around, you return -- closing the door.

"Okay... not in Boston. Where am I?" You rub your temples and slowly come to a stop.

Sheepishly, you scoff, "No... noooooo... it's not possible." Once more opening the door, you look outside. "Oh, god."

You close the door and wonder if the correct time to piss yourself is now, or five minutes ago. Just then, you hear a voice.

"You imbecile!" it chirps.

Deciding now is probably the best time to do the piss yourself thing, you reply, "Aaaaah!"

"Oh, do shut up." Pomposity oozes from a speaker over your left shoulder.

The voice is that of Mr. Nubleman. It seems he included a communication system in his design.

"Thomas?" At that moment, that question carries more hope than you had ever imagined could be felt for the possibility of speaking to Thomas Nubleman.

"Yes, you moron. You've stolen my time machine -- and why are you naked?" Thomas has apparently found your clothes.

"So, I was right. I'm in a different time? When am I?" your voice cracks with a childish whimper, "And how are you talking to me?"

Thomas' reply seems to acknowledge that he heard you, but he may also just be rambling again. It's difficult to tell with this guy. "You nincompoop. You can't just traipse through the space/time continuum, without leaving some remnants of having been there. You've created a wormhole, which is also how I'm speaking to you. Upon your return, you will travel through that same wormhole, thus, sealing it; however, since you took literally no precaution in this little daytrip of yours, you've left temporal debris. These chronotons have been disturbed, and they must be allowed to settle. Attempting to return, now, would result in catastrophic damage to the machine and most likely the continuum. Luckily, chronotons work fast; you can return within the hour. So, you must hide the machine, and yourself, during that time."

You do not respond.

"Do it!"

Still, you do not respond.

"Answer me!"

Three men in long blue coats and funny hats are riding by on horseback. They haven't seen the machine . . . yet.

"There are people here." you whisper.

"What? Whatever you do, do not come into contact with them. You are not prepared for this, as I am." he just can't avoid the condescension. "You are in Eighteenth Century France --"

"The time of Voltaire?" you interrupt. For some reason you’re proud that you've remembered this.

"Shut up, you fool. It is 1789, to be exact -- after Voltaire, before you just have to interrupt me, again. They are on the cusp of the French Revolution. Your actions could have monumental impact."

"Why would you be going to such a pivotal, volatile time?" You prepare yourself for his indignation.

"Why would I--WHY?! I prepared myself for years to take man's fairly innocuous maiden voyage through time! A feat you've stolen from me! You expect me to explain to you why?! Just you listen to me, and bring my machine back without fucking history up." His breathing is audible, even through time.

You pause for a moment to provide some space for clarity. "What do I do? Should I stay here? They are guaranteed to see me. Should I get out and try to move the machine before that happens?" You're beginning to panic again.

"Are you dressed? First, get dressed. Then, pop this speaker out -- it's portable -- and stick me in your pocket. Next, I can't believe I'm saying this to the idiot who thought my time machine was a shower -- that's what it was, right? You thought it was a shower? Moron. That wasn't even my bathroom -- Make a judgment call." He actually left it in your hands: your hands that had, indeed, mistaken a time machine for a shower.

Will You...

A. Stay in the time machine, guaranteed to be seen, and deal with what happens then?

B. Exit the time machine and attempt to move it, without being seen?

Rock the time machine back-and-forth, letting it fall on its side, utilizing its tubular shape and your position on a hill to roll away?

WELCOME TO HELLYWOOD CH.3 - PLOT REVENGE

WELCOME TO HELLYWOOD CH.3 - PLOT REVENGE

by John Elrod II

Your screams descend into pure panic and hysteria. Attempting to stand, you realize you're quite weak and strapped down, no less. Your eyes jot back-and-forth as you feel your heartbeat chasing itself. Just before foam emerges through your lips, the nurse jabs you in the chest with a very long and very sharp needle; you feel nothing in your state. You're calming, however. It must have been some sort of sedative. As the racing heartbeat slows to a crawl and your eyelids begin shuttering in time with its rhythm, you hear Dr. Skin boast to his nurse "I told you this one had more fight than the others."

And you're out.

***

Thirsty. You've been rendered a soulless teenybopper, and all you can think about is your massive thirst. You haven't awoken in a pool of your own sweat in some strange hotel room in a long while. Wait, this is the Treeside Mossy Inn; you've stayed here before. Why had Dr. Skin abandoned you here, without so much as a "Dear John" letter? At least the television is on. Never mind that. You stink, and you're thirsty.

After seven bottles of $12 sparkling jasmine water from the mini-bar and an ice-cold shower, neither your thirst has subsided nor has your temperature decreased.

"What is up with this piece of shit body they've left me with?" you angrily bark at the sink, after minutes of staring and examining yourself in the mirror.

Meandering your way out of the bathroom, you notice a sweat-lathered envelope wrinkled into the bed--you must have been lying on it before. You gingerly remove the letter from its envelope, unfold it, and begin reading Dr. Skin's apparent message to you:

"Congratulations on the success of your surgery," the first line reads, in all its impersonal form-letter glory. "I'm sure you have many questions, and I'm sorry I could not be there to answer them all for you. Rest assured, we will speak again in the future. For now, there are merely a few guidelines I have for you in your time of recovery."

God, I hate this fucking guy so much, you think, while lowering the letter and rolling your eyes toward the hum of a ceiling fan above.

The letter continues, "First and foremost, you must get your rest. Stay in bed. Your body is healing, and it needs time to do so. You will also need to constantly hydrate. Your body needs that water to properly heal."

"'Your body' this and 'your body' that. I know about my body, you bastard. What about my life? What about my fucking soul?" You're disgusted at everything about this letter. Its typeface can eat shit, for all you care.

More of the letter: "This, by far, is the most important thing you have to remember--"

Your reading is interrupted by something on television, "Hot, young Hollywood stars Traywen Amber and Drevor Stone!" It's the Teen Fallopian Awards. You're filled with rage; the rage you always felt toward them, but were able to control. Nothing inside you is consolable now. You shove the letter into your pocket and bolt through the doorway.

***

Arriving via taxi at the Kodine Center, where the awards ceremony is being held, you anticipate having to sneak your way in. However, you're spotted by a crowd of tweens and they unwittingly usher you directly inside.

Staring out over a crowd of celebrities and seat fillers, you realize Amber and Stone are still on stage; they seem to be paying tribute to... you? That doesn't matter, now. Your anger is boiling over. You charge the stage. The entire ceremony has come to a standstill.

"Sure, you act like you give a shit, after I'm dead!" Your indignation is met with puzzled looks. They don't recognize you--nobody does; nobody can--at least not as you.

"I think Justin's had a little too much to drink," Amber says, attempting to defuse the situation.

"Maybe he'd like something else to drink," Stone interjects.

Just then an ear-splitting siren sounds, and the crowd holds their breath in anticipation. They know what is coming, but now you are the one with the puzzled look on your face.

A massive amount of viscous slime pours down over you.

"You got gooooooooo'd!" Everyone exclaims in unison, followed by laughter.

Your anger has returned ten-fold, but before you can use it, a security guard rushes on stage with a tazer. He tazes you, bro.

While the crowd continues their laughter, the guard attempts to manhandle you off stage, but loses his grip on your gooey arm. You manage to regain your footing, but there's something... off, which is saying something considering the day you've had. You begin wiping the goo from your brow, and the crowd lets out an audible gulp. You've wiped your brow, alright, directly off your face. Not realizing what has occurred since his previous attempt, the guard again grabs at you. This time he slips, but he brings the skin of your forearm with him. The horror on his face speaks volumes, as yours has began melting toward the ground.

You look at your hand, only to see its covering ooze between the bones of your fingers. You rip Dr. Skin's note from your pocket and struggle to read its final line, as the front of your face peels off of your skull.

"This, by far, is the most important thing you have to remember: avoid, at all costs, electricity." Your heart sinks, quite possibly in the literal sense.

The crowd empties from the arena, as the "new and improved" you excruciatingly pours onto the floor--your last sight being filled with a black-and-white photograph containing the old image you threw away.

I really looked like shit; they couldn't find a better picture?

THE END.

Oops...RETURN TO CHAPTER 2

RED PLANET STOWAWAY CH.9 KILL THE KING

RED PLANET STOWAWAY CH.9 - KILL THE KING

By John Elrod II

As tantalizing as the king's offer is -- and tantalize mightily it does -- you simply cannot be party to his plans. How on Earth are you to convince him to let you leave -- well, how on Mars are you to convince him? He's told you things nobody is supposed to know. He obviously finds you expendable. On top of that, where are you? I mean, where are you exactly? Anyone with brain-one would realize this is not a situation where refusal to cooperate is an option. Unfortunately, you don't seem to have a brain at all.

"Have you ever heard of a Chinese finger trap?" There's an ever-expanding smirk of coy glee slinking its way across your face.

"A what?" His face is mangled with confusion.

"Never mind. You know, King, you turned this wall over here," you motion in the same general direction as he had before, "into a window, right?"

Befuddled, he responds, "Yes... Listen, I'm really going to need an ans--"

"Yeah, in a minute." A tiny monkey maniacally bangs two cymbals against one another in your head; you've clearly devised your master plan. "First, what does the adjoining wall behind you do?"

Forgetting for a moment the urgency of the situation, the king's interest has been piqued. Though the Martians have far surpassed humans in technological advancement, disease eradication, and general civility, humans still hold a monopoly in an area Martians cannot invent, discover, or unravel: cognitive dissonance.

"You know," he wobbles as he inspects the wall as if seeing it for the first time, "I've never really thought about it." His face no doubt recalls the one you wore only a few moments ago.

Coming to the realization that he doesn't particularly care what the wall does, he turns to confront you.

"HAAAAH!" You let loose a joyous grunt for the ages as you hurl the once innocuous data cube with all the might you can muster. Before the king can even know what hit him, the deceptively deadly crystal cube meets his spongy face. He falls to the floor with the cube snugly lodged in his brain as a pungent, viscous goo pools and quickly congeals on the floor.

"Looks like this pawn just knocked off the king," you gloat in your best action hero mannerism.

Little do you know that concealed in your victory is the checkmate of defeat. Your master plan failed to take into consideration the lack of doors this optical illusion of a room affords. That lapse in judgment notwithstanding, you should really take another look at his royal corpse.

His body appears to be ballooning. "Are you bigger than you were? Why are you bigger than you were?!"

You grab everything not bolted down and begin launching the items one-by-one into each successive wall. It's no use; nothing you can throw is having any effect on these walls-from-hell. You grab for his desk but are repelled by the sight of his bloody expanse having coagulated into the back of it.

"It's eating through shit!? What the hell are these things?!" You charge the opposing wall, pounding your fists. Over and over, you inflict absolutely no damage whatsoever to the wall, but your hands quickly become nothing more than sandbags of fractured bone. The pain is immense, but the panic has overtaken you. As the gelatinous mass nears, you're suddenly calm. You pivot to face your doombringer. This acceptance of finality is coupled only with a rueful disdain for your lack of forethought as you're unceremoniously devoured.

THE END

Oops...RETURN TO CHAPTER 9

RED PLANET STOWAWAY CH.7 GET OFF AT THE CONVENTION CENTER

RED PLANET STOWAWAY CH. 7 - GET OFF AT THE CONVENTION CENTER

By John Elrod II

"Seems you're in quite a pickle."

You're startled as a grisly voice chimes in over your shoulder. Releasing a torturously tiny laugh, the stranger winces as he envelops the remaining three vacant seats between you and the aisle. He fills the area with the strong smell of oatmeal.

Careful to not fully acknowledge the oddly aromatic passenger, you quickly switch the screen to YouBoob; perhaps the presence of porn will give pause to any further conversation.

"Good move. Trying to make me uncomfortable?" His voice is like a cat caught in a mouse trap. "Unfortunately, I have no feelings toward the human figure."

"Listen, you, I don't know --" you snap at him, but your sharp glance is halted by the gruesome venal landscape covering his melon-shaped head.

"It's okay. You humans are very susceptible to fright. I've gotten used to your stares," his words are remarkably soothing, and that smell continues to thicken the air. "Why don't you get off at the Genesis Convention Center?" his suggestion seems strangely provocative.

"Uh... I wasn't really looking at porn; so, you see, I'm not really looking to get off, anywhere..." you're fumbling your words.

"No, no. You've misunderstood.” He places his hand firmly on your shoulder. "Perhaps you should exit the shuttle, at the Genesis Convention Center."

"That does sound like a good idea," you drone into his chest.

"Good. Here's that stop, now," he guides you to your feet and points you toward the door.

As the shuttle departs, you're left standing in front of what can only be described as Daedalus' wet dream. With your head still cloudy, you can't help but wonder why you're even here.

What exactly is my plan here? I need to get back on a shuttle, you think.

After consulting the nearby media guide and realizing the next shuttle will not arrive for half an hour, you pull on the door and, to your surprise, it opens.

It can't hurt to check it out I guess.

Within the center's atrium, you're bombarded with the whirring and whizzing of preparation. There's hover-machinery all over the place, and it's all centralized around a massive, metallic basketball being lowered onto an equally overwhelming podium.

"That seems like a bit much," you sarcastically motion to a Martian standing nearby. He just stares at you, all seven of his eyes seeming to convey differing emotions; he motions to a sign written in Galflorn.

It reads Beware of Falling Objects -- but of course, you cannot read it.

You look back at him, and he motions to the translucent, steel hard hat he is wearing.

"Gotcha." you give him a thumbs-up, which only serves to confuse him further as he returns to his work.

You begin to aimlessly wander around the immediate area, but there doesn't seem to be anything for you to do here; plus, these Martians seem to be getting irritated with your presence.

"Guess I'll go wait outside."

You begin the daunting trek back to the door out of which you came, but you're once again drenched in that peculiar oatmeal odor.

Suddenly, every Martian worker charges away, in a pattern radiating from your location.

"What? The smell isn't me; it's one of you guys!" you shout, ignorant of the shadow slowly swallowing you.

You finally notice the sudden darkness, but it is too late. You barely have time to recognize the stranger from the train before the massive metallic basketball reduces you to an organic pile of mush. The Martian workers are left staring at the stranger above them, wheezing that familiar, tinny laugh, the veins of his face pulsating more rapidly with every subsequent guffaw.

THE END

Oops...RETURN TO CHAPTER 7