The subway was never finished, in fact barely begun: it has only three branches, east-west along the river and south from there at both Fifth and Waterson. Even among the city’s survivors, the entrances are almost unknown.
But not to Hank Blackpaw.
“Why don’t you tell anyone else about this place?” pants Moire, glad to be out of the frostbite storm. “We could set up shelters–”
Hank points to the ceiling; Moire glances up to see it fragmented, near collapse.
“Oh,” says Moire, “I,” and shuts up with a click.
Hank Blackpaw smiles in silence, and pads off into the dark.
Monday, December 13, 2010
“How long ago did you hurt yourself?”
“About three hours,” says Boston, “what with the walk here.”
“You walked for three hours?” says the doctor, taking in Boston’s pallor, his jerky speech.
“No no,” says Boston, “I ate something afterwards, and then there was the prayer meeting to get to.”
“So nothing too serious,” smiles the doctor. Â “What is the nature of your injury?”
“I cut off my testicles with a pair of scissors so I wouldn’t be tempted so much by prostitutes,” says Boston, opening his pants.
Later he hunts down and kills John Wilkes Booth (seriously, look it up).
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
The fever, to Juno, is an excuse for an afternoon alone. The afternoon alone is an excuse for a fix. The fix is an excuse to indulge in her purity ritual.
Sometimes she does it two or three times just to make sure it takes: check the door locks, set needle to vinyl, space heater, phone silent, line chair up with seams in the tile. Compulsion. Her hands are shaking a little, but they have plenty of reasons to do so.
For what, begs the question, is the ritual an excuse? Dopamine circuits close in Juno’s brain, sparing her the answer.
Friday, December 17, 2010
Deanne is in her forty-ninth trimester and that, like she, doesn’t sit right.
“You’re still not going to induce?” she says, wincing. Her back always hurts. Her feet are water balloons.
“Haven’t missed your due date yet,” smiles the doctor, who isn’t a guy like you’re thinking.
“And why won’t you tell me what that–”
“Patriot Act,” the doctor says.
Deanne’s done the math herself, but numbers collapse under the sheer fact of her belly. Exercise. She tries to make herself climb stairs; she knows it won’t help. Her body is a prison. She wishes somebody would tell her the charges.
They’ve just finished a new, non-burning clone of Commander Beard when the ship begins whooping with red alerts.
“State the nature of this emergency!” snaps Captain Spaceship, hand on his laser.
“Status quo field’s down, Captain,” crackles Lieutenant Ethnic over the comm.
“Are you saying things on ship could change?”
“In some cases,” says the Lieutenant grimly, “they might change and not change back.”
“Shit!” Â Captain Spaceship grips his laser a little too hard and accidentally slices off most of the new Commander. “Whoops! Shit! Get it back online, shit!”
So they fix it with technology and everything is fine again.
Billie Youngblood is the only gunslinger in a pantomime world.
“I’ve got ten Federal dollars,” she tells the shopkeep. “How many bullets will that buy?”
“I just-a look,” he replies, turning to shove little boxes around on the shelf behind the counter. One of the boxes has eggs in it. “Oh!” cries the shopkeep, diving to keep them from hitting the floor, making eleven miraculous catches, then slipping on the shattered twelfth and going pantaloons-up in a spectacular pratfall that smashes the rest.
Billie’s trigger finger itches, because one of the goddamn harlequins put itching powder on her trigger.
At the time, Elizabeth stoops to conquer, and maybe that is why they think she’ll crack like lobster.
“No offense,” she tells them, “I don’t sing for mobsters.”
“Sweetie, you don’t get it,” grins the moonlighting bouncer. Â “He don’t wanna hear ‘no’ from a blowsy flouncer.”
“Really.” She rolls up her sleeves. Â “What utter nonsense.”
“Now are you copacetic, or do we have to toss ya?”
Her eyes and smile are torches in a steel ensconcement. “Try it, but let’s hurry. Getting ready for my concert.”
After that the word gets out: Â avoid the songster.
Everybody knows she’s a motherfucking monster.
If she can really read minds, Zocco’s sure she must not think much of him.
“Not that it’s anything like reading,” Chopine says, “and not that what I think of you should matter, but you happen to be wrong.”
A snatch of song, a brief sexual fantasy featuring her, and resentment sweep through Zocco’s mind; the last because she can tell when his kindness is forced, but not vice versa.
“You’re becoming more aware of your own thoughts already.”
The little cues in her voice say she’s mocking him, but gently. With affection?
“See,” Chopine smiles, “you can do it too.”
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
“Great artists must sacrifice for their JESUS OW,” says Iphigenia, jerking her hand away.
“I told you it would sting,” says Nicole. “And this is just disinfectant–you need a rabies shot.”
“They didn’t have rabies,” Iphigenia scowls. “They were just startled by the damn paparazzi.”
“You wore a gown made of live minks to an awards show. You didn’t anticipate some flash photography?”
“I’m sure we all take comfort in your perfect hindsight, Nicole.”
She sighs. “I said the same thing beforehand, so it’s foresight, actually. I also told you to wear panties.”
“What is this,” says Iphigenia, “a nunnery?”
Dittany’s title is Subminister of Electronic Diversion Policy, which means she gets paid to find new ways for the Glorious Leader to cheat at Halo. It’s hard. He’s terrible, so they can’t use timing tricks or button combos, and lately they just beat the hell out of the Live servers with a botnet until something cracks.
Caffeine is illegal here and the nights are killing her. Dittany pores over forums and tries to sneak in humane policies at the ministry council. She came here to teach English, but the only words the Glorious Leader wanted from her were “Jew noob fag.”