Tag: dystopia

Food chain

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Several months after the oil spill, the government kept the real environmental impact assessments suppressed.
President Blaine grinned as he stood before a table piled high with steaming shrimp and crabs.
He rubbed his stomach, full of salad that he’d eaten on the Air Force One flight down to the photo op, and said “Delicious!”
The studies, on the other hand, screamed “Dangerous!”
Plankton contaminated.
Small filter-feeders contaminated.
Bigger fish contaminated.
Predator species contaminated.
All to lethal levels. Total breakdown.
Back in his New Orleans mansion, The Vampire Lord drummed his fingers, grumbling “Damn these humans and their suicidal stupidity.”

Mister Invisible

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Mister Invisible is a member of our superhero team, but I’m not sure why.
He will only attend meetings when we use a sign-in sheet and lock the conference room doors.
It’s an insult, he says. We don’t make Mystic Seer demonstrate that he’s not astrally projecting away, right?
Right.
I checked the call logs and saw that he hasn’t been calling The League Of Evil as much as he used to.
So, I inspect his suite, and find the cell phone.
And the nuclear bomb.
“It’s armed,” he says, and hits me in the back of the head.
Blackness.

The Pipes

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No matter where you dig, you’ll eventually reach The Pipes.
We’re miles from where the City Of Steel used to be.
Before civilization collapsed.
And yet, out here, there are pipes.
There are no markings on them to identify what flowed through them.
Nobody can break them open, either.
Some are warm, and others sweat water when the rains don’t come.
Maybe they were part of an irrigation project?
As long as crops grow here and they don’t come up toxic, we are safe.
Sow the seeds, curse the ancestors for their wickedness, and wait for harvest.
We will survive.

Batsignal

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I think we need to talk about the Batsignal again, Gordon.
There’s the issue with what merits a Batsignal.
Two Face threatening to blow up a building is a Yes.
Goons robbing a bank is a No. You have SWAT for that, right?
Your crazy daughter Barbara wanting me to read a bedtime story is a Hell No.
And I can’t see it during the day. The Joker and Penguin have changed their capering schedules.
Can’t you just SMS my BatPhone, dude?
Now nod your head like you understand what I said or I’m throwing you off the fucking roof.

Promises

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The Promises Van: a steel hulk raised up on massive wheels.
It rolls from neighborhood to neighborhood, collecting promises between citizens.
Nobody knows what Central Authority does with the promises.
Some say they keep a file on everyone making promises and what they’re promising.
Others say they’re planning a celebration soon, and the Promises Van will delivering on the promises.
But the Promises Van never goes to Central Authority. It just goes in a circuit, over and over.
It never opens. It never stops.
It just rolls.
That’s when I realized: it’s just a huge robot that runs on paper.

Organized

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I refuse to be a part of any organized religion.
So, I’ve joined a highly-disorganized church.
I’m not sure of the name of it. The signs all say different things.
One sign suggests that it’s a military research facility. Perhaps at one time it was, but I have yet to have someone from the military research me during a service.
Pews are scattered about, there’s no telling what kind of book you’ll read from.
I’ve got a phonebook this week.
There is no choir. People sing when they want to, what they want to.
I said “asylum,” right?
Church?
Oops.

Weird

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Mrs Jones knocked on her neighbor’s door and asked for a cup of weird.
“I’m having some trouble keeping up with the weird bill,” she said. “You know, with the rates going up recently and Henry and I being on a fixed income after he was laid off before he could retire early and get his pension-”
The neighbor made a hand gesture suggesting One moment, please and went down into their dungeon.
A minute later, they came back with a glowing, steaming mug of weird.
“Oh, thank you,” said Mrs. Jones, and went back to her upside-down pyramid home.

How do you make a joke?

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The back doors to the ambulance flew open and a man covered with blood was rushed into the emergency room.
The paramedics said he was a comedian who had been beaten up by an angry mob.
After he was handed off to the doctors, the paramedics went out for a smoke with the desk clerk.
“Let me guess,” said the clerk. “He tried to tell 9/11 jokes and the crowd got really ugly.”
“No,” said the paramedic. “He was at a dinner party hosted by the Saudi Arabian consulate.”
“So why was he attacked?”
“He refused to make 9/11 jokes.”

Immortal

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I am immortal. And I am serving a life sentence in prison.
Sounds like a bad Twilight Zone episode, right?
It’s not. It’s my life.
And I am in prison for the rest of it.
Forever.
Maybe they’ll figure it out after a few decades,
Or, after “the organization” sends a few more guys after me.
Those knives hurt. But they can’t kill me.
Will I survive having my head cut off? Or being tossed in the furnace?
I don’t know. But they’re welcome to try.
Guilty? No. I didn’t kill her.
And I don’t want to live without her.

Heartache

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After the funeral, I fired up Johnny’s brainscan on the simulator.
Johnny eventually calmed down, and I was able to understand him.
He wanted to know what was said at his funeral, who was there, and who wasn’t.
He also wanted to know how his donated organs were holding up.
(I guess when you don’t have kids or pets or someone else in your life, that’s the next best thing, right?)
I asked him what his password was.
When he finally told me, I logged on to the banking system, transferred the money, and deleted his will and brainscan files.