Charming French famille slice-of-life with a shot of Charlie Kaufman.

No bullshit.

One day it occurred to me.  It came over my spine like a leaf and tightened suddenly like a vise.

I don’t know if there was some trauma that brought it on.  I can’t remember.  Maybe I have amnesia.  I don’t care.  All I know is, I can no longer do any bullshit.  I have to avoid it like an allergic dodging bees.  If you are allergic to bees, which I am not.

Ahem.

I came to this satori while sitting in an office.  Well, that’s where I was born, anyway.  I couldn’t tell you what my name was.  But I had some kind of personality, all right.  I was sitting ramrod straight, my spine as if a rigid antenna, suddenly tuned to new notes.

I turned my head slowly.  Cubicles.  Cardboard.  Paper.  Ennui.  Paper clips.  Pencils.  Printers.  Fakery.  Hell.

I stood up, looking straight ahead.  There was a door there, a few cubicles down.  My  mission was interrupted by a chirp to my left.

“Where you going, Louis?  You gotta go to the bathroom again already?  You got 4 more hours on the clock.”

I didn’t know where this voice was coming from and I didn’t care.  But it was definitely directed at me.

Still looking at that door, my eyes fixed on it, I said, “Who the hell is Louis?“  And I stepped out of my cubicle and went to the door.

There was a longer, narrower space there, I would later learn was a hallway.  I went through it.  Another room.  Double-wide doors which opened with a thunk. People stepped into them.  The doors thudded shut.  More doors opened.  People piled out. Paralleled with pings and lights.  I studied the formations for a while, trying to decide.  Eventually I followed a short blond woman to my right.  Luckily for me, the box went down.

I followed the herd into the sunlight. And then I smiled.

Unidentified voices kept popping up in the back of my head: “But where will you go?  What will you do for money?  What will you eat? What are you leaving behind?”

I pushed them aside and followed my nose.  There was a bus. I tried to get on, but an angry man told me I had to  buy a ticket.  “So where do I do that?”  I asked. He pointed.  I went up to this window but someone said, “Hey buddy wait your turn!”  I asked him what that was.  He asked me if I was ‘retarded.’  I said no, I thought my name was supposed to be Louis.

After some more confusion and a  little scuffling, I noticed my chest seemed to be more alive somehow, and my senses more alert, and another man came up and led me by the elbow to the ticket counter when it was my turn.

“This man is retarded and he would like to buy a ticket.”

Eventually I exchanged some green paper in my pocket for a ticket.  Suckers.  I got on the bus.  I had no idea where it was going.

7 hours later I was starving and deposited in Arizona.  Something was telling me this was going to be a painful journey, this new departure of mine.  But there was also some kind of rocket juice expanding at the back of my head, spurring me on.  This was the drug I was now addicted to - this rocket juice.  Adrenaline plus endless novelty plus crack pump from another dimension.  I couldn’t stop moving now.

Soon I was on my stomach in a desert, talking to a rabbit.  For a while, I thought he was my soul mate, but then he said something most unlikeable, and I told him I was going to take a leak, and never came back.

I ended up throbbing red and half nekkid except for a loincloth fashioned out of shed rattlesnake skin in a town called Palimo, and this is where our story begins.

[Wait I can’t say that because I already started the story - in my office with the satori.  I will change much of this later, scribbling in notebooks as I go.]

“Well, aren’t you the neotribal fashion plate,” purred a voice to my right.  I looked over and it was a beautiful blond lady wearing a green headband driving a black convertible.  I tried to gigolo her but she wanted to be my nurse.  She took me back to her cool adobe and bathed me and fed me and watered me and removed dead skin and bad vibes.  She spread aloe over me and soon I was glowing.  “No bullshit” I grinned. I would print it on t-shirts and make a lot of money.

Serotonin flooded my groove pools and I lasciviously heralded sensuality graduating into sexuality. She dressed me in pajamas and took me to bed. She got out a big red book and started reading. It was gospel. Seemed some guy found the original version of this book etched in braille on flattened spam plates superglued together and turned into pages, bound by 3 iron rings and tossed into a ditch. It would turn out to be the Book of Jeb. Now, if you followed the story he found, and followed his proscriptions, you, too, could sleep with underage girls and one day run your own planet. My nose pulled me to the window and leaped through it, yelling as I went, “No bullshit!” I landed in sand and guano, unnerved the bats hanging from under a great wooden beam above me who flapped and fled north. I followed.

The moon was out. Eventually I lost the bats. They were too quick for me. I bent on my knees under the dark blue sky and starlight and awaited my next sign. Nothing came and then I was reminded to open my eyes. The lens cap was on. I was in the middle of a road and headlights bore down on me. Screeching, honking, they managed to swerve around me in time. I ran down the street in my satin pajamas with a big J stitched across the left breast. For “Jeb.” Another car whizzed by and someone yelled out the window, “Goddamn Jebbite sleepwalkers!”

I soon came to a denser urban area and noodled into an alley. An alley seemed a place of comfort. Perhaps I was turning into a dog.

Curlicue wasn’t looking at me. He was staring at the mirror behind me. “Haven’t seen one of those circus mirrors in a while.” he said. He tilted his head left and right, not taking his eyes off his reflection. “Weird,” he said. “It makes one illusion and then keeps it?”

“Uh . . . ” Oh what the hell. “Gotta be honest here, buddy. That’s not a trick mirror. Your cranium suffered some kind of . . . malady.”

His eyes widened. He ran off to the bathroom.

I shook my head and considered my frozen captives. Sheila was the current name of my infosys. “Sheila?”

“Yes,” she purred, in vintage 50s earthling sex bomb voice.

“Put me through to Boyd’s please.” Boyd’s Farm was run by Goddess Mila, who ran a huge hydroponic greenhouse on the other side of the orbital. She also had a small amount of livestock, more for their excrement and eggs than for eating. One of these creatures, the Voladant, so-named from some intrepid traveller who had come back with that thing in a cage and who had then promptly fallen over, suddenly dead.

It was a purplish, starfish-looking creature with 7 sticky legs and no eyes. It sprang around its cage and occasionally blew out yellowish loogie-esque balls of offal. This offal turned out to have many uses, one for superglue. But the smell was particularly offensive.

Mila came on the vidscreen. She was kneeling in one part of her garden, her right hand whisking away dead leaves from her plants while her left hand held already a bushel of them. She was wearing orange tech socks and nothing else, being a modern day nudist. It was humid in the green house. Probably felt nice.

“Hello, Berynek,” she said, not pausing in her work as she glanced over her shoulder at him. “What can I do for you today?”

“Uh, hoping you can send over a vial of that Voladant offal?”

“No problem. Is that all?”

I had spaced slightly, watching her pendulous breasts move back and forth with her movement. I caught myself and brought my gaze back up quickly. “Uh, no good on all other fronts, thanks.”

“How’s your home garden doing?” she asked. “Did you automate it yet?”

“Ahm, not yet. Still trying. Thanks, Mila.” I smiled at her and broke connection. It would be so easy to automate my garden. Just saying it out loud would get the system up and going. But it irked me I had a purple thumb. I was good at everything but that. I was determined to keep trying, no matter how dead plants it took.

Soon a small flying globe entered the premises, landed on my bar and delicately extracted from itself a small vial of the Voladant offal. Once unloaded, it used its mini hand to tip its imaginary cap at me before whirring up and out again.

I retrieved a small wood stick from a drawer, put on my air mask and plastic gloves, picked up the offal and got to work. About ten minutes later just when I was dropping the vial into the biohazard slot, Lt. Johns walked in. He looked sideways at the frozen men and chuckled. “Oh, they’re gonna love that.”

“Red room?” I said.

He nodded. I went out from behind the bar and followed him down the hallway, past the bathrooms and to a door on the left, painted conspicuously red. It was the place I took guests to when we wanted a private convo, free of any subatomic listening devices. The whole perimeter of the Red Room was a working e-wall, pushing out all pulsations, constantly updating its OS with new nanotech updates, coming in from earth and all parts between and beyond at many gigabytes a second. (Technology moves exponential, after all.)

The actual physical space of the Red Room was rococo, somewhat resembling the parlor room of an 19th century western US cathouse. Me and the Lt. took opposite chairs.

The Lt. was about six foot tall, pretty good build. Ordinary middle-aged white military face: jagged, squinty, hard. No warmth escaped it without going through numerous checkpoints. He slipped a hand into his uniform jacket and brought out a printed photo, slapped it down on the dark oriental coffee table between us. It was the goddess I had ogled in my bar earlier, who told me her name was Naomi.

I pretended to study the pic. “Hustler, 2054?”

Johns smiled, licked his lips. “That freezing tech–” he started.

I stopped him. “Come on now, Lt. I’m a civilian now.”

“You can’t share?” He said, trying to look boyish.

“My hands are tied, you know.” I said. Hand up, palms facing him, as if to show.

He motioned to the pic. “You never saw her.”

“I see a lot of people. That pic doesn’t ring a bell. Maybe from another angle.”

He picked the pic, punched the back with his fingers, then set it back down again. Now, a hologram sprang up from it. It was her, getting off a spaceship. Right here, at Orbital 109, it looked like. It followed her sultry hips straight to Berynek’s.

“Huh,” I said. “So I guess I have seen her.”

“That was this morning,” Johns said. “You must be getting old. Got mem-rot.” He grinned.

“So what, is she some kind of . . . killer?” I asked.

“No criminal record.” he said. “Just a traveling housewife from Canada, New Earth.”

Married, shit. Just my luck. “So what do you want with her?”

“Not me, my man.” Johns said. He picked up the pic again and played with the back of it. “Watch what happened when she left.”

When I got back up from ducking under the counter, I saw the military guys pick up their rifles and run out - typical, while me and everyone left put our eye on the light in the upper corner of the wall closest to my bar. Usually that light shone blue - only when the hull was breached and there was serious danger of depressurization did it go red.

We watched.

We held our breaths.

It held blue.

I hit the button for the jazz mix and the sounds of trumpet filled the air. Breathing returned to the room and my patrons returned to their drinks.

The front door swung open and a man who had some serious interdimensional damage to his headframe stood there, looking in.

He was human from chin down, but the top of his skull had not been exploded or even blackened by any burns, but elongated and twisted up and over like a bagel roll once pointy and now dejected. His own head curled over him. He seemed dazed.

The lady who works at the hotel was feeling the most gives-a-shit among us and hurried up to put her motherly arm around him and lead him in. He was speechless, mouth ajar, staring ahead expressionlessly. She just led him over gently to a table in the corner and sat him down.

She come over to me, eyes worried. I pulled a glass of water and handed it to her.
Her eyebrows raised.

I went to my variety snuffbox and pinched a here and there, mixed it into the drink and stirred.

She brought it to him gingerly, as if cupping magic tea (which in fact, some of it was). She put it under his nose and his head shot back and his eyes got wide. He looked around as if for the first time. He then looked down at himself, possibly searching for blood or other sign of wound. He patted his torso with his hand as if just to make sure.

Patti set the drink down in front of him. He noticed she was looking at him strangely. “Uh . . . “ he said. He didn’t remember how he had got here, or how he had ordered this drink.

She didn’t feel like explaining. “On the house.” she said, smiled, and went back to her seat where she had half a drink left.

The couple businessmen paid their tab and left and soon the motel lady’s lunch hour was over as well, so it was just me and curlicue in the corner. He had taken a couple sips of his drinks and gone back to staring off into the distance - probably the best thing for him at this point.

Then they walked in.

Four suits, all bulging. They moved swiftly and stiffly, heads pivoting as if on feather triggers, inspecting all angles of Berynek’s. Backs to each other, yet forward, they sidled up to the bar.

The one on the right addressed me first.

“Bartender,” he called. I noticed in his right hand he now held a USB connection. “Plug me into your establishment’s infosys, stat.”

He waited there after barking to me what must have seemed like an interminable amount of time, as I squinted my eyes and considered him.

“Hey you,” he said, banging the bar with his free palm. “Get cracking with the connection or we crack you, get it?”

Lucky me, suddenly in backtalk heaven. I started off old school: “You talking to me?”

If only I had a toothpick to remove from my lip before I said it.

“What are you, some kind of star hippie?” he asked. “Do we look like we’re fucking around today?” He jerked his head to his men, who were still all backed up to each other, craning their heads around regularly for flankers.

I stood up from my leaning position, facing him. “This is my bar.” I said. “I am Berynek. Normally at this point I would say, ‘Welcome to Berynek’s’ - but I cannot say this to you and your men today, I am afraid. Because you are most unwelcome. Please leave now before you force me to grimace.”

My peripheral vision told me that curlicue was still motionless, looking off into the distance. I hoped at least his eyelid reflexes were working, otherwise his eyes were gonna get awful dusty.

The guy on the right made a swift motion with his open hand and shot out a badge into my face: UP. Universal Police.

I said: “You have just arrived to Orbital 109 and, I am assuming, have not yet had a powpow with the local military commander, Lt. Johns, I take it?”

He tilted his head at me and curled his lip, “Not that I have to tell you shit, but yes we did just get here, and I don’t need to reconnoiter with no local fuckin’ gruntard to push around the locals when doing our righteous investigatin’.”

“Orbital 109 is under your purview.” I acknowledged to him, nodding my head in assent. “Excepting my building.”

He screwed up his face. “No way.”

The man on his right and on my left who was also facing the bar and had said nothing up until this point, suddenly joined the discussion. “It’s true.” he told his companion. He evidently had some inner uplink. He was looking down to the bar as if reading. “Berynek’s is not under our jurisdiction.”

The man on the right made a hawking sound, then faced his left and spit it out. “Well, usually we have the law on our side.” he said. “But pending that, we act as a gang. Now give us access to your infosys before we beat it out of you.”

I retrieved a towel from under my bar and gave it to him: “Go pick up your loogie you dirty bastard.” I said.

His face went apoplectic and he swung at me. I flicked my thumb on the dial it had been holding and all four men froze.

“Lt. Johns please,” I called out to my infosys. The call was made. Pretty soon Johns head appeared on my vid screen.

“Berynek. What can I do for you?” he asked.

“I’d like you to come retrieve four space pigs, please.”

He chortled and glanced over my shoulder. “Hey, that fist got a little closer than the last one.” he noted.

“I think he would be appreciative of a new mustache when he wakes up, what do you think?” I asked.

Johns guffawed. “We’ll be there shortly.” He signed off.

When I turned around I almost gave a bit of a start because curliecue was standing there at the bar, staring straight at me.

Secular blues. Curried tofu scramble. Hash browns. Home fries. Ketchup. Coffee. Biscuits and gravy. Large portrait of Richard Dawkins on the wall. Post-breakfast they went through scripts.

Enter the Reality Network. Enter the Reality Network. For fuck’s sake, please enter the goddamn Reality Network. You have an island with 6 survivors. All 6 are needed to build a raft to get to the next island, but 2 survivors went off to worship toads and 2 others went off to worship dead skin. 4 out of 6 humans there have diverted their human resources to nonsense, diverting precious time and energies away from real human problems and real human solutions. The raft is not built and all 6 are eaten by ginormous giza lizards who swam in from a radiated part of Japan. You see what happens when humans get diverted from the Reality Network?

What if a planet-crushing meteor was en route to earth and we needed all of humanity to pull together and work on technology to kill that meteor or duck! But you had millions of people who belonged to cults - their brains have been colonized by bullshit. They aren’t going to help. They are paying taxes to their bullshit propagators. Their mind is decorated with details that would make most fiction writers blush in embarrassment - and they deny the tools that indicate this meteor, and they deny the trajectory of the meteor . . . they refuse to help. All of those who refuse science are largely fucking useless in humanity’s greatest hour of need.

And then there is pollution and global warming. Still the corporations are in charge. Still, their main focus is this year’s profits. Still, they fund media campaigns to stall, subvert, deny all global warming science or proposed solving tactics. For their own pockets, they actively work against the health of our planet and our very human race.

The Atheist Interlocuter Brigade assemble. Their bellies are full and their minds are charged. They have been doing the back and forth. They are shuffled into vans and shuttled to locations predetermined by HQ maps. Public corners they take up. Some go on foot and travel to heckle any proselytizers of cults they come upon. When a Scientology hive is discovered, i.e., the word will go out and interlocuters will converge, shout and point ‘cult, cult!’ Different tactics of various degrees of aggression and pacifism, obviousness and subtlety, art and non-art are attempted, documented, tried. But the A.I.B will engage. What they want is converts. To the worldwide reality network. You give your email and you will get updates. In the struggle for science against the current cancers of the human race: corporatism over humans, fictional worlds masquerading as religions and demanding taxes, etc. Truth will out. Fanatically, this.

It is OK to be fanatical about some things. When these things are good. And fair. And benefit your fellow man. The Atheist Interlocuter Brigade has been dispatched to your block and to your internets. They will not talk to you if you don’t talk to them. They will just stand there with a sign that says, ‘Pro-Science.’ Throw a nod or thumbs up if you can muster.

We are working on anti-cult and anti-corporate juju which you can take in pill form. This would be easiest, obviously. Until then - ahoy with the reality network netizens!

1. Me and Toehead

I was 12 years old when I first found out what a snake zombie was. I was still cultivating a pretty heavy goth stage when my Dad and his new bitch wife drove me and my brother and my little sister down to Florida for some creeperville known as ‘Disneyworld.’

I had a lot of attitude for 12. The world could fuck off, who needed it?

I was playing Murder Isle on the DS when the adults stopped off 95 at an exit in Georgia to refuel. My Dad’s bitch wife - whom we will call Toehead - asked me if I wanted to go into the Starbucks with her while my Pa worked the tank.

“Yea, sure.” I said. They let me have coffee at 12. How could I resist?

We were waiting in line feeling awkward together when I saw the stack of newspapers. It was the front page of the Tampa Tribune that caught my eye: GIANT SNAKE CAUGHT WITH BOY INSIDE.

“Holy shit,” I said.

“What?” Toehead asked.

“Nothing,” I muttered. I picked up the newspaper. There was a grainy pic of a giant snake’s midesection, and what looked like the outlines of a human poking out from it. They shot the snake dead and the boy miraculously, was still alive.

His parents went on the record as thanking God for this hallelujah miracle. Doctors said he would be OK.

“Kate, what would you like?” Toehead asked, sweetly. It was her turn in front of the cashier.

“Don’t call me that.” I snapped at her, putting the paper back. “My name is Mauled Dog now. You can call me MD for short.” I said. I said to the teller: “I’ll have a tall Americano with a ristretto, please.”

I was nice to the help, usually. Their life sucked more than anyone’s.

“What is ristretto?” Toehead asked. She turned to the man in the green apron. “That doesn’t have alcohol in it, does it?”

“No, ma’am.” He said. “A ristretto is just a double shot. We don’t serve alcohol at Starbucks.”

Toehead looked at me with an arched eyebrow. “You need a lot of energy for those video games, huh?”

I ignored her and said the coffeeman, “Oh yea, and please throw a Tampa Tribune on there, too, OK?”

He chuckled and hit the keys. “See that snake story huh?”

Toehead: “What snake story?” She looked worried. She was deathly afraid of snakes.

Teller says to her: “They found a live boy in the stomach of a giant snake down in Florida yesterday.” he said.

Old lady behind me in line piped in: “Oh, yes, that was horrible! But they killed the snake and the boy lived!”

“It’s a miracle.” said the teller, shaking his head.

I got out of line and picked up a newspaper then went to the other side of the counter to wait for our coffee order with Toehead. “Let me see that,” she said. She reached for the paper.

“You didn’t say please.” I said.

She stopped, gave me a look. “Please.” she said.

“Well, you’re always telling us, right?” I asked. “Just wanted to be on the same page here.” I handed it to her.

As she read it I could see the lines in her forehead getting deeper and deeper.

When we got back into the car I had a new lovely caffeine rush to use in my campaign at Murder Isle and got back into it with excitement. When I happened to look up and glance at Toehead, I noticed she had been unusually silent for a while and was looking a little pale, despite her ingestion of some of the latte she still held in her hand.

A large green sign on the highway welcomed us to the state of Florida. I put the DS down and kept my eyes peeled for snakes.

2. Florida’s Giant Snake Invasion

“Oh yes, it’s true,” My Pa was telling Toehead. Apparently we were an hour from Orlando or so. I still hadn’t seen any snakes. I hadn’t heard this about the snake situation in Florida, though, so I listened from the back.

“Heard it on NPR . . . people got them as pets, flush them down the toilet - the old urban myth but true in Florida. Add global warming to the mix . . . snakes are spreading down here like rats, showing up everywhere - parking lots, toilets, beds, shoes, cars, beaches, dressing rooms, etc.”

Toehead was white-faced. “What kind of snakes?”

I could tell Pa - yes I call him this ironically fuckin’ duh - was enjoying having her on a little.

“All kinds!” he said enthusiastically. “Giant snakes! Boas, anacondas and pythons! Snakes up to 20 feet long and more!”

Toehead lowered her window, ejected vomit. It splattered to the window behind where my brother Jake was sitting, listening to his ipod with his headphones on oblivious to us. My little sister Jess was napping between us. Jake saw his vision suddenly clouded with vomit and his face screwed up. “Hey! What the–!? Gross!”

Toehead raised the window back up and reached around in her handbag between her feet for a wet wipe. “Stop it.” she said to Pa.

“You asked what kind.” he said. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, want a kiss?”

“Why don’t you take a sip of your vanilla latte first?” he said.

Jake took off his headphones and turned to me. “What gives?”

“The ‘rents are trading snake horror stories. Apparently Florida is becoming overrun with giant snakes and a boy was just found in a giant snake’s belly in Tampa.”

“Fuck.” Jake said.

“Yea but in that case they killed the snake and saved the boy.” I said.

“How big are these snakes?” Jake asked.

Jake was 16. I could see what he was thinking. Some still called him a boy.

“Over 30 feet long.” I said.

My Pa laughed from the front.

Toehead: “Can we PLEASE talk about something else?”

Jake looked stricken, not being corrected that they were allegedly only 20 feet according to Pa, so between him and Toehead I decided to let it drop and so did Pa. “How long to we get there, Pa?” I asked, to change the subject.

“Ten minutes.” he said.

I considered my brother’s face. “You know,” I said to him. “You have an excellent profile particularly when silhouetted by a window full of vomit.”

He scowled and put his headphones back on.

20 minutes later we were pulling into the Orlando La Quinta.

It wasn’t until the next day that we saw our first snake.

3. The Snakes Are Getting Bigger

By the next morning at breakfast we were all ready for a new day of big cheese and had forgotten about the snakes. Until a tiny snake slithered across Jess’s hand while she was passing Toehead the margarine. Toehead’s eyes widened; she dropped the margarine container and it clanked against a plate, spilling out a yellowed, vaguely half-oblong shape smeared with bread crumbs and perhaps a piece of lettuce. But Toehead’s eyes followed the tiny snake as it raced to the edge of the table and down the side of the tablecloth.

Toehead was at her feet, voice catching in her throat, and she was backing up slowly.

We were at Mike’s Diner, a fun little retro spot on one of the main roads from La Quinta to Mousecatraz. 50’s booths done in yellow with white piping, each with its own jukebox. This one currently was playing, “Friend of the Devil” by the Grateful Dead.

The place was half full of mostly awkward families like ourselves, scarfing food and eyeing piles of free tourist pamphlets every eating place like this has in piles out front. Dollyworld. GoatCheeseWorld. PirateswithMulletsWorld. You could stay down here indefinitely trying out all the crappy worlds who were no doubt buffeted with cheap branded souvenir crap. The folks back home would never believe you went to Egg Yolk World unless you had a hat which brandished the official Egg Yolk World logo, after all.

My Dad was eating waffles with blueberry syrup. My sister Jess was eating pancakes with margarine, no syrup. My brother Jake was eating a breakfast muffin. I was having coffee and stomach cramps. Toehead was still standing with eyes wide open. It was about 8:34 a.m. I remember because there was a big old-fashioned round black and white school clock on the wall above the cash register. I was sipping coffee and about to say something smartass about her standing there like a stupid awestruck statue or something when the Manager comes over - or I thought he was the manager not just a bonehead in a red vest and a nametag - and puts his hand on her shoulder gently and says, “What’s a matter, honey, you see one of those baby snakes?”

Toehead relaxes a little, then stiffens up again, “How can this place be open? When you are . . . infested with snakes?”

Even though it is air-conditioned in here, and heavily, rapturously so, the manager is a little sweaty. He takes a greasy black-stained rag from his back pocket and mops his forehead with it. However the rag is too wet, and it leaves behind many sweat beads and now some little black spots. “Snakes is a problem all over this area, little Missy.” he says. “They ain’t no harm unless you harm them.”

Toehead had a shocked look on her face. She sat down. I guess my Dad felt he had to be chivalrous or something at this point so he spoke up, “Now wait a minute, an accident is as accident - but are you telling me the price of living in Florida is you have snakes slithering across your meal at any minute and that’s only not OK to us dithering out-of-towners?”

The manager, an old guy musta been in his 80s with voluminous salt and pepper nose hair, sniffed and reached into his pocket, brought out a wrinkled piece of shiny paper, tossed it to my Dad. “Here’s a coupon for ten percent off–”

Suddenly - now 8:44 - a voice is exercised from across the room: “Hey, quiet down, everyone!” There is a tv monitor there and the news is on. There is an instant hush across the room and many instinctively get up to see what’s going on. I get up as well and get a good vantage point on top of a booth back.

The Newsman is saying: “. . . if you’re just now coming in. Our top story is a house has been found in Orlando with five oversized snakes each with several humans still in their digestive tract. Another human was found living at the residence believed to be a squatter, who fought the police when they arrived. The police were tipped off by a pizza delivery driver who went to this address by accident and noticed a strong smell. [cue driver shot. he sniffs his nose as he remembers] ‘It smelled like . . . honeydew . . . ‘ Unbelievably, all of the humans still found in the snakes are said to be alive, although there were many bones strewn throughout the home. Tests are being done on the bones to determine what type of animals they came from.”

A man in the crowd clutching his cell phone raised to the sky yelled, “Hey! Disneyworld is closed!”

There was a murmur through the crowd and some shushed him, trying to hear the news. I climbed down from the back of the booth, about to go back to my so-called family, when I was interrupted by a girl about my age who looked like an off-duty cheerleader, suddenly blocking my way.

“Is it Halloween already?” she asked. Referring to my dark clothes and goth makeup, I am assuming. Her hands on hips. Face hard. Chewing gum.

“Coming from a Hannah Montana wannabe like yourself, I will take that as an insult.” I said. I then raised my right fist to show her that jutting out from the bottom of it were 5 tines of a fork. I made sure she saw it before I added, “Insult number two gets you a fork in the eye. Try me.”

Her eyes widen and she turns quickly and scampers off.

I scoot back into the booth next to Jake on the inside and Jess in the middle. My Dad across says to me, “So what is it, Kate? What’s the news?”

“Um,” I said, looking at Toehead. I liked to give her shit more than anyone but she wasn’t looking well. As I watched her she took a big gulp of water and shaved a large napkin into her purse, not meeting my eyes.

“Disneyworld is closed.” I said. “Some . . . busted pipes or something.”

Jess pouted. “Ohhh, today was my day.” It was true. We were all mostly going to Mouschwitz for her. Tomorrow was Beer and Blondes Town for Dad. Gamer World for Jake the next, followed by Garden Town for Toehead . . . and the next day for me: the Cure Campus. Then a couple days of beach before we all headed back. It was warm down here. I was wearing shorts over my ripped spiderwebbed leggings. I was kind of craving a drink and my black toenails in the sand.

Jake grabbed a handful of pamphlets from the side of the table the last people had left behind. He wiped the crumbs off the top of the stack and leafed through them. “Ooh!” he said. He whipped one out, turned it around for us to see: “Captain Crustacean Land!”

“Who is Captain Crustacean?” my Dad invariably asks.

“Captain Crustacean,” Jake repeats, as if repeating it will bring the memory back because it has to be there because nobody could be so daft. “The only Seth MacFarlane show Fox ever cancelled?” Jake asked.

“Ahh,” My Dad said. “Well that would be for you then. This was Jess’ day. What does Jess want?”

We all turn to Jess. Jess starts to cry. “I want to go home! I hate snakes!”

Dad pays the bill and we quickly get out of there. We get in the car and head down the road, just to get moving. Soon, traffic comes to a standstill. It is flat down here but as far as you can see in every direction, cars and trucks and minivans and buses are not moving. It has to be about 93 degrees out. We should have brought drinks. Water. Hydration. Eventually my Dad turns the car off after he rolls all the windows down. Doesn’t want to use too much A/C. If it gets too hot, he’ll reconsider, he says. We are all sweating and not enjoying ourselves immensely.

A helicopter flies overhead and a guy on a megaphone says: “Do not be alarmed. Please stay in your vehicles.” He repeats this, over and over. We crane our heads in the car to get a better look. Some people get out their cars to get an even better look - who obviously did not hear the helicopter man’s message or had an automatic kneejerk reaction to authority. I put my hand on the door handle.

“Oh no you don’t!” Toehead said, turning around at me. “You don’t go out there! They just said don’t go out there!”

I squint my eyes at her about to eject ink when there is a bloodcurling scream to our right. We all turn to look. Several men get out their vehicles now and run to look, brave men I am thinking. Something whips up briefly behind a car that stops my cynicism instantly and makes me cold. The car is very quiet. It is a giant snake tilting up its head to further ingest the young boy it has in its mouth.

“Goddammit I’m going out there!” My Dad yells, and before Toehead can stop him he jumps out of the car and goes to the trunk, gets out a tire jack. Several men are advancing with similar makeshift weapons. A man coming from a souvenir shop across the street is holding a bat.

They advance on the snake when another man suddenly intervenes. He puts his back to the snake and puts his hands out pleadingly to the men. I notice he is very good-looking; he could easily be a movie star. Blonde hair, chiseled features. Very nicely shaped. A walking Adonis I was thinking, although his preppie look was excreble to me if not ironic. Camel-haired coat. Stiff white button-down shirt. Khakis with pleats. Penny loafers with, indeed, pennies in them.

He smiled and his teeth were perfect. “Gentleman, please!” he said, smiling. “Please reconsider!” He made an expansive movement back to the snake. “Do no interfere with one of God’s greatest creatures! This is nature, boys! Why interject?”

The men exchange quizzical glances. To my pride, my Dad speaks up, “Mister, we’re going to try and save that boy, so you better step out of the way.”

The golden-haired preppie’s face darkened. He took off his coat and threw it to the side. He rolled up his white sleeves and his muscles were ripping through. He lowered his stance and flicked his fingers at the men and snarled, “You wanna get that snake, you gotta come through me.”

And that was the first snake zombie I ever saw.

4. The Would-Be Hedonists, the House on the Net and the Resulting Ten Top Ten Ways to Spot a Snake Zombie

The husband saved a while for this villa right on the beach for he and his lovely wife of eleven years to stay in for an entire week, and he went to great lengths to be romantic about it.

The villa was beige stucco, Spanish-style, with an inner courtyard ringed in lush foliage looking out over the private beach. It was here he set about an elaborate meal, which he spent all afternoon cooking himself. The courtyard hosted no less than a hundred candles lit that night. She wore the red dress he bought for her just for the occasion. Dinner was served at dusk.

Everything was going swimmingly, but, being a couple with eleven years history behind them, it wasn’t long before an issue came up which pricked them. They quarreled. She wanted him to do something he didn’t want to do. If he loved her, he would do it for her. If she loved him, she wouldn’t make him do something he wouldn’t want to do. She would do it for him. That wasn’t the point. She stomped off into the night.

When she came back several hours later, he noticed how beautiful she was. It wasn’t just that he was glad to see her. She just looked . . . she glowed, somehow. And she smelled . . . was that, citrus? Something light. Fruity. Nice.

She came right up to him and kissed him without a word. They went to bed and it was better than makeup sex - it was celestial sex, tantric sex, no less than a gazillion fireworks sex. She told him he didn’t have to do that thing he didn’t want to do. She just wanted to make him happy.

He was happy. He rolled over that night ecstatic. Eleven years. And now it was just getting better. He fell asleep on his side so as not to wake her with his snores. When she was sure he was asleep she went down and let the front door open.

Her Master slithered in shortly.

What neither the husband or wife knew was that this house had been previously wired for an online cam site, and the owner neglected to remove everything before he started advertising it on a vacation rental website, which is where this particular husband found it while browsing at work one day.

The owner, at first aroused by the live feed and then horrified by it, put his noodles down and immediately began editing. He didn’t care if he got in trouble for leaving the recording equipment there, he had to get this out. He had to let the world know. He had to save Florida! Within an hour he had uploaded it to his server, alerted the authorities and put it on Reddit.

Within an hour on Reddit someone there came up with a Top Ten Signs of a Snake Zombie using the video and several articles already posted about the sudden Floridian snake problem and posted it on Reddit as well.

Top Ten Signs of a Snake Zombie

10. A Snake Zombie will not attempt confrontation with a human unless that human is threatening the life of a snake.

9. Snake Zombies are very charming.

8. Snake Zombies have an alluring “glow” to their skin.

7. Snake Zombies smell like honeydew.

6. Snake Zombies are very good-looking. In fact, they often look much better than the person they originally were.

5. Snake Zombies are usually overdressed.

4. Snake Zombies never sweat.

3. Snake Zombies will be anything you want them to be - your dream mate, your dream lover, your dream wife, husband, girlfriend, boyfriend, mistress, mother, father, son, daughter, sister, brother, friend. They will brilliantly conform to your most intimate fantasy in order to earn your trust.

2. When a Snake Zombie earns your trust, the Snake Zombie will open the front door of your house while you are asleep to let his or her master in. The Master will then decide whether or not this offering is a new servant or food.

1. The Snake Zombie feeds once a night. The Snake Zombie feeds by suckling on the teats of his or her Master Snake.

This list was eventually broadcast all over Floridian television, resulting in mass panic and paranoia and hysteria. Eventually the entire state of Florida was cordoned off.

5. Come to Florida

I am 15 years old now and I am well aware of what a snake zombie is. A snake zombie is me. My name is Kate. I like my name. Kate.

Being in the stomach of the large snake - my Master, I call her ‘Sheil’ - was not so horrible as one might imagine. Actually you are immediately injected with a type of opiate, and the whole experience is not unpleasurable. What I didn’t know at the time was that Sheil had chosen me to serve her. I was one of the lucky ones. She had deemed me ‘good-looking.’ They only eat the ugly ones - the ones who have no hope of charming other humans on their behalf.

The whole snakes in the street mass-pandemonium approach to expanding our settlements is rare. Usually it is done quietly, one block, one cluster, one neighborhood, one town at at time. When the snakes move in, discomfort moves out. All of us human servants are happy to serve our lords so long as we get the sweet, sweet juice.

If we go too long without the juice we start to break down. A good servant will get the juice regular. We all strive to be.

My earlier ‘goth punk attitude’ I recreated to show you how I became what I am, but actually I am writing this story today as an inspirational tale - not only is the life of a snake zombie not bad, it is actually much better than the life I had before.

In fact, we have decided ’snake zombies’ is a derogatory name for us that the pre-humans decided on. We are changing it to ’snake people.’ Because that’s what we are. Snake people. And proud of it. Since the snake people have taken over Florida, we have had no crime. Snake people live happily in the house of their masters and breed for the purpose of our masters’ favorite food: beal, human baby veal.

I have had two beal already to the delight of my Master Sheil. How I love her so. When I am not giving birth to beal, I enjoy reading nonfiction and long walks on the beach.

I am taking my story to the net in the hopes that this will in some way abate all the negativity that is out there in the world for snake people. There is even a movement underway to nuke the entire state!

We need more pre-humans to join us and fight for our right to exist. Aren’t you unhappy in your human life? Always forced to work ‘jobs’ and do stupid repetitive things? As a snake person the only food you will need is the juice from your master. And the only job you will have is making your master happy. As long as your master is happy, you get the juice and you’re happy.

Now, who doesn’t want to be happy? Just to help the rest of the world, I am pleased to announce that we have surreptitiously sent out our sisters and brothers now to all ends of this great planet we live on, to further the word of our superior lifestyle. [Yes, we know you think you have the whole perimeter of Florida sealed, but you don’t. Not even close.] Missionaries, I believe is your word for them. They walk among you now, only you just don’t know it yet. They have managed to dampen their honeydew smell, so don’t even try that old trick. But they will still be good-looking. You will still want to fuck them. When you see them you will want to make beal. Instantly.

So, why wait? Give up the rat race and come to Florida now.

Come to Florida.

Come to Snake Country. Or we will come to you.

[Snake Zombies - funded by a generous grant from the Florida Tourism Council]

Of all the bars in the universe, mine was closest to the edge of unmapped space. Berynek’s - in cold blue neon hung over the door. It was an expansive space, being a former starship hangar, but you couldn’t see how big it was when you first walked in. First there was the velvet anteroom. Then there was the dive.

Hi, I’m Berynek. Welcome to my saloon.

Of course, when I started it was just a one-man outfit and I only operated the dive part. Who visited the last bar at the edge of the known universe? A combination of the most courageous humans and those most in need of social or mental lubrication. Being so far off the center of things lent a certain ‘wild west’ atmosphere. I did not shy away from this image. My place beat out a bar in Dutch Harbor, Alaska for being the toughest drinking hole in existence according to Space Pod, inching out the Aleutian island spot’s twenty year record. Dutch Harbor wasn’t the wild west anymore. It was bedside service and satin slippers.

It was on one of these slow days in the early days when I was wiping down the counter and she walked in. Fackin’ black-haired beauties. With long legs and no-fat curves.

She came right up to the bar and ordered a Venusian smoothie. I would have to chisel the small talk out of her, it seemed. Boy, was I lonely. A goddess is not what I needed. A fat chick always does in a pinch. But a goddess is what sat in front of me then. Hamada hamada.

I put her drink in front of her and it was only then she seemed to notice me. She arched a magnificent eyebrow. “Are you Berynek?”

It possibly helped that I was good-looking. I smiled. “Yes. And you are?”

She reached out her hand to me. “Naomi.”

I took her hand and mock-kissed it, never breaking eye contact. “Charmed, Naomi.”

She took her hand back, regarded me coolly. “What are you, French?”

“Partly.” I admitted.

She took a sip of her drink. I could see it’s immediate effect on her temple, making it throb ever so slightly. Her eyelids fluttered and I knew she was dealing with issues of self control.

“You make a strong smoothie.” she said.

“You have the same effect on my eyes.” I said.

She smiled. She had to have been feeling good. I mixed her drink just right: the proper nutrients and added supplements that led to quite an intense and prolonged body and mind euphoria. It was a popular drink for people coming back from the other edge and for those about to go out into it. The ‘Venusian’ part of the name wasn’t just a cheap marketing gimmick; part of it really had to be shipped in from Venus.

Her lips got redder, or seemed to.

“Are you going out or coming in?” I asked. This orbital was a relatively small place. Usually I saw them at least once before they left. Some I never saw again but most simply never came back. So I guessed she was on her way out, but sometimes those that were squares before they left and never mixed up their inner chemicals came back and desperately and very quickly changed this position.

“Going out,” she said.

“Ah,” I nodded. I wished she had been coming back; she could have been easier to woo that way. She would be happy to be alive, sick of everyone she had been cooped up with on her ship for that long, and probably very horny. It helps that I am good-looking.

“I need more crew.” she said.

I looked around the bar. Just a few military, a couple men from the shoal factory, and a lady who worked at the hotel. Locals. Not a lot of human detritus on Orbital 109, to be sure. Once in a while an outfit came through so desperate to add someone they offered someone from the factory an obscene amount of money to defect, but usually most outfits came fully manned, knowing this place was a relatively barren locale.

I made a sympathetic face. “No unemployed on this orbital that I know of.”

“What about you?” she asked.

“Well,” I said. “Unless it’s as your personal consort, I have to point out I do have a bar to run and I have no employees to take my place. This is a one man operation, ma’am. Unless, like I said, it would be as your consort . . . ” Now it was my turn to raise an eyebrow at her.

She smiled. “You are funny.” She reached her hand out and placed a small black object on my side of the bar which was lower than her part so that nobody else, if they had been looking, could see. “I need you to hold this for me.”

“It’s not a bomb, is it?” I asked, looking it over.

“No, but all the same, you should keep it in a freezer.”

I laughed. “Come on lady, you can’t expect me to keep something for you if I don’t know what it is.”

“Just an info stick.” she said.

“So why should I keep it in the freezer?”

“Who would look for an info stick in the freezer?”

“No big, mean and ugly men are going to come looking for this info stick when you leave? Armed with hairy knuckles and laser guns?”

“Most people who stop by here on their way out are probably more prepared, aren’t they?” she asked.  “They have full crews and don’t need storage.”

“Yes, and you’re different because . . . ?”

She narrowed her eyes at me.

“Is Berynek your first or last name?”

“Does it matter?” I asked.

“Do you really want to fuck me, Berynek?”

“Yyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy . . . . es?”

“Then keep my info stick in the freezer for when I get back. Maybe you will have some help to take over the bar by then so we can steal away to the bedroom for your reward.” She started to get up, dropped a couple creds on the bar.

“Oh, I would close the place then. That would be OK.” I said.

She smiled at me and long-legged out.

I was on the internets putting up an ad for help wanted - been meaning to anyway - when outside there was a loud explosion.

Bo Channels walked into the office with his shoulders slumped.

Mr. Margarit: “Sit down, Bo. Wha–, you need coffee or something?”

Bo sat down, perked himself up. “No, no. I’m good, thanks.”

“OK, now, Bo, today is the day, the day you’ve been putting off and keep trying to reschedule for what, like six years now? You know why we kept rescheduling you at all? We had an office pool going. Frankly, man, I think your best days are over. That Pulitzer put a weight around your ankles, man. Now you can’t even come up with a good video game idea.” He chortled. “Oh man.”

Bo’s face was apoplectic. His chest was slowly rising like he was about to burst. His eyes widened. The sides of his mouth went down. He popped: “Slake Rake!”

“A whazza?”

Bo looked around, head beginning to shake. He stood up abruptly and Mr. Margarite leaned back, eyes squinting. Bo began using his hands, like a mime, pulling the air to keep going. “A . . . slake rake,” he mimicked the motion of using a rake. “You, uh, use the rake to uh, rake the slake.” He stopped, stood up, smiled. He scratched his head. “It’s ironic.”

“You want a video game in today’s market that is simple, stupid shit, call it ironic, and expect people to pay 60 bucks for dat?”

Bo was sweating now, not meeting Mr. Margarite’s eyes, instead searching the bottoms of the walls for clues, or looking for mice.

Mr. Margarit: “Let me ask you a question, Bo. Do you ever play video games?”

“No man, my world is pixelated enough, man.” Bo’s hands were sweaty so he wiped them on the sides of his jacket.

Mr. Margarit flipped a switch under his desk and several fans popped up on both sides of his desk. They both rotated to face the center: Bo. Bo’s eyelids fluttered in joy, the sweat being gently swept from his brow.

Mr. Margarit: “Are you on drugs?”

“No,” Bo said. “Ok, thanks for the fan. How about this: A story about a man in the future who, uh, has to escape something on earth, so signs up for a terrible mystery job on the last outpost.”

“Last outpost?”

“Yes, the last outpost between the manned universe and the unmanned universe. Of course I guess you would have several last outposts in several directions eventually, but for now there’s just one. The last outpost.”

“What happens there?”

“Well, there would be different stories, er, versions: the official government version, and folk tale versions: from one human to another.”

“The truth is bad?”

“Yes, if it was Disneyland there would be no drama, right?”

Mr. Margarit: “Disneyland is a lot richer than you are.”

“Nobody goes to Disneyland to read.”

“You’re proposing to read this video game?”

Bo: “Doesn’t a new age, a modern age video game need a great story? Zelda? Bioshock? Yes?”

“Zelda, Bioshock and Slake Rake?”

Bo sat back down. “Forget that. I have social problems.” He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “Whew, thanks again for those fans. Those things are nifty.”

“So what happens in your story: bad things happen, like what? And how does he fight back? Is it like Half Life?”

“I don’t know yet. But it will be somewhat dark. Not as dark as the Blood Meridian, but dark.”

Mr. Margarit: “All drama is dark before the ending - it’s called act two.”

Bo: “You know what? Fuck you, man. I won a fucking Pulitzer. You peddle Pacman. Give me a fuckin’ break you fuckin’ bonehead. You wanna be the first developer to label your game as being written by a Pulitzer-prizewinning author or not? Because that’s what you’re paying for, finally. And we both know it. So let’s just cut the shit and agree on a concept, OK? Or I’m going to EA, you fucking bitch.”

Mr Margarit drummed his fingers together. “Yes, the Post it is, then. You flesh it out and I’ll put a team on it.”

“Thank you,” Bo said, then left. Once hitting the street he fished a J out of his pocket and lit it, took a long suck. He thought of something and had a good laugh. Slake Rake. He took out a phone and dialed, put it to his ear. “Hey baby,” he said. “Guess who’s going to be eating again?”

Class War Starts Here

This is what the cops were looking at, craning their necks up. Spraypainted artfully across the white brick side of an ale house:

Class War Starts Here

Beneath, in the same black and silver border colors of the aforementioned phrase, was an arrow pointing down.

“Is something supposed to be under that arrow?” Cop number one asks.

“I dunno. Maybe someone came around the corner and they ran, didn’t finish it.”

They both considered this. Another man walks up; they glance at him, nod. “Detective,” Cop number one said. He didn’t have to flash his badge. He was Detective Peronsky, Thought Crime Division.

Cop number two wanted to be promoted to Detective, so he always tried to show off his investigative skills when an actual detective showed up to take over the scene. Cop number two: “We was wondering about the arrow - either something was supposed to be lying under it, or the criminal tagger ran off before the thing was finished.”

Peronsky shook his head. “No, the arrow means you, the viewer.”

The cops furrowed their brows.

Peronsky: “The class war starts with you, watching the phrase now. The revolution starts with you, the little man. Etc.”

Cop number one: “I don’t get it.”

Peronsky: “It’s a thought crime, inciting revolution. A thought bomb, meant to upset the established order.”

Cop number two spat: “Fuckin’ mental insurgents.”

“You got that right.” Peronsky said. He spat in agreement, and Cop number one trioed the assent.

“They’re all over the fuckin’ city this morning. The same message. ‘Class War Starts Here’. With a fuckin’ arrow pointing down.”

Cop number one got out his truncheon and slapped it across his palm. “Let’s go beat some hippie heads.”

“Nah,” Peronsky said. He turned and motioned up to the street light cams. “They immobilized the cams and we got no footage. We can stake out the same vandalism victims but they’re probably not dumb enough to hit the same two spots twice.”

Cop number two: “You assigning intel to these yahoos?”

Peronsky grimaced. “Yahoos don’t build thought bombs. All mental terrorists have intel.”

Cop number one tapped a finger to his nose. “Intel is the enemy.”

Peronsky: “You got that fucking right.”

This was September 8th, 2009. The era of Java Joe had begun.

“You are here for the post, yes?” She looked him up and down. He didn’t think she was scrutinizing him, because nobody wanted this job, and they would take anybody.

He had already been hesitated through. “Yes,” he said. Fuck it all and yes. Fuck everything including your life and yes. You are headed to the last outpost in the known universe, a place which has seen more horror . . .

She smiled, a pretty Asian lady. She whisked her hands downward and then came up fanning forms, which she laid out in front of him. “Please take a seat and fill these out.”

He took the forms and a clipboard and a pen and went to the seating area, nervously looking out the front door. It was his aim to get on the next ship out to the last post before his landlord caught up with him. He thought he had taken all the geobugs off his stuff but you can never be too sure. These days they can build the things the size of pubic hair. His landlord would blow him away where he sat. His landlord was one mean motherfucker.

Cody hastily filled out the forms and brought them up to the desk. “When does the next reefer leave?” (Reefer, of course, is the term they use on boats for ‘refrigeration systems’ - taking a ship out to the last outpost meant that you, too, went popsicle-stick.)

The nice Asian lady with the beguiling smile looked over the forms and showed him her dimples: “In ten minutes, Mr. Cody.”

“Ah, Cody is my first name.”

“Yes, of course.”

As he was looking at her a red light flashed across her left eyelid, causing her eyes to immediately flit to another place on her desk which he could not see. “This man a friend of yours?” she asked. She toggled a switch and on the screen behind her a man appeared walking up the stairs with a shotgun in his hands; apparently this was live video taken via surveillance camera.

Cody laughed nervously. “Wha–? Ha ha no.” He rubbed his chin. “He does look a little familiar.”

The lady motioned with her fingers and on each side of her a dark door slid open and two oversized armed guards stepped out. Cody stepped away from the desk, panic-stricken. “Whoah! Whoah! Whoah!” he said. “I’ll leave, I’ll leave!”

The lady looked at him with an eyebrow arched. “These men aren’t for you, Mister Sebastien. These men are for him.” She looked ahead as Cody’s previous landlord stepped through the door. He saw the two guards and muttered, “The fuck–” before they both shot him simultaneously, blowing his head clean off.

The lady looked at Cody again. “You are our property now, Mister Sebastien and we have to protect our interests. Welcome to Zanzibar Universal, Inc.” The dark doors slid back up once again veiling the guards. Several blood bots were dispensed from unknown floor doors and set about cleaning up the mess.

The lady waved Cody to a red door sitting heretofore humbly in the corner. “That way, Mister Sebastien.” she said pleasantly. He nodded to her and took up his bags and went.

the post.

He walked up a large dark ramp. A man on the left partially obscured in shadow threw him something, “Here, take this.” Cody dropped his bags and caught it: a space rifle. It had a strap so he hung it across his back before picking up his bags again. “Thanks,” he said to the man, and continued up the walk.

When he got to the top it was a round room with 12 pods hemming it in. There were only four other people there. Three men and one women. He nodded to them all and took in the woman: she leaned against her bed in her freeze clothes and regarded him without a word. She had long black hair and mocha skin. She smiled at him. His named appeared on an electronic scroll bar over the bed sticking out of his pod. He went to it, stowed his bags under the bed and picked up the pack of freeze clothes laid out just under his pillow. He looked around for a change room, saw the bathroom door perched between two pods and went to it. He relieved himself, washed his hands and changed. He peered at himself in the mirror. The enormity of what he was doing right now hit him and he blinked back tears. He tried to keep his eyes open a couple seconds so they would dry before he went back out with the others. The countdown started over the speaker system so he hustled back out there, dabbing his eyes with his sleeves pulled up over his hands. Put his old clothes under his bed and jumped onto it.

He gave the girl one last look. He tried to imagined them actually talking when they got to their location . . . maybe being stationed together . . . him coming over to her place to make some spaghetti, if they had spaghetti up there. He closed his eyes and tried to dream those thoughts as the countdown closed and the big freeze began.

When he awoke his eyes immediately went to the girl: her pod had been opened and what looked like her intestines and one leg were the only thing left on the bed. There was splatter all over the glass portion of the pod, including one eyeball facing his way.

A technician assisting in the wakeup saw him looking and chuckled. “It sometimes take a while to get your space legs.” he said. He pointed to another door. “You can go over there when you’re ready.”

He wanted to clean up but he wanted to get out of there more. He grabbed his stuff and went up to the door and through it, up a long dark ramp. There were things moving about in it and he stopped suddenly, waiting to see what they were. One came up to him and licked his hand. A dog. Several of them. They sniffed him and moved off. He continued up the ramp, the walls around him plastered with space graffiti. Ahead of him was a larger room with a lot of lights and a fair degree of commotion. He passed a mirror and stopped to take a look at himself. Still in his freeze clothes, dried vomit stuck to his chest, hair stiff, big flakes of dead skin under his eyes and around his nose. Carrying two black satchels with all his worldly possessions. Rifle slung across his back. Shit, keep it together, he told himself. He went up.

the post.

“Who gave this joker a space rifle?”

Two guards and a fat man suddenly crowded him from behind. He stood just past the doorway looking into a largish room painted black with two lightbulbs hanging from the ceiling. Several foldout tables stood at the opposite end of the room, manned by a duo of bored-looking clerks. There were two lines, and only one person waiting in each, with two people being waited on. The man slumped in his chair on the right looked catatonic, and the clerk was having a hard time communicating with him. A guard pushed himself off the wall and came forward to slap the unresponsive man across the back of his head with the butt of his rifle. Several dogs were milling about the place, smelling the corners and sniffing the floor. The floors and walls were all stained with long since darkened alien archipelagos.

The fat man repeated his question, “I said, ‘Who gave this joker a space rifle?’”

Cody replied, “Someone gave it to me after I signed up, as I was walking up the plank–”

The fat man smacked Cody across his forehead. “Shut up! I wasn’t talking to you!” He nodded to the guard. “Take it.”

The guard extended his meaty hand to the strap and Cody obliged, trying to wriggle out of it.

Cody stood looking at the fat man, not sure what to do next.

The fat man slapped him across the forehead again. “Well, go stand in line ya mighty git!”

Cody went and stood in the line to the left, where at least the new recruit presently being interviewed was actually speaking. Cody looked to the right line again and the man who had been sitting there was being laid out on a gurney by two of the guards. “Next,” the clerk said. A passenger from Cody’s flight, a small chubby Korean man, stepped up.

Two of the dogs in the corner started growling at the other. One of the guards nearby kicked the closest dog in the ass to push it closer to the other one, thereupon starting a fight. Both dogs gnashed and kicked and hair flew until one yelped and managed to dodge away.

Cody had his turn in line and sat in the chair facing the clerk.

“Name?”

“Cody Sebastien.”

“You are here for the post?”

“Yes.”

“Are you still mostly alive and cognizant after your space flight?”

Cody frowned. “Mostly. I think.”

“Are you ready for your post, Mr. Sebastien?”

“Yes, but . . . I would like to shower and eat something first. Maybe put my stuff away.”

The clerk nodded. “Of course, but no. Your shift has already started. According to your contract, you must be on shift at all times when sheduled unless mortally defunct.”

“Sorry?”

“Dead, unless dead. Three-quarters dead, to be precise. Here,” the clerk stood up and wrapped a band around Cody’s wrist. “This band will show you the way to the factory.”

“Where do I put my stuff?” He raised his bags.

The clerk tsked. “They should have told you when you signed up. You can’t bring anything with you to the post.” He nodded to a guard and several came forward to wretch Cody’s bags away from his hands. They went to the back of the room with them and a large iron door Cody hadn’t noticed before swung open. There were flames inside. Into this hole Cody’s two black satchels containing his last remaining possessions were thrown.

The clerk said, “Well, you will get one of your wishes, Mister Sebastien. You will receive a chemical hose-down before entering the factory floor. Goodbye.”

Cody immediately felt a tug on his new wrist band, as if magnetic, something pulling him toward the door. He obliged, nearly knocking over his chair as he did so. He went through the door and into another corridor, this one sloping down. His wrist lead him at a trot.

Soon the chubby Korean caught up. “A factory?” He asked. “Nobody said anything about a factory!”

Cody shrugged. “I don’t know.” he said.

The chubby Korean’s face was screwed up with anger. “I thought we each had our own suite up here. I thought we would be space observers, or . . . soldiers. But working in a factory? What kind of factory? Are we prisoners here?”

Cody frowned. “I don’t know, man.” he said. He wasn’t feeling well; in fact, he was beginning to feel quite sick. Maybe he hadn’t received his space legs yet, either.

The corridor finally ended and there was an open round door there ringed with rouge, and what lay within strangely dark.

“My name is Egg, by the way,” the chubby Korean said.

“Cody,” Cody replied. He nodded. “Nice to meet you.”

Egg nodded back. Both were exerting muscle to pull their wrists back, which were pulling them to the opening. “Well,” Cody said, pointing his head back up the corridor. “We can’t go back that way.”

Egg looked back up that way and his face screwed up again, like this time he was going to cry. “We’ll help each other, right?” His bottom lip was quivering.

“Yes, yes of course.” Cody said, feeling obliged.

Egg stiffened up, suddenly looking bolder. Braver. Calmer. “OK,” he said. He looked deep into Cody’s eyes, saw fraternity there. He took a deep breath. “I’ll go first.” Egg jumped through the hole. Instantly Cody heard screaming. The hole closed. Another hole opened closer to Cody and a clerk stepped through, catching the look of horror on Cody’s face. “Oh dear, was that hole open?”

Cody nodded.

“Did someone go through?”

Cody nodded again. The clerk called back through the room from whence he just came: “Hey Larry, we lost another worker! Who left the goddamn Dark Hole open again? Goddamnit, that’s not funny, Larry!”

The clerk motioned to Cody. “Come on.” Cody went. “And take off that goddamned band, too. Those things are sometimes as bad as Larry.”

the post.