Apartment

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Now we learn about Jim’s home life…

It was the same old story. The one that involves wet noodles, dancing girls and a jealous orangutan.
Well, maybe it wasnā€™t all THAT common, but it was the same old story to me as I laid here in bed, staring out the rear window of my stuffy apartment. I saw the clear blue skies that I wouldnā€™t be able to stand under and inhale the sweet summer wind for quite some time yet.
Which gave me more than enough time to plot what I was going to do to that wretched monkey when I got a hold of it.

I get the feeling we’ll find out in the very near future.

Work

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Jim S. has returned with a few more stories. I’ll trickle these into the feed so you can savor each of them. They’re really good.

He returned to his work with a renewed vigor not seen by many. Concentrating, he quickly moved through the job at hand. Repetitive and boring as it was, that didnā€™t matter now. All that mattered was the job.
Left, right, up, back. Done.
Repeat.
Left, right, up, back. Done.
Repeat.
Only a couple more and the job would be finished. The obsession would be quelledā€¦ for a little while at least.
Finishing up, he stepped away from the table to admire his work. He sighed and confirmed it in his mind; he WAS the best jumpsuit folder in the prison!

Obsession can be a strange thing.
Record MP3… FTP MP3… make entry… Save… rebuild feed…
Record MP3… FTP MP3… make entry… Save… rebuild feed…

Ken Oyster

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Andrew Ian Dodge comes back from a weekend with another fine story about life in London:

Today I got back from a lovely weekend with my girlfriend, Kim. Alas, there was one downside. I had to pay Ā£3 for a one way ticket within Zone 1-2. The last time I did this it was Ā£2.20. In other words our lovely socialist terrorist-loving Mayor has managed to increase fares way over inflation. It is patently obvious that he thinks anyone using the tube at peak times is obviously rich. Would it surprise you to hear Ken wants us to all have Oyster cards which allow the London Underground to track your every move? Big brother Ken methinks.

And yet it’s George Galloway on Big Brother?

Legwork

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Patrolman X4T8 couldn’t be retrofitted to deskbot duty while his new leg was backordered, so they stuck him in a window to watch the alleyway.
“What if I see something?” asked X4T8.
“Call for backup,” snickered Dispatch.
After a week of watching trash blow from one end of the alley to the other, X4T8 decided to take action.
“U3P9,” wired X4T8. “Armed suspect spotted.”
“Confirmed.”
“E6G2,” wired X4T8. “Armed suspect spotted.”
“Confirmed.”
X4T8 watched the Patrolmen enter at either side of the alleyway, draw, and fire.
Both went down with fried mindcores.
Rebuilt, X4T8 went on patrol the next day.

Marathon

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We depend on tourism down here. The whole place is geared for tourism. Hotels, reef diving, restaurants – you name it.
Okay, so a skanky college student came down here and partied just a little too much, and she vanished without a trace.
Now everybody’s screaming boycott or sanctions, FBI’s trumping all over the place.
What a mess.
Our image needed a boost, so I suggested a marathon. Never mind that you’d have to run in circles to make a course of 26 miles.
We did it anyway. And was working.
Until a runner tripped over the skank’s body.
Crap.

Classroom of the Mind

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With the invention of Dreamshare, it was only a matter of time before dreamactors came about.
Professional dreamers, dreaming up dreams for sale.
The Morpheant Union tried to regulate entertainment-product dreams. Thankfully, independent production resisted and won out.
Then, someone got the bright idea to shift education from schools to dream academies. The classroom of the mind was born, a one-on-one tutorial between the slumbering student and the teacher.
No more bullies. No more cliques.
Every one was the teacher’s pet. Or was the Homecoming King. Or Queen.
Such fond memories I have of school. I replay them every night.

Better Luck

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Sure, I gave a fortune to Over-President Ichiro’s campaign, but the ambassadorship wasn’t the reward I had in mind.
The other day, a Grelp was in the embassy, asking about the horseshoe above my office door.
“Old Earth custom,” I said. “It’s for good luck.”
The next day, there was some sort of problem with a power converter trade agreement, so I headed over to the Grelp Ministry of Off-Planet Trade.
Nailed over the oozeway to Minister Sploch-Brbl’s puddlechamber was an entire horse, dead.
“For muchly more luck,” said Sploch-Brbl, flibbering happily.
Thank God I didn’t put up my crucifix.

Bumfight

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More political insight from our friend across the pond, Andrew Ian Dodge…

Five blokes are itching to lead their party or at least their version of the party. What party you might ask? Well this time it’s the Liberal-Democrats turn to pick a new leader after their previous one fell for being an chronic alky. Political hacks & addicts will have noted that there are two clear parts of the party who are not just divided by a hyphen. As the race moves on all five of these men attempt to be everything to all members but at the same time reassuring their “base”. Who will fall off the leadership tightrope first?

Oh well. There goes my hope of his Friday Catpodcasting.

Home

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When you are far from home and all you see is a pile of stones, fill your heart with memories of home and arrange the stones like the night sky above it.
Now close your eyes, take a deep breath, and forget where you are.
Concentrate completely on home. The sounds of home. The smells of home.
The weight of the air of home on your bare skin.
Know that you are home. Believe that you are home.
Count three beats of your heart, breathe deeply, and open your eyes.
Welcome home, apprentice, for you always bring home with you.

The Fourth Crewmember

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The robot listened for the homing signal.
Nothing. No sign of the crew, either.
Looking down at the pile of rocks, it decided to investigate.
An hour later, all of the rocks were removed, revealing three battered corpses.
The robot’s visual records were corrupted, so it took DNA samples and did a quick analysis.
TRAVIS. BLAKE. AL-MAJD.
All matched with the crew.
Placing the bodies back in the grave, the robot stacked the rocks back up.
The robot snapped a photograph for-
ERROR
It rebooted, and the robot listened for the homing signal.
Nothing. No sign of the crew, eitherā€¦