Tag: dystopia

The Torturer’s Apprentice

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So people are whining about prisoners getting tortured?
Big freaking deal.
The problem I have with it is that we’re getting bad intelligence out of these scumbags when we torture them.
The best interrogator can get information out of a prisoner without leaving a scratch or the prisoner even knowing that he’s played his whole hand.
But where’s the fun in that? For what they’ve done, some of these bastards deserve to suffer.
Now pass me the cordless drill and the handmirror. This goddamned son of a bitch blew up a convent and I want him to see his spleen.

Unpack your bags, Janey

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What a goddamned mess. Janey’s yellow and throwing up blood. Her eyes want to roll out of their sockets.
“Dragon,” she croaks. “Pretty dragon.”
Shit. Dragon Ride’s the worst shit out there. Your mind takes a trip to Paradise, but your body might not be there when it gets back.
I fill the needle with Knight and stab it in Janey’s heart.
“Slay the fucker!” I yell.
I check the label: “M”
Marco.
Bastard sold Janey a dragon when I warned him not to.
Marco’s gonna ride his car to the bottom of the river. Tied up in the trunk.

Name Your Price!

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It is the middle of the twenty-first century, and the naming rights for absolutely everything in America are up for sale. Up to an including America itself.
Want to name a river after your heavy-duty laundry detergent?
Name your price!
Want to name a county in the state formerly known as Idaho after your line of extended-wear colored contact lenses? Name your price!
Want to name that snowy mountainpeak something like your kid’s breakfast cereal? Name your price!
Want to name a hurricane after your closest competitor? Name your price, but you’d better have a good trademark specialist attorney ready.

The Dead City

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Strangled by wires and smothered by concrete, The City yearned to breathe free once more.
It remembered when it was just a tiny village, a few houses by a bend in the creek.
Those were the days.
Soon, it grew into a town, then a city, then a City – Big C.
It had to act before it became what comes after a City with a Big C.
Strange messages bled through the sidewalks… fires with no rational explanation… plagues… droughts…
The people fled. But they left the concrete and steel to weigh down the corpse of The Dead City.

ASPCRA

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Remember those robotic dogs that cost thousands of dollars, were a royal bitch to program, and broke easily?
Well, they’ve come out with new versions of the things with additional features, and they cost much less now.
The company started a trade-in program: old dogs for new dogs. I guess you can’t teach an old dog new tricks after all because there’s something in the RAM or firmware or bits and bytes.
Anyway, sometimes those robotic dogs misbehave or get really stubborn, and they get abused. Smacked around. Beaten.
Or worse.
That’s where I come in. I’m with the ASPCRA.

Holy Question Marks, Questionman!

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Daventry had a problem: crime.
Gotham had Batman.
Metropolis had Superman.
Daventry had nobody… until The Question arrived.
Dressed in question marks, The Question of Daventry roamed the streets at night, fighting crime.
Criminals changed their schedules to the daytime. Then they agreed on a rotating-shift plan to cover all hours of the day to keep The Question constantly exhausted.
Eventually, the criminals got word to The Riddler, and The Question of Daventry was sued over the costume. Then lawyers arrived from Hub City about the name.
I think that explains the guy in the chicken suit with the flyswatter.

Recycling

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You’d be surprised at the number of people who don’t come back to pick up their prints.
We used to call them ourselves, but now we let the computer call them.
Still, some folks just don’t care. So unclaimed prints and negatives get kept for a year before they’re tossed in the dumpster.
We really ought to shred or recycle them, but we don’t.
Every day you see someone who looks like a registered pervert go dumpster diving and pull out a box or two.
It’s disgusting, but I guess it’s better than them doing things to the actual kids.

Reality blows

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The show is called Weathering The Storm.
The producers own homes all along the Gulf Coast.
Once they know a hurricane is heading towards one of them, we’re dropped into the nearest house.
Well, actually, they’re just run-down shacks. No better than a house of cards.
Cameras… canned food… bandages…
Body bags.
Survivors share five million bucks. Less survivors means split fewer ways.
It’s a big storm. Maybe even too big. Category two… three…
The producers are banging on the door, telling us we have to get out.
Everyone flees with them.
Except me. I know it’s a trick.
Suckers.

Down in the Den

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If you want to come in Hell’s Den, you need to play by the rules:
Leave your shoes outside. Your socks, too.
Cut the knuckles on your left hand with a silver knife.
Knock three times. Two raps, a pause, and then one hard knock.
Really hard. It’s a long way down, and it’s sometimes hard to hear.
Stand back. Door opens fast.
No saints allowed.
Only sinners.
Got diseases? Bad diseases?
Good. The more the better.
But when you come to Hell’s Den, come alone.
Once you’re inside, trust me, you won’t be lonely.
Tell them Jesus sent you.

If you give up that right

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He has the right to remain silent.
I wish he’d use it.
I swear, I’ve never heard a guy shriek so much. The whole trip back to the station, he’s done nothing but scream at the top of his lungs.
Just when I think he’s ready to stop, he just gets even louder.
Bastard.
Okay, so procedure says he’s supposed to go in the back seat and not on the hood, but I’ve got a birthday cake in the seat.
And the trunk’s full of presents.
No way he’s sitting up here with me.
Two more blocks.
Hold on, pal.