Tag: dystopia

The Heroes

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Every town needs a Hero. It’s the law.
But somehow, those assholes at the ACLU got the courts to rule that the word “A” means “Only one Hero will be allowed in each town.”
Population wasn’t factored in when the law was passed, so even big cities like Metropolis and Gotham only get one hero.
Crime rates skyrocketed. The people cried out for help.
But Heroes face stiff fines and jail time if they don’t allow themselves to be relocated to Hero-less towns across the country.
Those who resisted by going vigilante were hunted down.
By the Heroes, of course.

Swing Hard!

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The Presidential Mansion has a birthday party every week, it seems. So many children, grandchildren, cousins, close family friends…
Every birthday party has jugglers, magicians, and marvelous decorations you’d expect from the First Citizen Of All.
But it wouldn’t be complete without the clown.
He stands there, terrified.
“Make me laugh,” commands El Presidente.
The clown falls to his knees, begging for mercy.
“I said make me laugh. Now.”
The clown gets up and tries a little soft-shoe.
El Presidente snaps his fingers, and the clown is strung up along with the piñatas.
Here’s the stick, Paco. Now swing hard!

Straps

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When I was young, my family would go to the Museum of Science and Industry in Chicago.
Back then, there was an exhibit demonstrating bell curve distributions using back balls falling through a maze of pegs and into slotted compartments.
The balls eventually formed the bell curve shape… as if by magic.
“Not magic, you little weirdo,” growled my father. “It’s mathematics.”
I pointed at the lonely ball in the two-sigma slot: “That’s me!”
My parents were shocked, and they recoiled in horror from me.
Why?
Because I’d managed to chew through my straps and my hands were free again.

Wake

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Jimmy O’Connor planned this from the get-go. Long before the oncologist said “Tough shit.”
For his wake, he programmed up a hologram of himself.
Sure, other terminally ill hackers had programmed 2D movies and played them at their funerals, but Jimmy was the first to render a fully-operational, interactive ghost.
He was also the first to sync one with bio-implants too.
So, right in the middle of the wake, Jimmy’s ghost points at himself and screams “ZOMBIE!”
The servos kick in. Jimmy’s corpse slowly rises.
POW! I blow Jimmy’s head off with my .45.
That’s how you handle zombies, right?

These Are The Pros And Cons

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It’s my Southern gentleman’s instinct, really.
You see a hot chick standing on the side of the road with her thumb stuck out, and you pull over to pick her up, right?
It’s the courteous thing to do.
Courteous ain’t what the other drivers thought. Sponsors and Team Owners, too.
Biggest damn wreck in NASCAR history, all because I’m thinking with my pecker.
That, and fucked up on painkillers and Jack Daniels.
Speaking of which, you think we’ll lose Jack Daniels as a sponsor?
Shit.
I guess I’ll just wash my percodans down with Jim Beam from here on out.

Walkabout

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When people build in virtual worlds, they tend to make assumptions about gravity and wind.
Not Arthur. “Fundamental laws like gravity need not apply,” he said.
His playing card office building and an upside-down pyramid stand out, but I notice the subtler things like a starscape that slowly shifts in impossible patterns.
Arthur’s avatar was out walking around his odd world, so I caught up with him and tried to ask him what it was all about.
No response. Just kept walking.
A day later, the paper said he’d shot himself.
They found him, head resting on the “Walk” key.

The Last Drop

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When Charlie retired from the waterworks, they gave him a gold-plated watch and a cardboard box to put his stuff in.
He took everything home but a large half-empty bottle of poison, which he left in the middle of his desk.
Charlie had started every day with a fresh cup of coffee, walking to the Filtration Pump Room, and putting a drop of poison in the city’s water supply.
He figured it would toughen people up a bit in these difficult times.
Charlie also dumped his coffee into the city’s water supply, but that’s because the coffee was so bad.

The Final Hours Of A Professional Slut

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Anne Nicole sat in her hotel suite and wept.
From the other room, her lawyer’s bastard baby shrieked.
The porn star wept harder.
She always got this way when she read the letters from her dead billionaire husband.
One after the other, his words tore at her heart and she yearned for him to be here with her again.
When she was finished with the last letter, the tears turned to rage.
“You found time to write this shit, but you couldn’t write a goddamned will?”
She poured out the pill bottle into her hand, swallowing them one by one.

Choose Your Death

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The catalog makes it very simple.
Every page has a different kind of death on it, a full-color photograph in all its grisly wonder.
I looked cold and hard at the page featuring the carbomb, but it was just a little too messy for my taste.
Plus, I kinda liked Steve’s car. Was hoping to buy it after… he bought it.
Then I saw the death I wanted: electrocution.
Their number was busy, so I went to the website… entered the data… and…
Transaction completed.
Wait… hold on…
Did I get the billing and shipping addresses mixed up?
Uh oh.

Those Lousy Bums

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These days, the Doomsayers write their Armageddon spells on pieces of cardboard and wave them around in crowds, foaming at the mouth.
Back in the day, they’d glue their signs to wooden sticks or make up one of those… what were they?
Sandwich boards! That’s it!
The end of the world is coming, and these crazy bastards know it.
After all, it’s their job to cause it.
They gather at night, light their campfires, and chant in unison in praise of The Great Destroyer.
When I find them, I roust them out.
I have yet to miss a gathering.
Yet.