Author: R.

Justice for

Some black actor paid two black guys to beat him up.
Then he accused two rednecks of attacking him.
Social media erupted with support for him and denounced all racist rednecks.
Meanwhile, he refused to turn over his phone, and even when confronted with hard evidence that he’d lied, he stuck to his bullshit story.
He was indicted for filing a false police report and several other crimes, but the prosecutors dropped all charges.
But it didn’t matter.
Some cops took things into their own hands.
And when he dialed 911, they just laughed and hung up on the guy.

The economist God

Professor Frederick was a shining star in the field of Economics.
An excellent teacher and a brilliant researcher.
His research on developing countries was widely published, and he had been up for a Nobel Prize.
And then, one day, while out in the field testing his theories on Nigerian villages and education, he disappeared.
Some claimed that he had snapped and applied his Economics savvy to install himself as a god-king to the locals.
Eyewitnesses described the professor, sitting on a golden throne, commanding his subjects.
Maybe he’s still alive, after all.
I can’t for him to publish his papers.

God is a WTF

Let’s end the debate: It’s not proper to use pronouns with God.
God doesn’t have a gender. And the pronoun “it” doesn’t sound respectful.
We’re not sure if God is a single being or multiple entities, so “they” might apply, but we can’t be completely certain.
All we know is that God is here. Standing in the middle of our town.
Fifty feet tall, surrounded by a hurricane of flame. Death and destruction everywhere.
Everybody’s too busy running and bowing and praying to look between God’s legs, and nobody’s about to run toward the flames to ask God about gender.

The first five years

Ted still fills the food bowl.
Dumps it out in the morning, cleans it out, and puts in fresh food again.
Same with the water bowl.
And he sifts the litter box every afternoon and changes the litter every week.
Vacuums the carpet every few days, and runs a lint-roller over all of the furniture.
It’s been five years since he lost his cat.
He hasn’t had the heart to get another.
But he still goes through all the routines.
It makes him feel good, for some reason.
And maybe, one day, he’ll get another.
And be ready for it.

Weekly Challenge #791 – RIDING SHOTGUN

Tinny and Squeakies

RICHARD

Road trip

It was going to be the road trip to end them all: Terry in the driving seat, me riding shotgun, and the two girls in the back. Open top convertible, open road and open to any opportunities that came our way.

Day two saw us pulled over on the side of the road, smoke pouring from the engine, and the girls at each other’s throats after being forced to sleep in the car overnight.

Another three weeks of this, and I’d go stir crazy.

I grabbed my bag, thumbed a lift from a passing truck, and left them to it.

LIZZIE

Sitting in the back made him feel sick, very sick.
The vehicles were old and made out of scrap, the rusted parts an adventure each time they bumped against a rock on the road. Plus, it didn’t help that all the guys drove like lunatics.
When he was promoted to sitting in the front, he couldn’t be happier. No more snarky remarks about how green he looked. He was free!
When that unidentified piece of metal poked his right eye out, the first thought that crossed his mind was “it doesn’t matter, green no more!”
Priorities, yes, priorities are paramount!

DUANE

“Shotgun!”

“Ned, you’re forgettin’ the first rule of Shotgun,” drawled Pete.

Ned was looking down at his feet. “But I called shotgun.”

“To call shotgun you have to bring a shotgun. That’s why it’s called riding shotgun. Jenny and Earl brought theirs. It wouldn’t be fair to them now would it?”

Ned blushed. “No, I reckon not. I’ll be right back.”

After a few minutes Ned returned with his old double-barreled coach gun.

“Shotgun!,” shouted Ned and Jenny in unison.

“Looks like we have a tie,” said Pete.

“Heads!”

“Ned, you can’t call heads when we don’t have a coin.”

JUSTIN

Stagecoach Interstellar, Starbound Division delivers to everywhere in the system. I’ve got one more mission then I’ll transfer to the Galactic Division, which travels system to system, much safer because they only transfer from depot to depot.

I’m in the defense turret, and for the first time in my career, I’ve got enemy fire coming at me, space package pirates! Watching a real missile blasting towards you isn’t the same as in the simulator.

I activate the Rober-Chaff system, and hope the missile gets deterred. It works! But not against the direct fire.

I hope the puncture auto-seal works too.

SERENDIPIDY

We’re going to play a little game I call ‘riding shotgun’.

You see, I have this shotgun, and…

Well, you can probably guess where this is going, right?

Don’t go whimpering about the inhumanity of my actions.

You should have thought about that, all those years ago, when you imprisoned me in your cellar, tortured me, and raped me at gunpoint.

The press called you a sexual deviant.

As for me…

I’m just a deviant.

Made that way, by you.

So, shut up, drop your trousers, and please take a seat.

It’s going to be one hell of a ride!

TOM

Not Quite Dibs

“I want to ride shotgun,” pleaded Sam. “Nup,” counter Ben. “WWWHHHHY?”
“Well for starter. Your slow, stupid and damn distractive.” “But I’m your
cousin.” “And that would be a fourth. Not going to happen Sam. Let it go,
now. Get inside and let your mom up.” Sam stepped. Her mom stepped up. She
double cocking her Henery’s loading gate and took a seat. “Do too so sad,
love. You can ride up front on the trip back,” said Mary as she pinched
his check. Sam hated that went she did that. “Here,” she said tossing a
Winchester to him, “stay sharp.”

NORVAL JOE

Two weeks later, Billbert and his parents headed for their new home. His mother stretched out in the back seat of the minivan, allowing Billbert to sit in the front passenger seat and watch in the side mirror as his hometown faded from view.
Billbert sighed. “Why do we have to move to Eureka? I mean, besides it being isolated, miles from anything…”
His father kept his eyes on the road. “The agency has an office there, set up in a drug rehab facility. Your mother and I will both have jobs where we can help people improve their lives.”

TURA

Riding shotgun
———
A superintelligent AI would kill us all in the first few minutes. As the saying goes, we are made of atoms that it wants for another purpose. But the economic promise of safe AI drives us to experiment anyway.

Someone chats with the AI in an isolated room, with me riding shotgun. If the AI persuades the tester to let it out, I hit the panic button, the AI stops, and we move the tester to a padded cell for debriefing.

Sometimes, there’s no way to deconvert them. Then we use actual shotguns. It’s the only way to be sure.

PLANET Z

Every time we go to the keg store, Bud calls SHOTGUN and jumps in the front passenger seat.
And when Bobby wrecked the van into a telephone pole, that’s where they pulled Bud’s body from.
We got knocked around a bit in back, the keg breaking Ricky’s arm and me getting a cut on the forehead.
And Bobby took the steering wheel to the chest, even with the air bag going off, but Bud was a goner.
Bobby got a new van, named it Bud.
When we go to the store, we strap down the keg, and nobody calls shotgun.

Gooseman

He was once the king of the road, gracing every stage on the planet.
Now, the great showman Gooseman was a recluse.
Living off of his real estate investments.
He never left the house and never went out.
The hired help cleaned and cooked, but they never saw him.
Except for the dirty clothes in the hamper, the dirty dishes.
A stubbed out cigar in an ashtray.
And, of course, the checks every week.
This went on for years.
Even after going through every room, not a sign of Gooseman.
“What do we care?” said a maid. “He pays well.”

Go Figaro

You know, there’s more than one barber in Seville.
And Figaro isn’t the best.
Juan is the best by far.
Figaro, well, he’s the best singer, but when you need a shave and a haircut, who gives a damn about how well your barber sings.
You want the best shave and the best haircut.
A smooth face with no nicks or cuts. A fine head of hair, coiffed properly.
You don’t want a towel on your face and a hat on your head, right?
But nobody performs operas about Juan.
Even though all the opera singers go to his barbershop.

Ted the truth teller

Ted told the truth, and only the truth.
He could put his hand on a Bible, and swear to tell the truth, and people believed him.
Maybe he took it a little too far sometimes.
Doing it before ordering in a restaurant, the whole hand-on-Bible swearing thing.
Or when answering the phone.
It’s not like the person on the other end of the line could see him with his hand on the Bible.
When Ted died, he had a mirror as a headstone.
With the words “ONE DAY I WILL DIE” engraved on it.
True to the end, he was.

Come back, Superman

Where did you go, Superman?
What happened?
Do you get homesick?
Wherever you went, we miss you.
And not just because you save us, all of us, so often.
But because you are so good.
A good person. A good soul.
Someone we all look up to.
Maybe fear a little, but still, we respect you.
There will always be a place for you.
Just come back, and everything will be okay.
We promise not to try to hurt you again.
That was a mistake.
No hard feelings, right?
Just put the moon back in orbit, and all is forgiven.

Dusting

A developer announced their two weeks.
I’d noticed that they’d been de-decorating their office.
That’s usually a good sign that they’re clearing off soon.
And sure enough, they did.
Been noticing quite a bit of that as of late.
Me, when my time comes, I’m just going to take a few clocks home, maybe the hydroponics, and the baseball caps, of course.
Let ’em put the rest in a pile in the parking garage and burn it.
The fun is not in keeping things, but obtaining them.
Once you have it, you have to dust it.
I hate dusting.
Blech.