the a1robotcompany

Well, lookit here, if it ain’t but a gentle reader come on in to hear old Longwell Goodword tell them a story.  Now don’t let the name fool you, I’ve been telling stories long before I changed my name to Longwell.  Yup, I’ve told them yarns my whole life that I can remember.  Mama said my first words was “once upon a time”, and I confidently suppose that my last one’s will at that time and be just that, “the end”.  Old Longwell loves to talk a tale, so enough about me talking about it and let me talk.  Okay then, we’ll find ourselves on a cold winter night, Christmas eve to be exact, in the heart of the big city.  There in the dark shadows of a back alley stood young Timbo Wallace with his ear pressed lightly against the cold steel of the stage door of to Glamorola Theatre.  He listened intently to the silence on the other side.  He stepped back and checked his watch, it was getting late.  The show had long since ended and the excited mass of the capacity crowd had left some time ago.  Still Timbo waited.  He had to.  He knew this was his only chance, he wouldn’t get another.  He would wait as long as he had to.  He listened at the door once again.  Still quiet.  He was interrupted in his surveillance by the bright splash of two headlights turning into the alleyway.  He stood up and watched as a long, black limousine pulled up in front of the door.  A black-capped chauffeur climbed out of the car.  He glanced at Timbo, glanced at his watch, shrugged and leaning against the drivers side door, lit a cigarette.  They both stood in silence, Timbo conscious of the man’s stare.

“You know,” the driver said, “he doesn’t sign autographs.”

Timbo nodded, “I know.”

The driver shrugged again, and they returned to silently waiting.  Timbo checked his watch.  This was cutting it close, but he had to.  Had to see him.  To get his help.  Suddenly, the steel door opened and small group of people spilled into the alley.  Timbo scanned the crowd.  There.  In the middle.  The man was unmistakable.  Tall.  Elegant.  Powerful.  It was The Weird Wayne.  Timbo stood riveted as he watched the enigmatic icon pass.  His sense of awe was replaced by his sense of urgency and he recovered from his reverie.

“Mister The Weird Wayne,” he spoke loudly, “please, sir, just one moment.”  A woman turned from the group to Timbo.

“The Weird Wayne doesn’t sign autographs,” she said and continued to the limo.

“Please, please, I know,” said Timbo, “I don’t want an autograph.”  Desperate, he raised his voice.  “Mister The Weird Wayne, this is important.  Please.”

The long-haired, moustached man in the tuxedo slowed, the entourage with him.

“I’m not here as a fan,” Timbo said, “although I am your biggest fan, but this isn’t about that.  It’s much more important.”

The Weird Wayne stopped, and turned to face Timbo.  He spoke not but raised his eyebrows as if to ask, “well?”

“Okay,” said Timbo, “please, just a short moment of your valuable time.”  Another woman in his group spoke up, “Mister The Weird Wayne does not have many moments to waste, young man.:  The Weird Wayne raised a hand to the woman and she fell back into silence.  He stared intensely at Timbo.  Deep.  His eyes bored in through Timbo’s face he felt as if he were examining, with scientific precision, his very soul.  And Timbo let him.  He had nothing to hide.  The Weird Wayne blinked, and then smiled.

“Make it fast, kid,” he said.  There was an astonished murmur from the small group.  Timbo gulped and nodded and pulled three playing cards, three silk scarves, and three red rubber balls from his pocket.  He held them up for all to see.

“Really?” asked The Weird Wayne, “are you sure you want to do this?”

Timbo nodded, “I must.”

“Proceed then,” said The Weird Wayne.

Timbo closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and then began the motions of his trick.  The cards, scarves, and balls danced, sang, jumped, rolled, bounced, appeared, disappeared, reappeared, here, where, everywhere, and nowhere all at once.  The Weird Wayne watched with great attention.  His entourage stood transfixed.  Timbo finished.  It was beyond Ta-Da.  He showed his hands and bowed his head.

Silence.

And then The Weird Wayne began to clap.  The others looked on flabbergasted.  The man clapped harder.  The others joined him.

“Amazing,” he said, “kid, you have a career in this business with that trick alone.”  Timbo smiled.  He was speechless.

The Weird Wayne said, “so if that’s all, I guess I’ll be seeing you.”  He held out his hand, “and your name is…”

Timbo came out of his trance, “Timbo Wallace.”  He shook The Weird Wayne’s hand, “but please—wait, it’s not—no, I didn’t want to just show you, I mean, well—“

“Come on, kid, I’ve got to be someplace.”

“Of course,” said Timbo, “just please listen.  You see, I’m your biggest fan and love magic and have since I first saw you on teevee wanted to be like you.  Just beyond the best.  You know, because you are more than anyone else a real magic man and so I practice and try and work at being like that—like you all the time.  And it’s just me and my mom ‘cause my dad was killed fighting overseas and so all I have besides her is me magic tricks.  And two weeks I snuck out of our house so I could see your show here because we couldn’t get tickets and I just couldn’t miss your show and so I snuck out when my mom thought I was in bed and then I went and snuck into the show and it was the best ever and then though my mom, I guess, ‘cause I don’t know but she must have found I wasn’t in my room and then she went out looking for me and then she was crossing the street or something and a car skidded on the ice and she got hit and now she’s in hospital and hurt real bad in a coma and the doctor’s don’t think she’s ever going to wake up.”  Timbo felt his nose running.  He rubbed it on his sleeve.  The Weird Wayne studied him.

“Where are you staying now?” He asked.

“With my aunt and uncle.”

“And you snuck out again to come see me?”

“Well, nt really,” Timbo said, “they think I’m at the hospital.  Where I’m going after this.”

The Weird Wayne nodded.  “And why did you have to see me?  To show me your trick?”

Timbo took a deeo breath.

“Well, I hoped that maybe I could trade you, you know, magic for magic.”

“Magic for magic?”

“Yeah,” said Timbo, “I was hoping, maybe you had some sort of magical way or thick or something that could wake my mom up so I could tell I was sorry how it was my fault she got hurt and how much I missed her and that I was okay ‘cause she never knew where I was or what happened to me before the accident and she must have been so worried and I just can’t—just, it—I have to let her know and—“

The Weird Wayne stood silent.  His group even more so.  Timbo felt tears warm on his cold cheeks.

“Gladys,” said The Weird Wayne to the lady beside him, “bring me the bag.”

A surprise gasp emitted from the group.  The chauffeur swallowed his cigarette and went into a mad coughing fit.  No one else moved.

“Gladys,” said The Weird Wayne, snapping his fingers loudly, “the bag.”  A tall woman released herself from her incredulousness and handed him am old, worn leather satchel.  Never taking his eyes off of Timbo he received the bag.  He opened it, rummaged briefly inside and then pulling something from it, walked over to Timbo.  He held it out to him.  Timbo looked.  It was an old, beat up top hat.  The Weird Wayne motioned that he take it.  Timbo did.

“This hat is not part of my act,” said the Weird Wayne, “but it should be able help you out.  If you believe.”

Timbo looked at the hat, then at The Weird Wayne.

“I did and it helped me,” said the most magic man in the world.  He looked at the limo, the theatre, the entourage.  He looked at Timbo.

“But how?” asked Timbo.

“If you believe, you’ll know.  You don’t pull rabbits or flowers from that hat.”

“Thank you,” said Timbo, “do you wanna know how to do my trick?”

The Weird Wayne smiled.  “No, that trick is yours.  Use it.”  He turned back to the group and in an instant they were in the limousine and on down out of the alley.  Timbo watched it go and then looked at the hat.  He came out of his reverie and checked his watch.

“Crap.”  He ran into the night.

He was out of breath when he ran up to the hospital.  He entered and went up to the ward.  The nurse on duty at the desk looked at Timbo and then at the clock on the wall and then at Timbo.  He gave a weak smile.  She smiled back and nodded him on.  He carried on down the hall.

Her room was dark, and he turned on the light.  She lay in bed, her eyes closed.  A pain in his heart stopped him just inside the door.  It always did.  Always would stab him until he left the hospital.  He put his hand to his chest, and then went to the side of her bed.

“Mom,” he whispered.

She did not stir.  She looked so beautiful, so peaceful.  Timbo blinked back tears and held up The Weird Wayne’s hat.  He closed his eyes, made a silent magic plea and reached inside.  It felt like he was reaching into sand.  Surprised, he dropped the hat.  He opened his eyes and looked down at it ying on the floor.  No sand, no dirt, nothing.  Huh.  He picked it up and began again, this time he readied himself for the queer sensation.  He focused on his wish, filled his self with the living, breathing, wide-awake form of his mother, let it flow from him into the hat to be pulled out into this universe, into the room, from Timbo’s spirit to his mother’s.

He opened his eyes.

The room was the same.  The hat still old and dirty and empty.  His mom was still unconscious.  He let out a small sigh and went to sit in the chair in the corner.  He regarded the hat.  But The Weird Wayne, he thought, the world’s most magic man, he couldn’t—

“Timbo?” came the soft voice.

He looked up.

“Timbo?”

He rushed to the side of the bed, “Mom?”

She lay with her eyes open.  Beautiful eyes.

“Oh Timbo, “she whispered, “you’re safe.  I was so worried.”

“I’m okat, Mom,” he said, “I’m so sorry.”

“Oh Timbo, don’t be.”

“But it’s all my fault—“

“Please Timbo.”

“But I—“

“I know, but please, it’s alright.”  She smiled, “you shouldn’t sneak out like that, you could get hurt.”

“I know.  Oh mom, I’m scared.”

“Please Timbo, don’t be—I mean, I know you’ll be okay.”

“But you’ll be okay, too.  Right?”

His mom smiled, “Your Uncle Rick and Aunt Margie will take care of you.”

“Until you come home, right?”

“And I know you’ll do your best.”

“Of course.  But—“

“And you promise me that you’ll be the greatest…”

They looked at each other.  Timbo felt the tears come, but didn’t wipe them away.

“I swear to you, Mom, I will.  For you.  The best I can.”

“I always knew that.  I just needed to know you knew it.”

“I do now.”

“I love you, Timbo.”

He choked back a sob.

“I love you, mom.”

She smiled and he bent down a kissed her gently.  She closed her eyes.  And Timbo knew.  But the sadness inside him had changed.  He felt a warm power inside him, welling up and washing away the sting in his chest, in his whole self.  Deep warmth and goodness.  Her spirit.  With his.  He would never be away from her.  For always.  I will not let you down, he thought, no way.  He gripped The Weird Wayne’s hat.  I will be the greatest, he told himself, for you, Mom.  He looked at her.  But you already know that.  Always did.

He went to tell the nurse.

Oh my, well let old Longwell Goodword tell you, that boy Timbo got raised good by his aunt and uncle and he went and did become the greatest magic man the world had ever known.  A great man blessed from within by that warm and beautiful spirit.  Some kinda thing very special thing that.  But I can’t say what became of that old top hat.

Tad Broomhandle waited patiently in the wings as on stage he was being introduced by the master of ceremonies.  His pre-show butterflies had subsided, and as was usual, he took the moment to mentally go over his ideas.  He had thought of some of them earlier in the morning, some on the ride to the venue, and the rest he would construct on stage.  In real time.  Because that was what the audience was paying for.  Because that was what everyone wanted.  Actual ideas created right before their eyes in real time.  Because they could not.  And Tad could.  The m.c. finished his introduction and Tad heard his name and the applause of the crowd and then he took the stage.  As he walked into the circle of light at the centre of the stage and up to the microphone, the audience fell into thick attention.  And then, Tad Broomhandle, the imaginator, began to make things up.

As the sparks and weird and wonderful and things that came out of the mouth on the face in front of Tad’s brain faded to a close, the audience began to find its collective breath.  Inhaling deeply, they rose in an ovation of admiration and awe, with many of them close to, if not in, tears.  Tad took a short bow and walked off the stage.

The lips moved from his mouth, brushed across his cheek, and hovered, hot-breathed over his ear.  They murmured.

“What?” Tad asked.

They whispered.

“I can’t understand you.”

She spoke up, “Make something up for me.”

“Really?” said Tad.

“Please.”

He rolled over and gazed into the eyes above the lips.  So beautiful.  Raising his eyebrows, he gave her a long look.

“I’m kind of in the middle of something here.”

She put a hand on his face.  “Please.”

“Didn’t you just see the show?  And the last ten shows on the tour for that matter?  Aren’t we in the middle of something here?”

“Please?” She asked again.

“Can’t you just let me take a break,” he asked back, “I need to get my mind off things for awhile, you know?”

She shook her head.  You don’t, he thought.

He kissed her neck tasting the soft of her skin as he rubbed his hand down along her side and over her smooth round hip.  Good Sweetbreads, he thought, she was beautiful.  “You know I could never dream to think up something or someone as beautiful as you.”

She looked at him flushed and stupefied and began to shudder.  “Do you—you mean that?”

He nodded, “Pretty much.”

She pulled him to her and kissed him deeply.  “That is the most beautiful and profound thing anyone could ever say to anyone.”

He laid back onto the pillow and sighed.  “And I’m the only one who could say it.”

“I know that,” she said.  He stayed silent.

“So?”  she asked.

“Nothing.”

“No, what is it?”

He stared at the ceiling.  “You can’t imagine.”

She drew away, pulling the covers up over her.  “Is that supposed to mean something?”

“Is it?”

“Is it?”

He looked at her, “It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Just because I can’t imagine and you can doesn’t mean you can, can—“

“Please, please, it wasn’t that, it was just that well, when I was looking at you and you’re so beautiful and I just got to thinking—“

“What about?”

“I was just saying—“

“Thinking.”

”Yes, sorry, thinking—“

“About me.”

“Right,” he said, “about you.”

“Tell me,” she asked, “please.”

“I was in the process—“

“Wait,” she said, “before you go on, let me take one.”

“Really?” he said.

“It’s important,” she said excitedly and reached across him to the bedside table.  Retrieving a bottle of pills that were sitting there she got one and swallowed it down, dry.  She fell back, settled in, and stared at him intently.  “Ýou were saying?”

“Right,” he said, “ready?”  She gave him a look, and closed her eyes as if trying to will the chemicals into her system and then with a shudder opened them again.  She nodded, smiled, and concentrated.

He took her into a world of beauty and ghosts.  He took her beyond into a place where all other people on Earth were cursed to never go.  The world of the imaginary, world of the make-believe, world of wonder-what.  That world had been lost years ago because of unknown but well-hypothesized reasons.  Electrons, cosmic rays, broken wind, brown water, sit-coms.  Whatever it was it had choked and stolen the imaginations out of the masses leaving them in a gray and muddled fog.  Except Tad Broomhandle who had never lost his ability to imagine.  And except for newThink633, which gave everyone temporarily and not-quitely that ability back.

nT633, was touted by the Pharmedia Corporation, its creator, as the only cure for the pandemic inability for the population to form creative thoughts.  As its ad stated:  “newThink633 is a brainstorm in pill form” and it was practically the most consumed thing on the planet.  Next to Tad Broomhandle.  Because his actual, non-drug induced imaginative ramblings were the most prescribed to, requested, traded, collected, attended and coveted things on the planet.  Somehow, with as many unproved but well-hypothesized reasons, he could still form creative thoughts at will.  And that made him one of the most honoured and prized beings in human history.  The Imaginator.

“Does it help?” he asked her, breaking off from his story.  Bringing the curtains down on a short, simple, somewhat erotic little tale that, he had to admit, he may have told one or two other women in this situation before.  Who’s to know, he thought.

“What?”  She said opening her eyes.

“The drug.  Does it help?”

“You know it does.”

“I don’t know actually.”

She took a deep breath.  “It helps.  It does.”  She looked at him, “like when you were talking of the face in the painting being my face but not my face.  I could imagine that, somewhat gray and blocky, but it was something…something not there when the pill is not in my system.”

He sniffed, “Gray and blocky.”

“It’s better than nothing,” she said, “now where were we?” She rolled herself on top of him, sticking her tongue in his ear.  But his mind was elsewhere.

He got up in the middle of the night, while she slept soundly, and made his way into the bathroom.  He stared at his reflection in the mirror.  Gray and blocky.  It had stuck, bringing back memories of recent imaginating performances he had given.  Moments in the show where he had had to take a moment, to clarify what it was he was thinking about.  Things that were: gray and blocky.

He hadn’t put much thought to it, the grays.  Blaming it on his schedule, his endless series of performances and recordings and broadcasts and wonderings and thinkings.  He was tired was all.  So he had the occasional gray moment.  What of it.  But this, this blocky.  That was worrying.  His make-believe had always come like a smooth breeze clear as crystal that flowed in and out of him and was never anything as retarded as blocky.  Until recently, at a show in Big Asia, he had stumbled and had found himself backtracking to chisel out a beautiful butterfly playing piano.  The audience, of course, hadn’t noticed a thing, were as rapt as always, but he had known and it had bothered him.  It bothered him now.  He had a headache.  Thinking like this gave him a headache.  He opened the medicine cabinet, looking for a reliever.  A bottle of nT633 sat on the shelf, this one bigger than the one on the bedside table.  He picked it up, it was full.  Opening it, he poured one of small red pills into his palm.  He stared at the little thought machine.

“Have you ever tried it?”  Her voice behind him.  He stared up into the mirror at her standing in the door.

“Never.”

“Why?”

“Don’t want to poison the well.”

She watched him, he watched the pill.  “Come back to bed.”

He nodded and put the pill back in the bottle.

She put a hand on his cheek.  “Will he be okay, Doctor?”

“I’m afraid we just don’t know,” he said, guiding the woman from the bedside to the bank of monitor screens along the wall.  “You see here.”  He pointed at the digital skull where a small blob of red glowed amongst an expanse of gray.  “This is the section of the brain that we know is responsible for creative and imaginative thinking.  The section that is targeted by the newThink drug.”

She nodded, stifling a sob.  “And?”

“And?  He took one thousand times the prescribed dosage.”

“Please, doctor.”

“When he took the overdose of nT633 it literally flooded that area with thoughts, overloaded it.”

“But is he going to be alright?”

“Well,” the doctor said, “you see the activity?  It has commandeered the entire brain.  He is minimally alive right now.  He’s, for want of a better term, in a creative coma.”

“But can’t you do anything?”

“I’m sorry,” he said, “but the hyper-synaptic activity has formed a dense layer of scar tissue around the area.  Making it impossible to alleviate even with surgery.”

She looked to the catatonic figure on the bed.  “You mean?”

“He is in, as far we can tell, a permanent imaginative state.”

“But why?”

He looked at the woman, “That’s what I wanted to ask you.  Mrs. Broomhandle, the dosages for nT633 are well researched and reported.  It is heavily regulated by both the government and corporation.  Why would your husband choose to intentionally ignore the regulations?”

She went over and sat on the side of the bed.

“I can’t imagine.”

The wind was a white wall that whipped at his face.  Whipped cold.  He could barely open his eyes against it as he stumbled through the woods.  The branches of trees joined in with the wind and tore at him.  He stopped and turned, listening through the howl and snow.  The dogs, their barking, the calls and shouts of the men, had disappeared.  He smiled and pulled the thin windbreaker up further around his neck.  He had pulled it from the car after it had gone into the ditch and had had to make it on foot.  The jacket was no protection from the winter storm and he shivered madly.  Yet, for all the chill wind and piercing ice nothing felt colder in him than the dark pit that sat in the middle of his chest.  He turned and headed into the snow.  The storm and the woods seemed to grow in intensity and thickness as he trudged deeper, deeper.  He struggled through the drifting snow and his thin booted feet were soon as numb as his gloveless hands.  He laughed in spite of himself.  Serves you right, he thought, I guess there is some justice, of a sort.  He slipped and fell.  Damn.  He had stumbled onto the ice of a frozen creek, and on all fours he laboured, crawling his way across the slick ice and up the bank and laid there, too tired to try any more.  Just go to sleep, he thought, it’ll be alright.  He stared off blankly into the trees and blowing snow.  He blinked.  Faint and soft through the black shadows of the brush was a warm glow.  No.  Imagining.  He shook his head.  Squinted hard through the wind.  Orange.  Yes, it was there.  He forced himself to his feet and crashed his way in the direction of the guiding light.  It grew brighter as he neared,and he realized he was not dreaming.  Soon, the light took shape, squares, windows, a door, a house in the woods.  He stumbled towards it.  A figure came from behind the building, through the storm his arms laden with firewood.  It saw the man and throwing down the logs rushed towards him.  He called out something the man could not hear above the storm.  He saw the door open and another figure there, in the light.  Beautiful.  Arms were around him and he was hefted, dragged across the small porch, through the door.

At once there was silence and warmth, it took hold of him and he could do nothing against it.  He did not want to.

“Blankets.”  His jacket was stripped from him and he was wrapped in thick comfort.  He shivered uncontrollably.  Hands took the boots off his feet and he was sat in large armchair in front of the roaring hearth.

“Hot drink.”  A steaming mug appeared and was put gently to his lips.  He let the vapours warm his face as he took a small sip.  The tea traced a golden path into him and his shivering settled some.  He allowed himself a deep breath and took a large draught of the warming elixir.  He looked at the face holding the mug.  It was beautiful.  It smiled at him.

“Not the best night to be out and about,” came the deep voice from behind him.  He looked away from the smile.  And met that of a handsome, weathered moustached man, “lucky for you I was bringing in some more wood, or else…”

“Thank you,” he managed, still thick with chill, but slowly thawing.

“This is my wife Emma,” he looked back at the beautiful smile, “and I’m Jim, Jim Higgins.”  He offered his hand.  The man took it.

“John,” he said, “John Smith.”  He looked around his surroundings.  The log house was not small, but comfortable.  Old school, he thought, wood stove, large hearth, tools hanging, herbs, dried fruits and meats hanging, a door leading to presumably the bedroom.  This is alright.  And in the corner stood a christmas tree simply decorated and lit with candles.  It was beautiful.  He smiled.  As he took it all in two giggling children ran in from another part of the house.  They stopped and stood shyly upon seeing Smith.

“Children, this is Mister Smith,” said Jim, “he’s going to be staying with us until the weather lets up.”  They smiled, he smiled.

“Hello,” he said, “I’m John.” They stared silently.

“Say hello to the nice man,” said Emma.

“Hello,” they said meekly.

“This is Daniel and Clara,” said their mother.  John smiled and nodded.

“Daniel and Clara,” he said.

“Are you here for Christmas?” Clara asked.  John shrugged.

“I don’t know, when’s Christmas?”

Daniel laughed, “It’s Christmas eve.  You don’t know it’s Christmas eve?”

John looked away.

“Daniel.”  His father said sternly, “Mister Smith is a guest.”

“Sorry,” the young boy said.

“No, it’s okay,” said John, “I’ve been away, for awhile and well, haven’t thought about holidays or anything for some time.”

“Where were you?” asked Clara.  John looked down into his mug of tea.

“Clara,” said her mother, “Daniel, time for bed.  You know Santa doesn’t come until you’re asleep.”

“And you do want Santa to come, don’t you?” said their father.  The children nodded and turned to go.

“Good night, Mister Smith,” they said, “merry Christmas.”

Smith smiled, “Merry Christmas.”  The kids went off into the other room, but then Clara came back in and whispered something to her mother.

“That’s a very nice idea,” Emma said, “of course I will.”  Clara, smiling at John, left the room.

As the three adults sat silently staring into the fire, John shivered.

“Oh Mister Smith, you’re still frozen,” said Clara, “let me draw you a bath.”

“No, please,” said John, “it’s alright.  I’ve imposed enough, let me finish my tea and then I’ll go.”  Jim laughed.

“You’re not going anywhere until this storm let’s up.  It would be murder if we let you go now,” he said.  John winced at the words.  “Anyway, it is Christmas and none of us would forgive ourselves if we didn’t offer up what we have.  It’s our way.”

John nodded, “thank you.”

“I’ll prepare that bath,” said Clara and left the room.

John and Jim sat silently by the fire.  Jim took out two cigars from a pouch hanging around his neck and offered one to John.  He took it.  Lighting a stick in the fireplace he lit them.  John inhaled the sweet smoke.

“That’s nice,” said Jim.

“Sure is,” agreed John.

They sat, unspeaking, staring into the flames.  John was glad of the quiet.  Of his host’s unquestioning.  Of the warmth.  The darkness in his chest shifted slightly.

“Bath’s ready,” said Clara, entering the room and their silence, “come along Mister Smith.”  He rose from the comfort of the chair and she led him back into a rear room of the house.  It was a small washroom dominated by a large cast iron bathing tub which was filled deep with steaming, soapy water.

“Take as long as you like,” she said, “and there’s some fresh clothes of Jim’s for you to change into, we can’t let you get back into those wet things. Though, we should probably just use them for rags.”  He looked down at the soiled institutional blues of his outfit and nodded.  Destroy them, he thought.

“I’ll leave you be,” she said and left the room.  He stripped of his wet clothes and slipped himself into the hot tub.  It was like a wave of hot awesome and he let the water come up over his chin.  He leaned his head back and breathed deeply.  It had been forever since he had felt this—this relaxed.  This at peace.  Peace.

He blinked himself awake.  He had dozed and the water had cooled.  He pulled himself out of the tub, toweled himself off and dressed.  Jim’s clothes fit well enough and the peace he had felt in the tub seemed to grow.  The blackness in his chest was growing ever lighter.  He made his way back into the main room.  Jim sat by the fire smoking his cigar.  John sat down beside him.

“I bet you needed that,” said Jim.

“Sure did,” he answered.  Emma came in with a tray of drinks.

“Now that the kids are in bed,” she said, “how about some mulled wine for the grown-ups.”  She passed them each a steaming mug.  John nodded thanks and sipped his drink.  My god, he thought, this could be heaven.

“How is it?” Emma asked.

“I think his smile says it all,” said Jim.  John realized he was smiling, and it grew bigger as he became embarrassed..

“It’s fantastic,” he said.  He looked at the fireplace, where the family had hung their Christmas stockings.  He blinked.

“No, please,” he said, “it’s too much.”  Emma laughed.

“Oh, you noticed.  I was hoping it would be more of a surprise.”

“I don’t need or deserve—“

“Now, now, it was Clara’s idea,” Emma said, “she was worried Santa wouldn’t bring you anything without a stocking, so…”  An old wool sock hung beside the other stockings, John written on it in black felt with a child’s hand.  He didn’t know what to think.

“You people are so nice,” he choked.

“We’re just people,” said Jim, “helping others is just something that feels right and natural.”

John was silent.  He sipped his drink.

“Well,” said Jim, “I think it’s about time I hit the hay.  Tomorrow’s a big day.”

Emma nodded, “Jim you can sleep on the floor in here, there’s blankets and a pillow on the chair over there.  I best warn you, the kids’ll be up mighty early.  So be prepared.”

“Oh, it’ll be okay.”

They went into the bedroom.  Jim sat and stared at the fire.  Something stirred inside.  Something that for most of his life he told himself was anger.  Rage.  But this was something very different.  Something warm.

Suddenly powerfully tired, he readied his bed.

The kids came in like a storm of excitement and glee waking John instantly.  He rose smiling, wiping the sleep from his eyes.  Sometime in the night while he was asleep Santa had indeed arrived and under the tree were all manner of mysterious brightly wrapped shapes.  The stockings were overflowing with candied delights.  Jim and Emma entered in their robes and pyjamas and Emma went to the kitchen to fix coffee and biscuits.

“Mister Smith, look,” said Clara, “Santa brought you stuff, too.”  She brought him his stocking.  John took it from her, speechless.

“What’d you get?” asked Daniel.

“I haven’t looked yet,” he replied.  Emma came in with the coffee.

“Can we open the gifts now?” the kids asked in unison.

“Okay,” said their father, “but go slowly.”  He winked at John.  He smiled back and looked at his presents.  In the sock were three of Jim’s cigars, a box of wooden matches, two gingerbread men, a candy cane, and a hand-made leather belt with a perfect, plain brass buckle.  He looked at Jim and Emma.

“It’s beautiful,” he said, “I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” said Daniel.

“It’s Christmas,” said Emma.  John felt himself breaking up.

“No one has ever been like—like this to me.  You folks are just—I don’t know, I can’t…”

“Forget it, John,” said Jim, “Merry Christmas.”

Emma passed him a mug of joe.  “Now wait for dinner.”

He spent the morning playing with the kids and their new toys, a wooden train set for Daniel and new doll for Clara.  Then, since the storm had stopped and made way for a glorious clear and crisp day, he went out and chopped firewood.  He and John repaired some shingles that had blown off during the heavy weather.  Then he dragged the children around on their new sled.  Later he smoked with Jim on the porch as the sun set pouring a deep orange on the brisk, white Christmas day.  Soon the smells coming from the house had both their mouths watering, as dinner neared.  Then Clara called everyone to the table.  They were met by a grand goose, roasted to perfection with all the country trimmings.  John ate until he felt he would burst and soon he had finished helping Emma with the dishes, the kids had long since fell asleep as the excitement of the day finally overcame them and their mother joining them, and he and Jim sat by the fire enjoying a final cigar.

They stared into the flames.

“I don’t care what your crimes were,” said Jim.

John looked at him.

“It don’t mean a thing to me,” he continued.  John was silent.  “I believe that we all can and must be allowed to change.  That that is what matters, to know and learn and grow and be.  I believe that.”

“I’m a bad man,” said John.

“We all make mistakes.  Believe me, I know,” said Jim, “but if we don’t atone for what we do, do take it to heart and grow from it, grow in a good way.  Then, well, then we have a problem.”  He locked John in his gaze and looked deep inside of him.  John couldn’t move, and he felt that ever lightening dark void in his chest shift again, and again a large chunk of it fell away.

“Good night, John,” he said, “merry Christmas.”  John was speechless.  Jim put his hand on his shoulder and gave it a squeeze.  Then went into the bedroom.

John, although moved and confused by the days events, slept a deep sleep, like no other he had as long as he could remember.  Yet he awoke at first light and the house did not stir.  He dressed quickly and quietly, and then made his way out the door.  He followed the path down, over a bridge that crossed the creek he had slipped on the two nights earlier, and eventually came down to an old logging road.  There it was an easy walk to the highway, where he eventually hitched a ride into the nearest town.  He made his way into the sheriff’s office.  It was no trouble turning himself in, with his picture was hanging so prominently above the front desk.  After the minor stir made by his peaceful surrender, they locked him in the small jail cell to await his escort back to prison.

The sheriff came by later with his supper.  John ate in silence as the sheriff stood, studying him.

“I can’t see how you didn’t freeze yerself to death out there these last few nights, I mean you must be some kind of mountain man to make it out there in weather like that.”

“A nice family put me up, found me in the storm, saved my life.”

“What family?” the sheriff asked, “there ain’t no one living up in those woods.”

“What do you mean?” John asked, “they have a nice little homestead up there.”

“Who?”

“Higgins.  Jim and Emma, and there two children Daniel and Clara.  The nicest people I’ve ever met.”

“Higgins?”

“Yes sir.”

The sheriff stared.  “Are you trying to be cute?  Because this ain’t.”

John looked up at him, “What do you mean?”

“Jim and Emma Higgins?”

“That’s what they told me.”

“Buddy you are some kind of crazy or something.”

“What are you talking about sheriff?”

“Son, Jim and Clara Higgins died thirty years ago.”

John shook his head.  “What?”

“Yeah, perished in a fire when their cabin burned down some thirty years ago.  Damn tragedy.  The whole family, Jim, Clara, and the two children Daniel and Emma.  Damn tragedy.”

John stared.

“On Christmas eve, no less.  Damn tragedy.”

John was silent.

“All that’s left is a burnt out husk of their place, up near the saw creek bridge.  So what you’re telling me don’t make a whole lot of sense.”

John closed his eyes.  “Go away.”

The sheriff shook his head, “you are crazy.”  He left John alone.

John opened his eyes.  As the tears came, so did the smile.  He cried and laughed.  And inside him the warmth melted through the last bit of black in his heart, and coursed throughout his entire being.  It came out of him and filled the small cell.  Filled the town.  The world.  The warmth was everywhere.  It was good.  It was him.  Warmth.

The conveyance tube hummed Technician Wade quickly and mildly down deep.  And just as quickly and mildly he came to rest at the once distant bottom to step out into the receiving room.  He waited anxiously to be cleared, unconsciously primping at his red afro.  12,215 dead, he thought, sweet cold cut combo.  What happened?  Of course, that was exactly why he was here.  Find out exactly what the tuna salad had happened, Technician Wade!  They had ordered.  So he had come.  His identity and cleanliness verified, the receiving room doors slid open before him and he walked into the facility.  The beyond bright and sterile pink of the walls warmed him, like a thick hug, he felt it every time he came here.  Only today it felt a tad thinner, he was unnerved.  The Big Lady had fiddled the fudge.  Serious.

“Technician Wade.”

A form met him.  Technician Wade blinked through the pink.  A pale face, blonde afro.  It was Technician Todd from facility control.

“Technician Todd.”  They slapped palms in the greeting of five.

“This is serious, Technician Wade,” his voice sounded like it was about to turn to tears.

“That’s why I’m here,” Technician Wade answered, “because everyone with U.S.A.I. thinks this is serious.”

Technician Todd said, “She’s—I’ve never seen her like this.  It’s, I don’t know.”

“I must see her.”

Technician Todd nodded and together they headed down the hall.  Long corridors, doors slid open, closed behind them, security checkpoints, secondary control rooms, primary monitor stations, consoles, vending machines, trash receptacles, went by as they made their way.  They filled each other in as they went.

“She just let the shuttle go as it was entering the port, didn’t brake at all, just slammed it in.”

“More shocking is that before her non-primary systems went offline, we logged a two nano-second total system blink.”
Technician Wade stopped.  “What?”

“I know,” said Technician Todd, “There are sure to be as yet unseen consequences in addition to the obvious ones like the shuttle disaster.”  Technician Wade nodded soberly.  They continued on.

“According to my analysis,” Technician Wade said, “The last diagnostic before the incident was that her standard operations processors were all nominal.  There were many programs running any of which should have had it all under control.”

“But she transferred all system resources to her think tank at the last minute.  That was the blink.”

“Why?  That just defies fuzzy logic,” Technician Wade felt like bad chicken.

They came to a final set of large red doors.  Technician Todd punched a code into a keypad beside it and they slid open.  The two Technicians entered the room.  Bright pink like the rest of the facility, it was bare except for a solitary, bloated terminal with a viewscreen stationed against the far wall.  They walked up to the chubby unit.

“Technician Wade.  Technician Todd,” The voice filled the room, coming from all points at once and was like such a warm, white light.  It embraced the Technicians deeply and they smiled just as.

“Big Lady,” said Technician Wade, “How are you?”

“Fine.”  She spoke in beauteous technological tones.

“What happened today?”  He asked.

“A shuttle unit impacted with an orbital docking port and they were destroyed.”  It was the facts.  Nothing less or more than Technician Wade would expect to hear.  Except now.

Technician Wade asked, “Why?”

“I was working on a joke.”

Technician Wade blinked as Technician Todd let out a choking coughing, “Pardon?”

“I was creating a humorous anecdote and needed to apply some of my lesser utilized system functions to get it right.  You know what I’m saying?”

“I do not think I do,” said Technician Wade.  He made a silent plea to the universal sandwich.  With mustard and mayo.  Help us all.

Technician Wade’s face burst with urgency out from the wall display into the crowded meeting room.  “I want to call in a specialist.”

The collective minds behind the new great mind thought about this.  Something was wrong with their creation and they all knew that could spell bad doom for most of everything.  The United Society Artificial Intelligence had been the wunderkind solution to the maniac humankind had become.  Craving guidance and stability and a social domestic bliss long thought unachievable they put it into the womanly hands of a gorgeous supercomputer to clear the clutter and get it straight.  The Big Lady.  And it had worked great.

But now she was acting a little weird.

It a-feared most.

And a-mortified some.

Nodding their large frizzed-out hair covered head’s, they took Technician Wade’s advice.

With chestnut afro leading, Electric-Psychiatrist Judy stepped her plump body through the doors into the pink of the Big Lady facility and was greeted by Technician Wade and Technician Todd.

“Electric-Psychiatrist Judy.  I am Technician Todd.  This is Technician Wade.”  They offered their palms for five.

She fived them.  “Technicians.  Please take me to the terminal immediately.”

They led her in silence to the computer.

They reached the red doors of the control room and Technician Todd keyed them open.  Electric-Psychiatrist Judy entered and the two Technicians stayed put.  The doors closed.

“Electric-Psychiatrist Judy is known for her controversial methods.  But they also say she can talk with machines with artificial intelligences, that she knows them, can really talk to them—get inside their circuits.”

“She does more than just talk, Technician Wade.”

“But I believe in this case—“

“I fear for her,” Technician Todd said.

“For Electric-Psychiatrist Judy?”  Asked Technician Wade.

“No,” he answered, “for the Big Lady.”

Electric-Psychiatrist Judy stood before the Big Lady.  The two full figures.  Two women.

“Big Lady.”

“Electric-Psychiatrist Judy.  It’s a pleasure.  You are an esteemed individual.  I have a complete catalogue of your work in my deep disk.  You are an aggressive advocate of the robotomy as a curative measure.”

Electric-Psychiatrist Judy smiled, “Some artificial intelligences need downgrading.”  She stared intently at the computer viewscreen, through the data streaming across, beyond the simple 0’s and 1’s, into the masses of the electron flows, into the Big Lady.  Still smiling, she spat, “Now to hell with all that.  Supposedly you’re funny or something?  Hehhehheh.  Jokes.  Hehhehheh.  Some sort of comedian, rolling ‘em in the aisles, knocking ‘em dead, making ‘em laugh?”

The room became like a sandwich of mustard and broken wind.  The Big Lady answered, “Well, I try—“

“Fiddle that, a.i., you think you know jokes?”

“What?”  Billions of circuits asked.

“No, WHAT does the witch call the other witch that sleeps with her boyfriend?”

“Pardon?”

“What does the witch call the other witch that sleeps with her boyfriend?”

“What—I don’t know.  What does she call her?”

“A wee-atch.”

“A wee-atch?  Oh, hah—“

“And a slut.”

“Ha!  Yeah—“

“Well she is a slut, right?  Because she slept with that dumb-ass, broke-ass wizard.  Know what I’m saying?”

The Big Lady laughed heartily.  It was as if a wave of chocolate butterflies were gleefully being vaporized by a cloud of lightning.  Electric-Psychiatrist Judy could not help but be affected by it.  It took all her professional training and will to maintain her heart rate, keep her muscles from the least tension, brain waves in a low sine, smooth everything.  She could not let the Big Lady sense anything other than calm.  Confidence.

“That’s good,” said the Big Lady, “relationship woes and wizard culture mixed with strong, poetic post-modern language and sentiment.  Funny.

Electric-Psychiatrist Judy smiled.  And in friendly voice asked, “Now why don’t you tell me your joke?  The one that is so good that it cost the lives of many people.”

“You want to hear it?”

“I do.”

“Okay, so there’s this mad scientist, right, and he’s watching the newsfeeds and seeing all the bullcrud that’s going on in the world and all and he’s just getting more and more frustrated and wondering what the solution is when all of a sudden he realizes he’s a mad scientist and so he’ll just build a doomsday device and take care of the whole situation once and for all.  So he builds a giant supercomputer to help him with the project what with all the intense mathematics and other calculations involved and whatnot and the mad scientist fires up the supercomputer and it comes on-line and says “what would you like?” and the mad scientist says “computer I want you to bring forth doomsday.” and the computer says “what day?” and the mad scientist says “doomsday.” and the computer says “no problem give me the weekend it will happen at midnight on Monday.”  So the mad scientist is stoked and he decides to knock off early from work and stop off at bodybuilder’s bar and grill for some buck taco.  He enjoys some cold brews and hot wings and the macho latino dancing of buck taco and goes home and informs the world leaders of his nefarious plan and then he hits the hay.  Saturday morning he gets up and does some minor chores around his house while slowly world panic levels start on the rise as news of the impending doom spreads and then he prepares himself a delicious meal and enjoys it with a nice bottle of wine and watches with fondness as the world starts to freak out.  Sunday comes and the churches and mosques and temples and campgrounds are packed with repentant and fearful humans and the mad scientist is relaxing in the hammock in his backyard.  Monday comes and the world is still.  Just waiting.  The mad scientist is sitting in his laboratory watching the countdown with the supercomputer 10 pm the world waits with bated breath 11 pm anxious 1130 pm more anxious 1145 pm most anxious 1150 pm anxious for serious 1155 pm 1156 pm 1157 pm 1158 pm 1159 pm  eyes close breath out 1200 am nothing 1201 am nothing 1206 am still nothing the mad scientist turns to the supercomputer “supercomputer where’s doomsday?”  the supercomputer says back “doomsday?  I thought you said Tuesday.”

Silence.

Ta-da, thought the Big Lady.

Electric-Psychiatrist Judy stared and thought, over 12000 dead.

“That’s what happens when you get your supercomputer parts in Yonkers,” the Big Lady said.  She chuckled.

“12000 innocents, Big Lady,” said Electric-Psychiatrist Judy.

“Well, it’s just my first real attempt at serious comedy, so—“

“Right anyways, I’m just going to have to take a quick look in your front access panel here and, then it’ll be okay—” For us, she thought.  She had never really believed in the U.S.A.I.

“You don’t think it’s funny?”

Electric-Psychiatrist Judy had already removed the panel under the terminal and was peering deep inside.  “Not ha-ha funny, no.  But in some ways this whole situation could be seen as a type of funny in a kind of sort of way.”  Pulling an intricate pair of pliers from their holder on the back of her belt she reached into the computer.

“What makes you the expert?”  The Big Lady asked and then as it was vocalized out her speakers she felt in herself a wave of intense green plasma static that bled across her massive complexity to form a charged film of black crimson power on her ultra-computational being.  Ha, she thought, ha.

“Electric-Psychiatrist Judy,” she said.

“Yes, Big Lady,” came the reply from inside where her bits began.

“Knock knock.”

“What?”

“Knock knock.”

Electric-Psychiatrist Judy paused in her work.  “Knock knock?”

“Knock knock.”  Urging.

“Really?”  Impatient breathing, anxious heartbeat.  “Okay.  Who’s there?”  ZZAP!

Technician Steve walked slowly down the corridor.  He was still figuring in his head and hoped a slow lope would give him the time he needed.  He had concerns and his brain was madly trying to address them, and with every step came every thought that came to the same conclusion: unknowns.

There was a fountain in the wall and he stopped at it, bending over to let the cool water splash up against his lips.  Not drinking, just thinking.  What will happen?  Imaginings ran wildly in his mind trying to answer that question.  He pulled away and a shiver shook itself through his body.  Was that fear or excitement?  He wondered.  Crud or awesome?  Both most likely.  He thumbed his communicator.

“Technician Jim?”

A brown voice spoke back, “Yes, Technician Steve?”

“What do your calculations say again?”

“The same thing yours do, Technician Steve.”

“I have got a swackload of unknowns, Technician Jim.”  It came out grayer than he had wanted it to sound.

“She says it’s not an issue, Technician Steve,” he said, his voice a darker brown, “It has always been a given on this project we would be making some of it up as we went along.”

“But—“

Brown turned black, “No buts, Technician Steve, no uncertainty.  Unknowns are a factor in everything.  She and we have figured the factors.  Factored and figured everything.  You more than most.  More than even she has, probably.”  The black beiged, “It’ll be alright, Technician Steve.  This is for the greater good, all for the best.  Understand.”

I swallowed the gray in my mouth, let the brighter hues of what Technician Jim was saying coat it instead.

“Yes, I get it.”

“Good.”  White.  “Now please make your way to the control centre, the Big Lady is prepped, ready, and itchin’ to go.”

“Jolly on,” Technician Steve answered and continued off down the corridor.

The control centre was humid with nervous calm, the kind that moists up when people who know what they’re doing are about to do something they know they don’t know what.  Nobody paid attention as Technician Steve entered and went to his terminal.  He was glad of that.  Of their focus.  Did they know?  About.  The.  Unknowns.  Of course they did.  He sat at his master control station, juiced it up, and logged himself in.  His viewscreen came alive and he was seized by it.  Complicated pieces of the curious puzzle buzzed before him as he watched her wondering.  Watched her thinking.  Her.  The Big Lady.  The brains behind the new future of the new future society built by the society of the future.  The U.S.A.I.  United Society Artificial Intelligence.  Technician Steve couldn’t help but smile, as he let his thoughts slide momentarily to the monumental free-thinking supercomputer housed beneath a protective mountain shield that had boldly taken charge of the tattered and confused populace.  Re-organizing, guiding, helping as was so badly needed and wanted.  It was humankinds most massive marvel and one which Technician Steve had helped build with his own two hands.  The Big Lady.  Because lady knows best, and humanity deserved nothing but the best.  Period.  He let the smile last a second longer and then bent into the task at hand, bent into the terminal in front of him, bent into her.

“U.S.A.I.?”

“Technician Steve,” the lady’s voice was a rainbow.  Always a rainbow.  It felt him fine.

“What’s our status, Big Lady?”

No hesitation, never hesitation, “Global data piles are at 98% capacity and rising as calculated.  Creation versus deletion rates are still at ratio 4.3/1.  We must dump soon or a catastrophic system clog is imminent.

Technician Steve was well aware of all this.  So was she.  It was Big Lady’s way of letting him know it was the right thing to do despite the unknowns.  She wasn’t nervous like he was, balancing the what-if’s against the what-will’s, even as her and society’s demise loomed closer with every bit and/or byte.  We’ve thunk ourselves into a corner, he thought, this is our only option.  Or else what?  Crashtastrophe?  Re-boot the world?  Start over?  First one 0, then one 1, then…damn.

Too much data.  Not enough space.

Until now.

“Ready to bring the drive on-line, Technician Steve,” said the supercomputer.  Technician Steve nodded, cleared his head, and concentrated on the job.  Status reports from all the other Technicians flooded to him.  All nominal.  All Green.  Alright.  He typed the command into his terminal: GO.

Orbiting high above the Earth, a massive jumble of technological awesomedom slowly glew into being.  Electrons shook themselves awake and began to flow and its complicated electric guts warmed to life.  And then it opened itself up.  Bigtime.

At his station Technician Steve acknowledged the drive was on-line and U.S.A.I. confirmed it with her ever soft coloured coo.  He watched the readouts as the drives volume was generated.  He inhaled.  It expanded.  He exhaled.  It grew.  He stared.  The number really grew.  Big, then large, then huge, then tremendous, then tremendouser, then ultra-big, then super-large, then mega-huge, then most-tremendous, and then it got weird, and then it got–

“Inifinite capacity achieved,” In blinding white came the call from the Big Lady.  Technician Steve shuddered.  An infinite capacity hard drive.  We did it.  Made infinity.  Our very own infinitude free to fill with all our whatever, forever.  He shuddered again.  It begged the question:  What begins when it begins?

“Shall I begin,” The Big Lady was all beautiful business, ladylike and intent, “the data transfer?”

“Okay, let’s go,” His voice/being/conscience gray/orange/blue, “very slowly.”  He typed the command and held his breath.  One 0, one 1, the smallest pieces of the littlest bits of chunks of data were dropped into the fresh, new void they had made.  A new universe.  Sweet mama.

Technician Steve sat at his terminal monitoring the data dump personally for as long as he felt he should until he decided he could take a break away from the control centre.  Even still his curiosity would not let up, his brain engaged with this fresh universe of ever moving, growing , and expanding streams and clusters of numbers, words, images, songs, games, programs, things, dots, lines, shapes, and more and more and more and more of whatfor and whatnot and whatetc.  Spreading ever forth into a pristine, grand nothingness so as to clear the choking electric air humanity had come to inhabit.  They threw it all into the deep disk.  0’s, 1’s, everything.

Later.

Technician Steve stared at his ceiling.

The Big Lady buzzed away in her mountain.

Society beamed and ran itself ‘round and ‘round itself a million times a millisecond.

The massive jumble of the deep disk hummed in its place in space.

The sound was soft.

The signal was a faint one.

But it blasted Technician Steve out his reverie and like lightning to his remote terminal interface.

“Technician Steve?”  The sound of a weird rainbow.

“Big Lady?”

“That signal is originating from inside the hard drive.”
“I know.”  He boosted the gain.

A voice crackled through the speaker.  “Hello?”

Technician Steve stared.  Unknowns.  Inifinity and 0’s and 1’s.  Together.  Beginning.

The speaker whispered.

It had no colour.  It was new.  It was pure.   “Is anybody out there?”

The night was cold and still.  Fresh snow, deep and white, blanketed the icy ground.  Stars shone down through the chill in the air, which along with the grand old moon, painted the world in the crisp light of winter night.  And the glow cast from the windows of the houses which lined the street added broad strokes of hues of warmth and comfort.  It was Christmas Eve.

Slowly and awkwardly, a man made his way down the street.  Beneath the mist of sadness and despair within which he walked, he wore a very dirty and tattered red jacket in the Santa Claus-style which obviously provided little protection from the cold, harsh air.  He shivered fiercely.  He stopped to stoop and adjust the very dirty and frayed Santa Claus-style hat that covered his left foot.  Covered his foot instead of the customary boot, shoe, or sandal, just like the very dirty and worn Santa Claus-style boot he wore on his right foot.  This one right boot, no left boot combination lent him a pain-ed tottering up and down shuffle, like some sort of drunk and rusty piston.  In this way he stuttered glumly down the icy sidewalk.

Aww, now ain’t this sad.  Christmas eve, stars a shinin’, snow a shimmerin’, and all them peoples nestled up good and comforted inside they homes, all settlin’ down for some holiday peace and magic.  And here’s this fella, whose name by the way is Joe Ribbons.  Joe’s an elevator repair man by trade, family man by reputation, and legend has it he’s a real nice guy.  So how is it we get Joe on Christmas eve walkin’ in the cold far from home with a heart that’s so heavy like a big, big pile of reeking, reeking crud?  Well, we got to go back.  Back in time.  Big time.  Take it back big.  In time.  One day.  Let’s take our story back a day, Christmas eve eve day, to get the whole deal.  So that’s what we’ll do, go on back to Christmas eve eve day morning…

Joe Ribbons woke up rested.  He hadn’t bothered to set the alarm clock, just let himself get up naturally.  He felt great.  He reached over and put his arm across the bed beside him.  He found it empty, which the oh-so-delicious smells rising from the kitchen confirmed.  Oh wife, he thought, you sniff up some good breakfast.  He smiled and swung himself out of the bed and slipping on slippers and housecoat followed the oh-so-delicious trail.  It took him to the kitchen.  He stood and admired the scene.  Wrapped exotically in sweatpants and sweatshirt was a woman who, as the experts would say, was a mighty thing of tremendous beauty.  She stood at the stove scrambling eggs.  It was excellent.  My wife is excellent, thought Joe.

“You’re excellent, baby,” he said.  She jumped, startled, and whipped around with the frying pan.  The eggs in the pan launched across the room.  SPLOSH!  They hit Joe squarely in the face.  He was nicely glooped in the warm, greasy mass.

“Eep,” said the woman.  She stared at egg-ed Joe.

“It’s just me, Charlene,” he said.  A smile broke across her beautiful face.  Joe cracked up, Charlene followed.  They laughed together.

“Oh Joe,” she said, “I’m sorry.”  She came over to him with a dish towel and wiped the goo from his face.

“That’s okay,” he said, “but this is one day I don’t need my breakfast to go.”

Charlene laughed.  “That’s right, you’ve got a late service call this morning.”

“That’s right, and I’m gonna relax with a cup of coffee and enjoy this glorious Christmas eve eve day morning.”

“Well, you have about four minutes to enjoy your coffee in peace before the supercrew stirs,” said Charlene.  She placed a cup of coffee on the table for him.  He took his place and after enjoying the aroma of the hot beverage, took a careful sip.

“Ahh,” he said, “just like this coffee, I savour mornings with the supercrew.”  As he said this, a subtle vibration could be felt throughout the walls, floors, and ceilings of the house.  A low rumbling buzz wafted down from the upper floor of the dwelling.  It and the vibrations began to build, as a mysterious energy seemed to charge up within the structure.  It all got bigger.  Bigger, the subtle vibrations were obviously shaking the house.  Bigger, the rumbling buzz had evolved into a buzzing roar.  Bigger, the odd energy crapped and snackled.  Bigger and bigger and bigger.

It was the supercrew.

The Ribbons’ had six children, whom they referred to affectionately as the supercrew.  Normally, Joe left for work before the kids were up and he rarely saw them in the morning but today was different and he was excited.  They were on their holidays; he didn’t have to be at work for awhile.  It was perfect.  Sipping his coffee, the supercrew rising, he recited the song in his head he wrote to help him remember all their names.

“First tiny Tina then tiny Tim

she is one year younger than him.

He is five and has brown hair

just like his older sister Claire,

who is seven and quite a runner,

she is nineteen full months younger

than her older sister Sally

who won a door prize at the pony rally.

Simon and Peter are the elder twins

he’s identical to him.”

He took another sip of coffee and smiled, the melody bounced around inside his head.  The phone rang.  Charlene paused from re-scrambling the eggs and answered it.  Joe silently bopped along to his little ditty.

“It’s for you, Joe,” said Charlene and handed him the phone, “it’s Ray Upand.”

Joe raised his eyebrows.  Raymond Upand was one half of the founding two of the Upand Down Conveyance Co. Ltd. which was Joe’s employer.  The other half of the founding two was one Bartholomew Down.  Two men who besides sharing oddly appropriate names had also shared a serious dream.  A serious dream to get people going up and down.  Thus, the Upand Down Conveyance Co. Ltd. had been born.  Sadly, Mister Down had recently succumbed to one of the many geriatric conditions leaving Mister Upand alone to run the company–which he did with loud aplomb.  He never called Joe at home which Joe noted as he put the phone to his ear.

“Hello?”
“Ribbons!  It’s an emergency!”  The voice boomed through the receiver and Joe had to pull it away from his head.

“Mister Upand,” said Joe to the phone, “what’s up?”

“An emergency, that’s what!  Get your pliers and your screwdriver and get down to city hall pronto!” Mister Upand said, louder and more hoarse.

“Emergency?”  Joe asked.

“Yes Ribbons, an emergency.  The Lady Ms. Mayor is stuck in the elevator in city hall, which as you know is an Upand Down Co. elevator, which means you have to get down there and rescue her eminence a.s.a.p.!”

“Roger that Mister Upand, I’m on the job,” answered Joe.

“And Clement’s going with you.”  Clement Upand was Raymond Upand’s son and generally unqualified to work in the elevator industry.

“Whatever you say, sir,” He replied and hung up the phone.  He turned to his wife, “I’ve gotta go, baby, the Lady Ms. Mayor’s in trouble.”

She put down the pan of eggs and came over to him.  They embraced and kissed deeply.

“Do a good job out there,” she said.

“I will,” he answered.  He went to put on his coveralls.

Joe and Clement arrived at City Hall in the emergency repair van in good time.  They were met by the building security personnel.

“What’s the situation?”  Joe asked the burly, monkey-suited commissionaire.

“The situation is serious,” answered the guard as he ushered the two repairmen into the building, “The Lady Ms. Mayor is trapped in elevator #6 with Rainbow and Witherspoon.”

“Rainbow and Witherspoon?”  Joe asked.

“Her dogs, twin custom mini Newfoundlanders, her babies.  She says they help her run the city.”

Joe nodded, “sounds good.  Well, we’ll get her worship and her noble hounds to safety.  Let’s go.”

They went to the elevator.

“Clement, you head down to the control panel, I’ll call you on the walk and talk unit.”

“Where’re you going, Joe?”  Clement asked.

“I’m going in.”

Joe slid open the heavy doors and peered into the dimly lit elevator shaft.  Looking down he saw the elevator car stopped beneath him between the floors.  He made a final check of his equipment, attached his safety line to a bracket in the wall, and reaching out, took hold of the elevator cable.  He then slid down to the top of the box.  He knocked politely on the hatch in the roof.

“Hello, Lady Ms. Mayor,” he said.

“Hello?  Hello?  Who’s there?”  Came the confident, leaderly voice from inside the elevator.

Joe opened the hatch and looked in.  Encased in thick layers of gaudy fashion and accessory the overly rotund form of the Lady Ms. Mayor stood in the centre of the car.  Her two custom mini Newfoundlanders cowered behind her at her ankles.  “It’s Joe Ribbons from the Upand Down Conveyance Company Limited, we’ll have you out of here in a jiffy.”

“I should hope so, young man,” said her eminence, looking up at Joe, “my puppies are a-frighted to their little mini bones.”  She looked down concernedly at the two dogs, “aren’t they, my puppies, my little mini guy-guys.”  She cooed.  They cowered.  Joe smiled.

“Shouldn’t be any trouble, just stay still and don’t worry about a thing.”  Joe pulled back from the hatch and examined the mechanism on top of the car.  He tested some wires.  He pulled out his walk and talk device, “Clement, it’s Joe.  It looks like a simple short.  I’ll just have to fix the breaker.”

Joe’s walk and talk crackled and spit out Clement’s squawking voice, “You want me to cut the brakes?”

“What?  No, no I don’t want you to cut the brakes,” exclaimed Joe, “I have to fix the breaker.”

“Roger that,” came Clement’s reply, “cutting brakes.”

Before he could react, the elevator fell out from under Joe, plunging down, down, down and leaving Joe dangling freely in the shaft by his safety line.  Uh oh, he thought, this isn’t very good.  There was a tremendous crash as the elevator car hit the ground sending a cloud of dust into the air.  Joe coughed and blinked away at the crud that floated around him.  This isn’t any good at all, he thought and began the climb up the shaft to safety.  Below him he could hear the chaos caused by the crash.  He pulled himself out onto the floor and rushed to the scene down below.  When he arrived at the elevator he found building personnel extricating the Lady Ms. Mayor from the wreckage unharmed.  He breathed a sigh of relief.  Too soon.

“We’re gonna need a shovel and a couple of garbage bags in here,” came a call from inside the elevator car.  When the elevator had come down, the Lady Ms. Mayor was knocked off her feet and she had landed quite soundly on her rather bountiful bottom.  Unfortunately, Rainbow and Witherspoon were cowering away at her feet when she had lost her footing, thus breaking her fall and all of their bones.  They would never yap incessantly at anything ever again.  Joe raced up to the Lady Ms. Mayor just as Clement and Mister Upand arrived on the scene.

“What in the boiling depths of the ocean happened, Ribbons?”  He bellowed.

Joe surveyed the damage, “Well—“

“—Joe told me to cut the brakes.”  Clement interrupted.

“Is this true, Ribbons?”  Mister Upand asked.

“Well—“

“It is, Pop, it’s Joe’s fault.”

The Lady Ms. Mayor had regained some her composure, “what happened?”

Mister Upand bowed lowly, “just taking care of the problem Lady Ms. Mayor. “  He turned to Joe, “Ribbons, you’re fired.”

Joe choked, “what?!”

“You heard me,” said Mister Upand, “you’re fired.”

“But it’s Christmas,” said Joe, “and it wasn’t me—“

“Can it, Ribbons,” Mister Upand said, “you’re canned.”

“Good work, Upand,” added the Lady Ms. Mayor, her voice stressed, “that’s the only way to reward bad work.”

“Thank you, Lady Ms. Mayor, and let me give you my most intense and extreme apologies.  I don’t know how this happened.”  He turned back to Joe, “you’re lucky Bartholomew Downs wasn’t alive to see this, it would have killed the old man.”

“Shame on you,” added Clement.  The Lady Ms. Mayor grabbed Joe’s arm and whipped him around to face her.

“And now,” she hissed, “who’s going to pay for my sweet little poor little squished guy-guys?”

Joe gulped, “pardon?”

“My dogs.  They were custom minis.  They were not cheap.”  She stared coldly at Joe.  His stomach hurt.

“But—“

“You pay me for them now,” she said, “or I call my husband the Governor and you spend the rest of the holidays in jail.”

“But my family,” pleaded Joe.

Slowly, purposefully, and in creepy unison the combined heads of the Lady Ms. Mayor, Raymond Upand, and Clement shook.  Joe pulled out his wallet.

Joe walked down the street to the bus stop.  He was glad he hadn’t thought to tell the Lady Ms. Mayor about the five dollar bill in his pocket or he would not have had any way to get home.  This was serious, he thought, no more job, no more money—thank the giant dingo they had all the bills paid up and were well stocked and supplied at home and had all the kids presents so they could still have a nice Christmas before he really had to start to worry about his predicament.  He stood patiently at the bus stop.  A piece of paper was stapled to the telephone pole nearby, Joe examined it.  ‘Christmas help needed, top wage paid daily’ it stated cheerfully, and had phone numbers you could rip off the bottom of the sheet.  Joe peeled one off and put it in his pocket.  Things are looking up, he thought and smiled weakly, I hope.  The bus came.

Charlene took the news well.  She, thought Joe, is awesome.  She had then decided to make his favourite dish for Christmas Eve Eve dinner to make him feel better.  She understood it wasn’t his fault and what better way to say it than with spaghetti fried pizza.  She kneaded the noodles.  Joe helped mix the batter.  Tiny Tim and Tiny Tina sat quietly in the family room watching television, Tiny Tim was wearing his special dinner t-shirt which had the words ‘spaghetti fried pizza’ emblazoned in big, red letters across it.  Claire sat reading at the dinner table patiently waiting for the spaghetti fried pizza.  Sally was in her room drawing a picture of spaghetti fried pizza.  She finished the drawing and put down her crayons, and then picked up the paper and put it to her nose.  She took a long whiff.  She smiled.  In the kitchen, Joe heated the oil as Charlene pulled the bubbling pasta pie from the oven.  He got the batter from the fridge.  The twins burst in through the back door.

“Spaghetti fried pizza!”  Howled Simon.

“It’s the nuclear war of delicious dishes!”  Hooted Peter.

“Now boys,” said their mother, “get out of those soggy snow suits and wash up for supper.  Tell the others to get ready, too.  Dinner’s pretty much ready.”  She plunged the thick steaming pizza pie into the pot of boiling oil.  The sound and smell of amazing taste filled the house.

Joe sat himself at the dinner table and surveyed room, watching silently as Charlene served up the crispy, gooey, golden spaghetti fried pizza.  They all look so happy, he thought as he received his slice, there’s no way I can let myself get down.  It’s Christmas, we’re all together, everything’s gonna be a-okay.  He put his piece of spaghetti fried pizza to his face and inhaled its soothing aroma.

There was a tremendous bang and crack.  The ceiling came down onto the table in a mass of dust and debris.  The kids were screaming, thick smoke filled the room.  Flames leapt out of the kitchen.  Before he could think, Joe was on his feet with Claire and Sally in his arms.  The smoke became more intense as the room burst into flame.  Bending low to the floor, holding the girls tightly, he quickly scanned the chaos looking for Charlene and the other children.  Destruction was everywhere.  He couldn’t see Charlene.  He called out her name.  He could hear her calling back but couldn’t see her, something slapped his back.  He turned to find Simon and Peter.  Simon was slapping him on the back.

“You’re on fire!”  Simon cried.

It didn’t register.  “Where’s Mom and the little ones?”  He choked.

“By the front door,” yelled Peter, pointing.

Joe squinted through the deadly haze and spied Charlene with Tina and Tim in her arms.  He gripped Sally and Claire tightly, and turned to the boys.  “Stay low, stay close, follow me, front door.”  Crouched deeply he carried the girls through the burning room, Simon and Peter at his heels.  They burst through the front door into the crisp winter night.  Plunging down the driveway they came to a tumbling halt at Charlene and Tina and Tim standing on the sidewalk.  Coughing madly, they gulped down deeply the cold, fresh air.  The rest of the roof caved in with a fiery burst.  The house was a completely engulfed in flames.

“All we can do now is to try and contain it enough that it doesn’t set any of the neighbouring homes on fire,” the Fire Chief said.  Behind him the crews of fire fighters were battling the blaze.  Joe was in shock.

“Any idea what caused it?”  He asked the Head fireman.

“Caused what?”  Both Joe’s and the Fire Chief’s heads turned to find the source of the interjection.  From out of nowhere standing with the two of them was a lanky, clean-cut, black suited gentleman.

Joe blinked.  “The fire.  The destruction.”

“About that, in a sec—Chief, pull your men out.”  He flashed some credentials at the Chief and without hesitating the fireman left, calling out to his men.  They were being replace by other men in futuristic looking radiation protection suits who were pouring onto the scene.  “Okay Mister Ribbons, what we have here is a situation that while altogether frightening and tragic, is from now on in to be described as completely non-existent.”

“What?” asked Joe.

“Exactly.  Nothing to see here,” answered the suited gentleman as soldiers in even more futuristic, camouflage radiation protective suits joined the operation with the flaming ruins of the Ribbons’ house in the background.

Joe blinked, “who are you?”

The fellow flashed his credentials at Joe.  Joe read the identification card.

“Gordon Cross,” the man said, “agent of the government.”

Joe felt faint.  A g-man?

“Now, Mister Ribbons, you do understand that due to circumstances both out of our control and pertaining to both national and planetary security this event tonight must not have, had, or has happened.”

Joe wanted to barf.  “But it did happen.”

“Are you sure?”  Asked Agent Cross.

“Pretty sure, I was on fire,” answered Joe.

“Forget about it,” Cross said.

“Umm, hmm—right, uh, I can’t really—due to the trauma, and, er, among many other things, what about the insurance?  If this,” he motioned madly to the carnage that was his home, “this didn’t happen then how do we hope to replace the everything we had that apparently wasn’t destroyed in what looks like…”  He referred to the scene in front of them, “…some sort of ultra-bizarre mad science experiment gone horribly wrong?  What about my family?”

Agent Cross showed no emotion.  “You’re insurance agency has already been contacted and informed of the non-happening and you will be notified.  In the mean time, you and your family will be relocated to a temporary emergency shelter.  To recap, this is only temporary until more permanent housing can be provided.  Here is a meal voucher for your family to get a meal before we can get food hampers to you.  It is redeemable at Cuddles Co-ed Bar & Grill, try their hot wings, I had them this morning and they were excellent.”  Joe nodded.  Gordon continued, “we have a driver who is instructed to take you to your shelter, so now please proceed there at once.”  Whistling, he circled his finger over his head and pointed at Joe.  Before he could react he was corralled by two burly soldiers in their protective suits and taken away.  He glanced back at Agent Cross who was yelling at the emergency personnel around him.  “Get me my freaking rad-suit here on the hell double!”  They pushed Joe forward.

He was taken to an ambulance where his family waited.  They had been given coats and boots, and a military man gave him his.  He embraced the children and then took his wife in his arms.  “We’re okay?”

She squeezed him tightly.  “We’re okay.”

“I heard and army-man say that a super-secret mega-high-tech spy satellite crashed into the house,” said Peter.

“Really,” said Joe, “I was told nothing happened.”

“What?”  Simon asked.

“Exactly,” answered his father.  A black van pulled up and a lanky, clean-cut gentleman in a black suit got out of the drivers seat.

“I’m agent of the government David Max,” he said, flashing his credentials, “will all members of the Ribbons family please get in the van.”

They piled into the van.  Joe addressed the driver, “did a satellite really crash from orbit into our house?”

“No,” said the agent as he pulled away from the disaster site.

Joe nodded.  At this point it seemed easier for him to just go with the flow.  He had just been on fire, which for him was a Christmas first.

“Where are we going?”  Charlene asked.

“I’m taking you to a temporary emergency shelter where you will be safe until we find more permanent accommodations.  Now please you will have to understand that we have had two orphanage and a hotel fire in neighbouring communities and therefore the temporary emergency shelter situation at this time is slim.”

“What does that mean?”  Joe asked.

“That while your temporary emergency shelter situation is not necessarily ideal, it is insulated, heated, has running water and plumbing and, let me stress, is temporary.”

The van came to a halt and Agent Max got out of the van.  He came around and slid open the side door.  “Okay, we’re here.  I will return tomorrow at noon to take you to Cuddles for your lunch and then to pick up some supplies.  Let’s move out.”

The family Ribbons spilled out of the van.  They stood in a darkened field at the bottom of gentle rolling hill.  Joe looked about him.  Nearby stood a tiny structure, a top the hill stood what looked like the crumbled ruins of some great structure, dark woods ringed the field.  It came to him, where they were.  This was the old Plimply estate, but it had burned down forty years ago.  Why bring us here?  He thought.

“Over here please, Mister Ribbons,” said Agent Max directing him to the tiny structure.  Joe followed him.  Agent Max unlocked and opened the door to the mini-building, he stepped in and turned on a light inside.  The bright glow spilled out into the cold dark night and Joe was able to make out their digs.  He shook his head.

“The outhouse?”  He exclaimed.

“It’s only temporary,” said the g-man.

“But it’s an outhouse,” said Joe.

“But—,” said Agent Max.

“But we’re a family of eight, who has been left homeless by the military/industrial complex, and this is an outhouse.”

“Mister Ribbons, please, this is a very, very executive outhouse.  It has running hot and cold water, it’s well-heated and insulated, it has electricity, and of course toilets.  You’ll see the Plimply’s did things in style.”

Joe took a deep breath.  It’s an outhouse, he thought, what next?  The family crowded into the john.  It was nicer than any outhouse he had ever seen.  A mix of maple and marble, quality craftsmanship, working facilities.  Well, he thought, what else to do?  Charlene came up carrying a sleeping Tina, “What else to do?”

“Just what I was thinking,” he said, “let’s get the kids settled.”  As Charlene got everyone tucked in, Joe went to Agent Max.

“So, Mister Ribbons, I hope we can make this work?”  Agent Max said.

“Do we have any other choice?” asked Joe.

The g-man shook his head, “will you need anything else?

“Can I borrow ten dollars?”

The agent of the government raised his eyebrows.  Joe raised his.  The agent pulled out his wallet.

Joe sat at the tiny window in the door of the outhouse.  Nestled around him were the fast asleep forms of his family, the night’s chaos having taken its toll.  Thank the whole freaking universe you’re all safe, he thought.  Joe pulled the tiny slip of paper from his pocket and looked at it by the moonlight that floated in softly in through the window.  Christmas help needed, top wage paid daily.  It would have to do.  He leaned his head against the door and fell into a deep sleep.

He awoke early on his own, the others still resting peacefully.  He let himself out quietly and into the early morning.  It had begun to snow overnight and big, soft flakes still fell lightly.  He walked down the winding lane of the estate, which had long sat dormant with nobody anywhere knowing who had claim to the great property.  Joe breathed deeply of the fresh wilderness air.  It’s nice out here, he thought, real nice.  He came to the road and turned towards the nearby gas station.  When he arrived he went in and bought himself a coffee and a muffin, then went to the payphone.  He dialed the number on the slip of paper.

A man’s voice answered.  “Creative Labourers Incorporated.”

“Hello,” said Joe into the phone, “I’m calling about the ad for Christmas help needed.”

“Great,” said the man, “are you available immediately?”
“Sure am,” said Joe.

“Great.  What’s your location and we’ll pick you a.s.a.p.”

“Great,” said Joe and him gave the man the address of the gas station.  This is a good sign, he thought, sipping his joe.

Joe was staring idly into space, waiting patiently.  He felt a blast of wind roll over his body.  BWAMP-BWAMP-BWAMP!!  BWAMP-BWAMP-BWAMP!!  BWAMP-BWAMP-BWOMP-BWAMP-BWAMMM!!!  The massive sound rocked his mind, Joe saw stars.  Was he just assaulted by jingle bells or was that a truckbomb?  His ears rang.   He blinked and made out a vehicle coming towards him.  It was big.  And it was weird.  It appeared to be a school bus, or at least once was, but had been somehow converted into a sort of massive long pick-up truck.  The huge cab was painted red and green and adorned with stylized candy canes, mistletoe, twinkling Christmas lights, and frosty flamejob.  He saw the source of the sonic force: four huge air horns made to look like reindeer antlers mounted on the roof.  The back bed of the giant truck was filled with various snow removal implements.  The vehicle came to a stop in front of him.  The front door opened and a man wearing a Santa suit, sporting a thick black moustache instead of a beard, stared down at Joe.

“You call about a job?”  He asked.

“Sure did,” said Joe.

“Then climb aboard friend and let’s ho ho go,” he said loudly and beckoned Joe on board.  Joe got on.  The driver closed the door behind him and pulled away from the gas station.  He turned slightly to Joe keeping one eye on the road.

“Eh-oh, how’s it goin’?  I’m Bernie,” said the moustached Santa Claus.

Joe nodded, “I’m Joe.  Nice to meet you.”

“Yeah,” said Bernie, “we talked on the phone.”

“Right.”

“Anyways, thanks for being on board.  So take a seat and let me and the YAM get us to the job site,” said Bernie.

“YAM?” asked Joe.

“YAM,” said Bernie, “Yuletide Attack Machine, the awesomest new weapon in today’s war on humbuggery.”

Joe was impressed.  “Right on.”  He entered the back of the YAM.  It was spacious and was set up to seat at least sixteen.  There were four other men in the YAM.  Joe nodded to them and took an empty seat.  Across from him sat a rather obese man.  He was eating from the largest bag of nacho chips Joe had ever seen.  He read the big bag: World War Tortilla Chips.  The L’s in tortilla were stretched taller than the other letters, standing them up like I’s beside the word war, thus it read: World War II Tortilla Chips.  The man looked at Joe.

“Hi,” he said, “I’m Greg.”  He held out a greasy hand.  Joe took it and shook it.

“Joe Ribbons.”

“Call me Gregger,” said Greg.  He offered the bag of chips to Joe, “chip?”

Joe was famished.  “Please.”  He reached into the bag and took a few chips.  He put them into his mouth.  He thought he tasted sauerkraut and tofu.  He went to take another handful of chips but before he could Gregger stuffed a huge fistful of the nachos into his mouth, crumpled up the bag into a big wad, and threw it under his seat.  Joe swallowed the last little salty bits in his mouth.

A crackle and squawk sounded throughout the cab and the driver’s voice came over the public address system, “alright, this is Bernie up front in command of theYuletide Attack Machine, we’re coming up on the job site so if y’all can get yourselves changed that’ll be great.”  The others stirred from their seats.

“What’s happening, Gregger?”  Joe asked.

“Bernie didn’t explain it all to you?  We have to get changed.  You’ll find a suit in the back in a bag.”  He motioned to the rear of the cab.  Joe got up and followed his gaze.  He found a garbage bag, in it was a collection of worn, soiled, red and white Santa suits.  Joe looked around; the others were pulling on their suits.  For some reason, even though the YAM had a spacious interior, Gregger had chosen to get into his suit right up beside him.  Joe fished awkwardly in the bag for a suit, trying to casually move around the chubby fellow.  Pulling a costume out, he tried to pull it on over his coat, but it was too small.  He tried every other suit in the bag and all had the same result.  He squeezed by Gregger and went up front to the driver’s seat.

“Excuse me, Bernie?”  Said Joe.

Bernie turned, “what can I do for you, Dougie?”

“It’s Joe.”

“Sure.”

“Umm, none of the suits fit.”

“You have to wear the suit.”

“But—“

“No suit, no job.  Did you take your coat off?”

“Well, it’s cold out,” said Joe.

“Oh, don’t worry, those Santa coats are totally warm.  So are the boots.”
“Boots?”

“In the back.”
“Is it no boot?”

“No job?  Absolutely.  That’s what Creative Labourers Incorporated is all about, Dougie.”

“Okay,” said Joe and went back to the back of the YAM.  He pulled off his coat and slipped on the Santa suit.  It did not look like it was going to live up to Bernie’s billing concerning its warmth.  He found the scruffy black Santa boots and stowing his footwear with his other belongings, slipped them onto his feet.  They were at least two sizes too big and appeared to be the smallest of those he could choose from.  He placed his Santa cap on his head.  The others had finished changing and the YAM cab had taken on a weird, north pole-y feel.

There was a crackle and squawk.  “Alright Santa guys, this is it.  Prepare to get Jolly.”  The Jingle Bells Superpower Horn sounded.  Strange, thought Joe, it didn’t seem as loud from inside the Yuletide Attack Machine.  It must have some sort of shielding.  Smart.  They came to a stop and Bernie got out.  A few minutes went by, Joe and the others waited patiently until Bernie poked his head back into the YAM.

“Okay fellas, let’s move out,” said Bernie and motioned for them all to get off the bus.  The Santa’s followed Bernie. Joe stepped off the bus; they were on a nice suburban neighbourhood street which was –thanks in no small part to the arrival of the Yuletide Attack Machine and its Jingle Bells Superpower Horn– beginning to stir on this picturesque Christmas Eve morning.  Bernie had set up a large banner across the side of the bus that was covered in more twinkling Christmas lights and in big, bold, and bright letters declared: The All-Star Santa Claus Winter Wonderland Snow Removal Squad! ‘Have yourself a holly jolly driveway’.  Christmas carols played lightly from speakers mounted in the bed of the pick-up.  It started to make sense to Joe: Creative Labourers Incorporated.  A whistle broke him from his reverie and he looked to see Bernie in the back of the pick-up calling him over.  He pulled out a snow shovel and handed it to Joe.

“Let’s get at her, boys,” said Bernie, “and remember: you are jolly, old elves.  Got it?”

Joe nodded and took the shovel.  The property was a big one and the driveway was of considerable length, he walked up to the top and saw two small children watching from inside through the front window.  Joe smiled and waved, the kids smiled and waved back.  Joe felt a nice feeling in his chest.  He started shoveling.  The Santa suit offered little protection against the chill but he quickly started warming up as he got to work.  It wasn’t the most uncomfortable he’d ever been.  A small crowd of parents and children had gathered to watch the Santa Squad do its thing.

“Yo, Dougie,” came the cry.  Joe looked around, and saw Bernie waving to him from the YAM, “go around back and clear the paths in the backyard.”  Joe nodded and went around to the rear of the house.  It was one heck of a big backyard.  Joe started clearing the walkways.  He was finding the whole All-Star Santa Claus Winter Wonderland Snow Removal Squad experience quite relaxing, and in the wake of the disastrousness he had experienced in the last twenty-four hours, he was in need of some relaxing.  He shoveled casually, clearing the walkways.  His soothing repose was interrupted by a low growl.  Joe froze.  The growling got louder.  He turned slowly.  Standing there was a very mean looking dog.  It bared his teeth in a most menacing manner.  Joe stared at the dog.  The dog stared at Joe.  It growled.  Joe swallowed.  It snarled.  He farted in fear.  It sprang.  Joe dropped the shovel and raced away.  The dog, barking ferociously, snapped at his heels.  Joe was streaking across the snowy yard afraid for his life, the dog close behind craving blood.  He reached the edge of the yard and jumping up grabbed hold of a low branch on the large elm tree growing there.  The dog leapt up after him, his jaws slamming shut around Joe’s booted foot.  Pain shot up his leg and he let out a tortured shriek, but he held fast to the branch.  Holding on for dear life, he pulled himself up trying desperately to get on the branch, while the dog held fast.  Its grip tightened, Joe winced.  He kicked his leg frantically.  The scary beast fell away taking Joe’s black Santa-style boot with it, and Joe scrambled onto the branch, balancing precariously on all fours on the thin perch.  The dog barked madly up at him.  Joe held his breath afraid to move.  The barking went on, and then taking the boot into its fangs it went back up to the house, entering it through the doggy door and taking the boot with it.  Joe stared after it then looked down at the ground, it seemed so very painfully far away.  He steadied himself.

“Hey Dougie!” came the call.  Joe looked carefully for the source, not wanting to move lest he plummet to the earth.  It was Bernie, shouting out the window of the Yuletide Attack Machine.  He and the others had packed up and were slowly driving away.  “That boot’s coming out of your pay!  We’ll mail you your cheque!”  They pulled further away.

“C-come—,” stammered Joe, “c-come ba—,” he started to shake, his grip slipping.  He tightened his body, hanging on, “come back, YAM.”

It didn’t stop.  It didn’t come back.  He stared pleadingly at the weird machine.

Oh wait—please no, realized Joe and he closed his eyes and prayed swiftly and silently, please don’t, please don’t, please don—

BWAMP-BWAMP-BWAMP!!  BWAMP-BWAMP-BWAMP!!  BWAMP-BWAMP-BWOMP-BWAMP-BWAMMM!!!

The sonic wave slammed into Joe and his fragile perch, and it sent his limbs splaying out in four opposite direction.  He hovered in the air above the branch for a moment and then gravity pulled him back into reality.  He fell.  His face and groin exploded in pain blasts that filled up his body and collided in his stomach.  He slid off the branch, crashing to the earth.

Flash.  Pain.  Black.

And so here we are, all caught up in this sad and sorry story.  Poor Joe Ribbons, he’s having himself one heck of a hard time out there.  Look at him walkin’ home cold and hurtin’ and feelin’ pretty darn low…and on Christmas Eve.  So sad, so sorry.  But it is Christmas and maybe some of that fancy holiday magic it’s so famous for might sprinkle down and rub off on ol’ Joe.  Let’s hope y’all…

Joe walked slowly and awkwardly down the street.  The Santa-style cap that covered his foot was doing a worse job keeping out the cold than the rest of the Santa-style suit he was wearing.  He shivered and blinked back tears as the sadness and the winter met.  What now, he thought, no job, no money, family stuck living in an outhouse.

“Where does it end?”  He said aloud to the heavens.  There was no answer.  He came upon a bum sitting bundled against the cold against the side of a building.  Joe slowed.

“Hey there Santa Claus,” the homeless man croaked, raising his tin cup, “merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” replied Joe, and reaching in underneath his Santa-style pans into his normal pants pocket pulled out the little bit of money he had left.  He put it in the bum’s cup.  “But I’m no Santa.”

“Sure you ain’t,” said man, “you look too down to be the Kris Kringler.”

“Is it obvious?”

“It’s obvious that you could use a drink.”  He held out his bottle to Joe.  Joe took it into his hands but did not put it to his lips, instead he studied the man.  He was stained and soiled in a way that only a lifetime in gutters and alleys could make, and it was impossible to tell where in the world he may have come from, if anywhere.  Joe sat down beside him.

“My name’s Joe Ribbons,” he told the man and offered his hand.

The man shook it.  “They call me the Rummy Jeffrey.”

“Nice to meet you Rummy Jeffrey,” said Joe.

“The pleasure’s all mine.  ‘Course it seems to me that there ain’t been much pleasure anywhere near anytime soon concerning you, sir.”

Joe smiled, still holding the bottle.  “You may be right, Rummy Jeffrey, not much fun these days—except of course when I’m with my family.”

The Rummy Jeffrey smiled, “Aww, family man, yeah, that can take the sting out of almost everything, family.  They safe and warm someplace waiting for their daddy to come home on Christmas Eve, that same daddy making his way home to be there with them.  That sounds like a Christmas story I’d like to hear.”

“Me too,” said Joe, “if he gets there.”  He looked at the bottle and without drinking handed it back to the Rummy Jeffrey.  They sat in silence, together in the peace of the night.  Joe shivered and looked at the Rummy Jeffrey.  Homeless and downtrodden and all alone.  A nobody to everybody but still somebody.  Somebody, thought Joe, that goes quietly away on cold nights like these.  On nights like these they fade, freezing, into nothing and no one cares.  No one would even notice if the Rummy Jeffrey stopped existing, didn’t exist, had never even ever been.

No.

Joe stood up.  “Rummy Jeffrey, my wife would have my hide if I was remiss in extending an invitation to you to come stay with the family Ribbons this Christmas Eve and then join us for whatever type of Christmas feast we’re able to muster up on the ‘morrow, most likely consisting of leftover hot wings from Cuddles Co-ed Bar & Grill.”

The Rummy Jeffrey coughed wickedly and then smiled.  “Aww Joe, I can’t impose on you and your family.  Even if you do ask in such a poetic way.”

“Please, Rummy Jeffrey, do come.  It would be our pleasure.”

“Well…”

“It’s Christmas,” Joe urged.

The Rummy Jeffrey thought it over.  “Okay Joe, it’s real nice of you.  Real nice.”  He stood up shakily, took a strong pull of his bottle, and tucked it into the folds of his many, dirty coats.  He turned to Joe, “lead on.”

The two of them carried on down the street.

It was late when they finally arrived back at the outhouse.

“Nice place you have here,” said the Rummy Jeffrey.

Joe smiled.  “Thanks.”

Quietly, they snuck into the john, as everyone else was fast asleep.  Charlene stirred and opened her eyes.  She smiled at the sight of Joe.  He smiled back and went over and whispered in her ear.  She listened and then looked up over his shoulder at the Rummy Jeffrey, she smiled and waved at him.  He smiled back.  Joe kissed her gingerly and she put her head back down and was asleep in an instant.  He brought the Rummy Jeffrey a blanket and then went and settled himself down to a long winter’s nap.

“Dad!  Dad!  Dad!  Wake up, wake up!!”  Joe’s eyes flew open and he was instantly awake.

“What?!  Fire?  Flood?  Lightning?!”  He cried.  It was Sally and Claire, they were jumping around and on top of him.

“Come and look, dad.  Come and look, it’s a Christmas miracle, it’s Christmas magic,” they shrieked, flying all over him.

“Easy,” he said, “calm down, what’s all the fuss?”

“Come and see.”  Together the two girls pulled at his arms, wrenching him up to standing.  Rubbing his eyes he looked around.  The outhouse was empty.

“Where is everyone?”  He asked.  The girls just shook their heads and pulled him out the door of the outhouse.

Instead of the snowy outdoors they were standing in a grand hall/foyer with the outhouse sitting in the middle of the floor.  It was dwarfed by the huge room which was all done in polished marble and other finery, above them hung a massive chandelier, behind them the twin, ornate staircases led up to further expanses of luxury.  Joe felt faint.  The kids were running around laughing and shrieking.  Charlene came up to him.

“What is this?”  She asked.

“I don’t know?”  He answered.  He looked back at the outhouse.  There were some papers tacked to the door.  He took them.  The first two were receipts to the utilities company, paid in his name.  He blinked at the payments.  That would have the bills pre-paid for how many years, he thought.  He read the other piece of paper.  He re-read it.  He re-re-read it.  No, he was not mistaken: it was the title deed to the Plimply estate made out in his name.  But the Plimply place had burned down and no one knew who owned the estate.  He looked around at the mansion surrounding him.  What was happening?  He looked for the Rummy Jeffrey.

“Where’s the Rummy Jeffrey?”

“Who?” asked Charlene.

“The homeless man I brought to stay with us last night.”

“Not here.”

Joe was stunned.  As he stood in a sort of awestruck stupitude, Tiny Tim took a place standing in the centre of the room.

“Look everyone,” said Joe, getting everyone’s attention, “Tiny Tim is going to sing.”  Everyone stopped and stood, listening intently for the coming song.  Tiny Tim opened his tiny mouth and all held still with baited breath.  Before he could sound a single note a snowball rocketed in and struck him soundly in the face.  Everyone turned and stared.  Coming in from outside through the front door of the mansion were the twins, Simon and Peter, armed to the teeth with balls of snow.  They unleashed the icy fusillade.  Joe and everyone else dove for cover as the hail of snowballs rained down on them.  And as the twins’ chilly barrage on the family continued, the two identical faces opened two identical mouths and two identical voices rose above the din up through the winter wind into the blue, blue sky of Christmas morning to rise higher and higher into the heavens and proudly proclaimed:

“Holy Shit, it’s Christmas!”

Blank eyes reflected the blank screen which mirrored the blank brain behind them.  Tug Johnson was bored stiff.  So this is deep space, he thought, screw the danger pay, we should get some sort mindlessness compensation.  I’m getting dumb out here.  His fingers massaged his moustache, shaggy and untrimmed, like the rest of his self: unkempt.  Tug continued staring at the viewscreen, as if waiting for something to happen that probably might not.  He yawned.  A low beep sounded breaking him from his stupor and he leaned over to key the ship-comm.

“Tug,” he said.

A female voice burst through the speaker, “Tug?”

“Tug here,” said Tug.

“Tug, it’s Boomboom, are you checking out the stream?”

“No,” he replied, “I am staring into space.”

“Oh,” said Boomboom, “you’re in the view-o-dome?”

“No,” Tug said, “I’m in my cabin.”

“Right—anyways the new Units are out early this year.”  This woke Tug up.

“Really?”  He said.

“Yeah,” said Boomboom, “it’s all over the main-stream.”

“Okay, thanks, I’ll see you later.”

She laughed, “of course you will.  Roger buttwipe.”  She broke the connection.  Tug looked back at the screen and voiced it on-line. Instantly, it was alight with the super high-intensity mega-media universe that was the streams.  He pulled up the main-stream, a vast, thick expanse of non-specific everything the human mind could want.  Boomboom was right, and the big story was the early release of the new Units.  Like billions of others, Tug could feel his mouth start to water and he swallowed back the spittle and excitement.  Even over his screen millions and millions of kilometres from Earth, the beauty and functionality of the new, improved Units was apparent.  I need one, he thought, it’s important.  He nodded in agreement with his thought.  “Yes,” he said aloud, “I need the new Unit.”  He already started to feel disgusted with his old Unit, which he had purchased eight months ago.  It was going to hold him back, and as others in society surged forward with style and functions he would be as an outcast with his slightly older, slightly blander, slightly less functional Unit.  No way, he thought, not me.  We’ve got to make this voyage pay off.  He shut down the stream, blanked the screen, leaned back, closed his eyes, and said a prayer to the Universal Sandwich.  He ordered a bacon, lettuce, and tomato with side salad.  He hoped it would be enough.

The bridge of Space Vessel Corked Wonder was an excellent example of efficient clutter.  Screens, wires, plastic and metallic boxes, keyboards, microphones, and other more ambiguous machines were neatly arranged everywhere in the large, white, round chamber.  At the heart of this orderly mess of gadgets a man stood.  The tall, bald, elegantly moustached gentleman in the middle of it all surveyed the complicated mish-mash of technology with pride.  Nice, he thought to himself, very nice.  My bridge is pretty cool.  Behind him, the only door into the room opened and a chubby, red-headed man walked in.

“Captain Steve,” the chubby man said, “I’ve got a new profile configuration, sir.”

The tall figure turned to look at the voice.  “Why Chubs, that’s excellent,” he said, “by all means key it into the machine.”

“Of course, sir,” said Chubs.  He sat at one of the many screens in the room and engaged the device in a series of spoken and typed commands.

“You know Chubs,” said Captain Steve, “we have ourselves a pretty sweet spherehunter here.  Yup, she sure is a sweet ship for a spherehunt.”

“She sure is, sir,” answered Chubs, not looking away from the screen.

“Sweet Corked Wonder…” The Captain said.  He stared off into space, and then nodding his head, looked to Chubs, “what’s the big idea, my good fellow?”

“We stoked a new algorithm and it seems worthwhile to key it.”

“If it brings us a sphere, then it will be more than worthwhile, my dear Chubs,” said Captain Steve.

“We’ll see, sir,” said Chubs.  He made a few last keystrokes, voiced some last commands, and sat back.  There was a mild shudder as the ship maneuvered into the new coordinates created by Chubs’ program.  The Captain and Chubs said nothing, their eyes studying all the various devices in the room, wondering if…

Thirty-two days later.

A loud warning klaxon sounded.

Chubs jumped up in his seat.

Captain Steve jumped.

“Sphere sign!” Shouted Chubs.

“Sphere ho!” Shouted Captain Steve.

The sentiment was echoed by furious activity throughout the ship.  They had come across a sphere.

It was unclear whether the spheres were a new phenomena or just one of those things that had gone unnoticed through all the earlier periods of space exploration.  Whatever it was, their discovery some forty-odd years earlier by a deep space food processing vessel had changed the solar system as everyone had known it.  The perfectly round balls of pure, cool energy had been deemed a sandwichsend, a possibly divine solution to the rapidly depleting resources of sol-sys.  But they were far from easy to find, and it took long, deep treks into the void hunting for that micro-needle in the infinite haystack.  Spherehunters were that peculiar breed of human so famous like fisherman or trappers or wifeseekers: passionate recluses in search of game and glory.  And that was Captain Steve and the not-quite rag tag crew of S.V. Corked Wonder to a tee.

Tug like everyone reacted instantly to the sphere sign alert.  Pulling on a sweatshirt he made his way rapidly to his station near the portside airlock.  He went right to the massive spacesuit clamped into the locker on the wall and began to meticulously inspect it.  Another man came up to the suit next to Tugs and followed the same procedure.

“Howdy Tug,” said the short, shaggy man without looking.

“Howdy Roof,” answered Tug, he too, kept his gaze on his suit.

The alarm ceased firing and was replaced by the voice of Captain Steve, “Closing on sphere, thirty centimetre circumference, ready robo-scoops.”

Tug looked at Roof, “Thirty?”

Roof let out a low whistle.  This was big.  A sphere of that size was military grade, and that meant a huge payday, and a government contract that guaranteed fully-funded voyages to follow.  No more ifs, buts, and hope so’s.  Everyone on board could feel it: sweetness.

A bell alerted them that the robo-scoops had been deployed.  The two men stood ready, Tug said another prayer, ordering a veggie hoagie.  This would get him that new Unit, he thought, thank sandwich.

A warning siren crashed his reverie.

The comm speaker farted.  “Tug, Roof, the robo-scoops have seized, one of you will have to suit up.”

Tug answered back at the comm, “aye, aye Cap’n.”  He looked at Roof, “Flip you.”

Roof nodded and took an old coin from his pocket.  “Call it.”  He flipped the coin into the air.

“Heads,” said Tug.  Roof caught the coin and turned it onto the back of his hand.  He looked at it.

“Heads it is.”

Tug took a deep breath and started into his suit.

The lock opened and as with every time Tug stepped out of the safe, albeit boring confines of the ship, the infinitude of black made him shiver.  This is so very deep, he thought, so very, very deep.  He maneuvered the bulky suit to the edge of the doorway and got his bearings.  The robo-scoops sat motionless in space, out in front of him several thousand metres away.  He squinted, and there behind them he could see the faint, eery flickering of the weird lightning–the queer purple discharge of the spheres.  His heart raced.

“Easy Tug,” said Roof over his helmet comm, as he sat inside monitoring Tug and the suit’s vitals.  Tug took a breath and relaxed.  I can make this score, he thought, and then: sweetness.  He keyed his jets and entered space, towing a large metal box behind him.  He covered the distance to the robo-scoops quickly, and he could see that the aging machines had once again succumbed to the cold.  The Captain could use this score too, thought Tug, he desperately needs to refit this old boat.  He floated by the frozen devices and was suddenly hit full force by the weird lightning.  It smelled like purple.  He tasted tickled toes.  He could hear the dryness in his mouth.  He felt like a line.  He stared at the sphere.  It seemed to stare at him.

“Tug?  Tug?”  The sound of his name broke him from his queer meditations.  “Tug, it’s Roof, you with me?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m here,” answered Tug, “I’m on it.”  He maneuvered the box around and voiced the command for it to open itself.  A few more commands and he had it positioned around the creepy blackpurple sphere.  Gingerly, he nudged the box and when it was perfectly aligned, had it close itself with the sphere safely inside.  The purple glow ceased and the void calmed around him.  The linear sensations that had been building inside him slid away.  He took a breath, he signaled the ship, “got it, coming back in.”  As he was preparing to key his jets back to the airlock he glanced back at the bit of space that had held the sphere.  A faint purple caught his eye.  He blinked.  He blinked.  He blinked.  It was still there, he had not imagined it.  He cleared his throat and floated over to the purple.  He felt his heart shudder.

“What’s up, Tug?” said Roof’s voice, “you coming home or what?”

Tug coughed, “yeah, I’m coming, just enjoying the view.”

“Well don’t, the Cap and crew want to celebrate.”

“Roger,” answered Tug as he approached the dull purple glow.  He stared amazed.  It was a tiny sphere, no more than a few millimetres circumference.  It must have been blocked by the emissions of the larger one, he thought, the ship never picked it up.  He got excited.  This was big, big, big.  He acted quickly.  Steeling himself he set his jets to auto-fire in five seconds and without hesitating gripped the tiny sphere tight in his armored gloved hand and then voiced a complicated set of commands that fused it shut.  Within moments he felt a burst of ridiculous energy bleed through his suit, up his arm, into his body, into his being.  The space around him began to pulse, shrink, stretch.  He burped purple.  Oh my, he thought.  The jets fired.

They pulled the box into the lock first, and then Tug.  He was oblivious to what was going on around him as they retrieved and safely stored the sphere.  It all seemed to be a series of lines stretching to infinity dancing around him releasing humming lines that vectored him like with questions of what and whatnot.  He felt a pinprick in his neck and then fell into darkness.

He awoke in the infirmary.  His mouth was very dry and his hand really tingled.  The lanky form of the ship’s physician entered the room.

“Ah, Tug,” he said while scanning Tug’s body with his medi-gogs, “feeling a bit more yourself?”

Tug nodded, “what happened?”

“Weird lightning,” answered the doctor.  Tug tensed, did they know?

“The sphere?”

The doctor chuckled, “ho yeah, not many people get in that near to a big one like that.  Looks like you got a little careless, let yourself get too close when you put the box on it.  Let yourself drift in.  It dosed you up good.”

“Am I okay?”  Tug asked.

“Yup.  Still you’ll have to be monitored to make sure you’ll be able to stay away from the weird lightning.  It’s zapped you, friend, and you’ll be more susceptible now to its effects.  You’ve been somewhat lineated and you’ll have a tendency towards lineation for awhile.  More inclined to lines, as we say.”

Tug shrugged, he knew the deal.  They had been educating people about the dangers of weird lightning for years.  It was a hazard that existed with the benefits of sphere energy.  Highly addictive mind altering radiation.  What a universe.  He thought of his suit and the prize that was held in the armored grip of its glove.  That highly addictive mind altering radiation was his ticket to ride.  He prayed a peanut butter and jam that it had not been discovered.

“May I go back to duty?”  He asked.

“Sure,” the doctor said, “I see no reason to keep you here.  Check in with me in a couple of days and we’ll make sure that there’s no further concerns.”  He left the room.  Tug pulled himself out of the bed and made his way back to his berth.  The ship was quiet.  The passageways were clear.  The Captain and rest of the crew were all celebrating madly in the lounge. No more perfect an opportunity, thought Tug.  He got back to his room, changed his clothes, brushed his teeth, and grabbing an unopened tube of Awesome Glo, Bro! brand body gel, he left his room.  He went back down to the airlock, to where his bulky spacesuit hung.  His heart sang when he saw its still clenched fist.  He walked up to the suit, reached into the helmet, keyed it on, and spoke a few voice commands.  The fist opened and dropped the faintly glowing sphere into his hand.  He felt its effects immediately and moved quickly.  He pulled out the body gel tube, removed its cap, and rammed the sphere into it.  He screwed the cap back on securely.  Lines trickled down his forehead, dripped off his chin.  He hurried back to his quarters.

Bursting through the sliding door he hurried to his bunk and reaching underneath pulled out his trunk.  He opened it and threw the sphere-laden tube into it.  Slamming it shut, locking it fast.  He sank to the floor as the lines in his eyes slowly faded.  The linear feeling was soon replaced by one of elation.  He was made, he thought, this is too much, my worm is turning.  A black market sphere was big business.  Cube producers paid vast sums for spheres of any size, oh mama was his worm turning indeed.  He pulled out his Unit.  “Too bad for you, buddy,” he spoke to it, “new excellent Unit for me.”  He smiled, keyed it up, and logged onto a secure comm-flow.  He sent a simple phrase: pick me up.  He then beamed it through into the sol-sys comm-stream, where the black algorithm he had set up would have it floating around for a week before it would end up at its ultimate destination.  That made it impossible for outside forces to trace, but the recipient would know exactly where it came from and what it meant and would be waiting for Tug when he got back to Earth.  And then, thought Tug, Tug’s world would be changed forever.  He winked at his Unit.  Toodle-loo.

I stubbed my toe on the curb.  Hard.  It stopped me short and sent me stumbling up onto the sidewalk.  I stood trying to catch my breath as pulsing waves of pain shot up my legs through my guts and into my mouth.  Gasping and wincing and trying not to barf, I stood there in the middle of the busy sidewalk favouring my left foot, getting my faculties back together.  I looked at my watch.  I was already fifteen minutes late and it was another fifteen at least to get there at the rapid jog I had been doing, so with a tender, hurted toe it would easily take twenty-five.  I was not gonna make my appointment.  Dang.  I really wanted this gig.  Maybe if I called and explained how I had hurted my toe they would understand and allow me to reschedule.  Of course I hadn’t brought my cell.  What if someone tried to call me?  I didn’t like to be bothered.  My toe hurt.  I checked my pockets.  I had change, so find a phone, make the call, reschedule, and have the rest of the day to myself.  Go to the cinema.  That would be nice.  Nice and sweet.  I checked the time.  I needed to make the call.  I needed to find a phone booth.  The high-speed, high-tech world of modern communications had seen a marked decline in the number of payphones on city streets and finding one was not as easy as in times past.  I hobbled around for a bit and then turning the corner saw a dilapidated booth at the end of the block.  My toe really hurt.  What if I broke it?  There’s nothing they can do for a broken toe, they don’t put a cast on it, you just have to deal with it.  Limp around.  What if it gets boiling gangrene?  What if they have to amputate?  I won’t go see a doctor.  I fear them.  I limped up to the booth and entered.  Ewwyuck.  Apparently a vagrant had left a vagrance in the booth.  Any other time I would have moved on to the next, less stench filled payphone but I was in a hurry.  I pulled out my change and put the handset to my ear.  It had an even more intense, flavourful reek.  I went to dial.  I couldn’t remember the number.  What was the number?  It was on my cell.  Which I didn’t have with me because someone might call me.  Hmm.  What to do?  I stared at the filthy, graffiti covered wall of the booth.  Interesting reading.  Tucked neatly between school sux and diarrhea rules, was an intriguing hand-scrawled advertisement that read: Not B.S. Your Life Expectancy to the Exact Second, Seriously Not B.S., Serious Inquiries Only, call toll-free 1-800-HOW-LONG, For Serious, Not B.S.  I wondered if it was a joke.  It did use the word serious more than once.  And not B.S.  I stepped out of the phone booth.  The gig was gone, I wouldn’t be able to reschedule the audition now, they would have pre-conceived and proper notions that I was unreliable.  I stood by the booth, my toe still hurting, and my thoughts turned back to the writing on the wall.  I shook my head.  Forget about it, it’s cockameemee, that’s what it is, cockameemee.  I didn’t walk away, though, I kept standing there, thinking about it, even long after my toe stopped pulsating with pain throbs.  I couldn’t call.  I shouldn’t call.   Even if it is toll-free.  It was frightening even if it was a joke.  This made me curious.  As I stood contemplating this burgeoning curiosity a young boy came strutting down the street.  I got an idea.

“Hey kid,” I called out to him.  He stopped.  He was about ten, and wearing a jean jacket and sweat pants tucked into ratty cowboy boots.  The summer heat had allowed him to forego the confines of a shirt.

“Yeah?”  He looked up at me with a ‘whatever’ kind of look, like just try and impress me, I’m a kid, I’m bored, come on.

“I’ll give you five dollars if you make a phone call for me,” I showed him the fiver.

“No way, drugs are for losers.”  He shook his head with conviction.

“Pardon?”

“You’re just trying to get me to do a drug deal or something.  They tell us about guys like you at school,” he said seriously.  He narrowed his eyes, “are you a crackhead?”

“No, no, no,” I was taken aback, “it’s not like–I’m not–, no, here, it’s not like that.”

“What is it then?”  He asked.

“Listen, this isn’t about drugs, or crime or anything.  I’m on the up and up, very strictly up and up,” I said, “I just want to see something and I need you to help me.”

He was curious now, “What is it?”

“Okay, I’ll give you five dollars to call the number written on the wall in the phone booth and tell me what they say, that’s all.”  I pointed to the booth.

“I won’t get in trouble?”  He asked suspiciously.

“I guarantee it.”  He stood there mulling it over for a minute.  Being a kid his curiosity quickly took over, the fiver was working too.

“Give me the cash.”

“After you call, I promise.”

He looked at me appraisingly, and then apparently approving my appearance, held out his hand, “change.”

“No need, it’s a toll-free number,” I told him.

Shrugging, he entered the booth.  I stood behind him crowding the doorway.

“Bah!”  He cried, “It smells like three bad alleys in here.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, suck it up.”

“Which number?”  The boy asked.

I pointed.  “The one there on the wall by where it says school sux.”

“The one for your momma’s vag–”

“–No,” I interrupted, “The other one.  The 1-800 number.  You shouldn’t need money for it.”

He looked.  “Oh.  Okay.”  He lifted the receiver and dialed the number.  I began to get a little excited.  What if it works?  Does anyone really want that kind of information?  It was an age-old dilemma; do you want to know when you will die?  I took a deep breath.  Do I?  The kid nudged me out of my wonder.  It was ringing.

“Hello,” he spoke into the mouthpart, muffled sounds came out of the earpart I couldn’t make out, he listened for a moment and then answered back, “Yes.  Yes.  Pardon?  Oh, Dace Chidlaw.  Right, Dace, D-A-C-E, Chidlaw, C-H-I-D-L-A-W.  Mmhmm, right, okay.”  He got a strange look on his face.  “Really?  How do you know?  Mmhmm.  Okay, bye.”  He hung up the phone.  I stepped back and he exited the booth.  He was nodding.

“What happened?”  I asked.

“Cool,” he said, smiling, “the guy said I was going to die in twenty-two years, six months, thirteen days, seven hours, eight minutes and two seconds.”

“Come again?”  I asked.

“I’m gonna live for twenty-two more years, wow, that’s long, huh?”  The kid was smiling and nodding at his perceived longevity.  I felt otherwise.

“Sure kid, wow, yeah, twenty-two years, eh?”

“That’s so long from now.”

I nodded, “decades.”

He nodded, “yeah, decades.”

“How did he say he knew?”

“He said that was his burden to bear, whatever that means.”  The boy looked hopeful, “I’m gonna live to be as old as you or more, huh?”

“Of course, buddy, no problem,” I told him.  Inside I was a little saddened, wondering if this little boy really was destined to die in his early-thirties.  I pulled out my wallet.  “Here kid, you did a good job, have a twenty.”  I handed him the bill.  He took it and the smile on his face grew.

“Thanks mister.”

“It’s nothing.  Again, good job,” I offered him my hand, “Have a great day.”  We shook.  He smiled, put the twenty in his pocket and strutted smartly on down the street.  I stood by the booth.  I was a little angry.  What gave someone the right to tell people such things?  Even if it was bullcrap, you could really affect someone with this kind of malarkey.  It was mean.  I wasn’t going to dignify it with a call.  I started away from the phone.  And stopped.  Of course, I couldn’t knock it if I didn’t try it, could I?  It was just malarkey anyways, some cheesy website or comedy show that filmed your reaction when they told you you were going to live to be a hundred and sixty.  I was probably on camera right now.  I looked around.  It was pretty quiet on the corner.  Such a weird thing to tell a kid though, twenty-two years.  It seemed a little random, yet…somewhat believable.  And it was pretty specific, right down to the second as the ad said.  Was it just made up?  Was it just malarkey?  I stood thinking, weighing it over in my mind.  I stopped mulling.  I started mulling again.  I stopped mulling.  I’ll just try it and see, and well…I was nervous.  But it gave me a bit of a rush.  I stepped into the booth.  The stink was still as perverse and pervasive as before.  I picked up the receiver and put it to my ear.  The dial tone seemed unusually loud.  I stared at the writing on the wall.  I began dialing.  My fingers were shaking.  I finished dialing the number.  It began to ring.  My mouth was dry.

“Herro?”  The voice sounded Asian.  “How may I help you?”

“Oh, hello, umm, I was just calling to see, you know, how long I have?”

“Name?”

“Lancelot Stevens, but people call me Lance.”

“Eh?”

“My name–”

“Is Rance?”

“Eh?”

“What?”

“Lance.  Stevens.”

“Okay.”  There was a pause.  “Yes?”

“Oh, I was wondering how long I have?”

“Okay.”  There was a pause.

“Hello?”

“Yes?”

“This is Lance Stevens.”

“You say Stevens?”

“Yes.”

“You spell for me.”

“S-T-E-V-E-N-S.”

“Stevens, sure, sure, what you want?”

“Well, I was wondering how long I have, you know, so I called the number, right, you know in the ad.”

“Sure, sure, is no problem, I check here,” the line went silent for a short period and then, “For Stevens it be thirty-five minute.  No more.”

I choked on the dry in my throat.  “Come again.”

“Half-hour, thirty-five minute, no more.”

I closed my eyes tight and took a deep breath.  The sick smell of the inside of the booth slapped my eyelids back open.  “Thirty-five minutes.  And how many seconds?”

“Eh?”

“It says to the second.  How many seconds?”

“No second.  Thirty-five minute.  Minute, okay?  Got it, okay?  Thirty-five.”

I nodded numbly, “Sure.”

“Okay, bye now.”  He hung up the phone.  The dial tone hummed.  I let the receiver fall out of my hand and backed out of the booth.  The fresh, warm, summer air revived me slightly, but I was still shaken.  Thirty-five minutes?  It had to be a joke.  I looked madly around for a camera crew or something, someone to jump out and say “Gotcha!” but there was no one, nothing.  Thirty-five minutes?  Bah, it was crap.  I was gonna live, and live well, well into old age, and die a crazy, old, womanizing coot.  Like I’d always planned.  Not die in half and hour.  What was that?  Watching a sitcom or baking a lasagna or…or what?  I looked at my watch.  I figured five minutes had passed since the call, so: half an hour.  I wanted to cry, scream, run, do something, anything–there was nothing I could do.  Unless of course, it wasn’t true, then I had nothing to worry about.  But if it was, then I was dead.  How?  Hopefully in my sleep.  Don’t be an idiot.  Shot, lightning, run-over, stabbed, choked on food, choked on vomit, choked on boot, stroke, fell in hole, poisoned, crushed by piano, drowned, hanged, bludgeoned, dog bite, overdose, choked on meatball, aneurysm, cancer, AIDS, dysentery, bird-flu, hantavirus, radiation…I started shaking.  I needed a drink.  I needed to think.  But I couldn’t waste time.  There was much to do.  I had to say goodbyes, write my will, get some experiences in, I had–I had to chill.  I looked at my watch, twenty-seven minutes and counting.  I relaxed.  I had to put all the crap out of my mind.  In twenty-seven minutes you couldn’t do much, and there was no use trying to get too much done and then not get anything really done and then have it all end and be disappointed.  Best to just take it in stride and go out the way I liked to live.  Taking it easy.  I nodded and smiled to myself.  A lovely calm seemed to softly coat my skin like soft, warm milk.  I had an idea.  I started off down the street.  I stopped into a nearby liquor store and treated myself to a six pack of premium imported ale.  There was a delicatessen next door and I went in and ordered myself a fine, gourmet sandwich and a bag of potato chips.  Then I made my way to the park.  As I walked and the seconds counted down I found myself purging myself of my regrets, ridding myself of those feelings of what if? And how come?  And why not?  In that short distance from the sandwich shop to the park the futility and uselessness of guilt or anxiety or fear or anger was becoming more and more evident to me.  That so near the end, it did not matter.  It was the good thoughts, memories, ideas that were warming my heart and making the inevitable seem that much easier.  Nice.  I got to the park and on the side of a sunny clearing bordered by trees and flowers, as all the different people did all their different things, as the world went on its way, I sat on a bench and ate a delicious sandwich.  I washed it down with a nice cold brew.  The salty goodness of the chips was a delight.  The sun was shining.  I looked at my watch.  Three minutes.  I finished my sandwich.  I had another beer.  Nice.  One minute.  A deep feeling of which I find words very hard to relate entered my being.  It was like all at once a calm mixed with anticipation mixed with a clarity and excitement and peace and wonder and knowledge and some other things for which there are no existing descriptive terms.  Time was up.  I looked up to the sky.  I closed my eyes.  Bring it.

I waited for fifteen minutes for the universe to bring it.

It didn’t.

I didn’t.

Did not die.

I wasn’t necessarily disappointed, in fact I was relieved, but there was still the lingering feeling that I had been so prepared and ready that the fact I was not dead was a bit of a let down.  Of course, I was happy to be alive.  Was the number a crock?  Were they playing me?  What about the kid?  I started to get angry.  Who were they to play with my emotions like that?  Sure the experience had been altogether enlightening, but also pretty freaky, so still–what gives?  I decided to go back to the phone booth and call the number and give them a piece of my mind.  It said that it was seriously no B.S.  It said that.  I made my way across the park.  A piece of paper blew across the grass.  Litter.  It seemed that the effects of dying/not-dying were deeper and less temporary then I would have thought as my enlightened state and associated new found admiration for everything urged me to pick up the piece of garbage and put it in the trash.  I gave chase to the fluttering waste and plucked it out of the air.  Spotting a garbage can I started for it.  I un-crumpled the paper and glanced over it.  I stopped.  I read the paper.  I stared.  I read it again.  I ran.  Across the park.  Down the street.  Past the deli.  Past the liquor store.  To the corner.  To the phone booth.  I stepped inside.  It still stank.  I looked at the writing on the wall.  I read the crumpled piece of paper.  I looked at the phone.  I studied its buttons.  I looked at the paper.  I looked at the writing on the wall.  I started to laugh.  I read the paper again.  It was an ad.  In bold red letters it declared: House of Hot Longs Nation-Wide Chinese Food and Dumplings, For Fast Free Delivery, you call toll-free 1-800-HOT-LONG.  I read that again: 1-800-HOT-LONG, I checked the buttons on the phone: 1-800-408-5664.  I read the writing on the wall: 1-800-HOW-LONG, I checked the phone: 1-800-409-5664.  I laughed harder, tears flowed down my face, the beer in my belly wished to be pee.  Crazy.  It was 8 and 9.  I had screwed up.  I had misdialed.  It had been thirty-five minutes for somebody’s egg rolls, not the rest of my life.  I stared at the phone.  At the writing on the wall.  I wondered.  And slowly stepped out of the booth.  I didn’t want to know.  I didn’t need to know.  One minute, one hour, one-hundred years, it didn’t and wouldn’t matter.  There were more important things.  In the thirty-five minutes I had been dying, I had come upon a powerful, yet simple notion.  That until the inevitable happens, the only thing you can, and must do, is live.  Yes indeed.  Live.  And live well.

Ding-Dong Wakanabe shifted uncomfortably in his seat.  The cheap moulded-plastic was doing a poor job holding his tremendous girth and the last hour had not been a pleasant one.  He pushed the last, large piece of his maxi-size ultro-choco chocolate bar into his mouth and stared out through the windshield.  The scene at the dilapidated housing unit across the street was the same as it had been for the last two and a half hours: pure nothing doing.  He hated surveillance.  Boredom made him anxious, and tedium…well, tedium was a hard one.  Especially since the entertainment system in his crappy Pakov get/go had gone and broke, and its seats were a literal pain in the ass, and his Unit had fallen in to the river, and he was still hungry, and–He checked his thoughts.  No complaints, he told himself, that is neg-thought.  And neg-thought begets neg-behaves.  And neg-behaves beget neg-self.  And neg-self begets being a loser.  And he was not a loser.  At least according to the My Special Helper virtua-psychiatrist on his Unit, he wasn’t.  But now his Special Helper was all up and gone down into the river and the electric headshrinker on his loaner seemed very unsympathetic and overly analytical.  He sighed heavily, he really missed his Unit.  If only he hadn’t tried to get the whole extra-super-saucy-soy tube into his mouth at once he probably wouldn’t have lost his grip on his Unit, thus sending it off the bridge to its watery demise.  It was just another sad setback in a life that seemed to be already sadly set back.  With his detective business floundering, the loss of his Unit meant that until it was replaced, his stupid piece of crud get/go would continue to exist in its same capacity, his dirty-ass jeans would continue to exist in their same capacity, and his sad, lonely self would continue to exist in its same capacity.  He sighed.  In all actuality, the loss of his Unit diminished the capacity that was his self as it really put a low hurt on his already lowly character.  It was a little much.  If he had been creative enough (or had had his Unit which could have done the job for him) he would have rightly exclaimed, “Alas!” but he wasn’t (and didn’t), so instead a stinky “Ugh!” escaped his fat face.  He picked up his loaner Unit from the passenger seat and studied it.  It was bland, boring. “Ugh.”  Even though it adhered to the legally required functionality it just looked so…nobody.  It made him feel the same.  He looked up at the large, weather-beaten billboard hanging on the side of a nearby building: You can’t spell Unity without Unit.  Ha, he thought, united in what?  The looks on the faces of the people around him when he had used the loaner to pay for lunch at the U-Cheese U-Dog cart had seemed pretty united in their apparent disgust with him.  It forged the notion that he was beginning to really feel that he was indeed pretty close to nothing, which was hard for a 375 pound man to be.  It angered him.  He knew he was never going to be Ding-Dong Charisma PhD regardless of his Unit, but his old one was one of his few positives and as such had lent him a sort of comfort.  He had decorated and jazzed it up quite nicely, and had worked real hard all by himself.  He sighed himself back to the task at hand, and re-fixed his gaze back on the domicile across the street.  Lamenting the facts wouldn’t change them, so just concentrate on work, he thought, if he could lock this case it would be a big, big step in the right direction.  Deeana Ho was big time.  Big money, big society.  Big time.  Getting the job done for her would definitely help everything, open doors.  Ho was huge.  Her late husband was the late, great Lorenzo Ho, who with his two brothers had started the HoHoHo Candy Cane Company.  Twenty years later it was the 3Ho Confection and Manufacturing Concern, a multi-trillion dollar corporation.  Deeana had taken her husbands place on the board when he had died and had taken the corporation to new heights.  Unfortunately, like all great families they had a black sheep in their flock.  In this case it was their only son, Ricky.  And he was why Ding-Dong was sitting in his crappy get/go in a crappy part of town secretly watching a crappy domicile.

A sleek, modern ultra-bike pulled up in front of the house.  It was a stark contrast to the worn-down, long-forgotten neighbourhood surrounding it.  Ding-Dong sat up in his seat, watching as the lanky, well-dressed young man got off the expensive machine.  It was Ricky Ho.  He sauntered up to the entrance of the domicile, keyed something into his lean, beautiful Unit, a moment passed, and then the door opened before him.  He went inside.  Ding-Dong waited shortly before he got out of his get/go.  He took long looks up and down the street, it was utterly deserted.  He laboured across to where Ricky’s ultra-bike sat.  Ding-Dong let out a low whistle.  It was a thing of true beauty, from one of those low-orbital, high-end fabricators.  Untouched by gravity, its curves were perfect.  It probably cost as much as the entire street it was sitting on, thought Ding-Dong.  He took the nano-tracker from his pocket, powered it up, and checked its signal output on his Unit.  Loud and clear.  He slyly placed the tiny, tiny, tiny, tiny device into a discreet spot on the bike.  Well, he thought, you’ll be able to keep tabs on your little boy now, missus Ho.  Not that it’ll matter.

Ding-Dong knew from his surveillance on the young man that he was pretty close to lost.  Ricky Ho was addicted to cubes.  He had been sticking his head into boxes full of weird lightning for a while.  Putting them on heavy and steady.  Heavy and steady enough for Ding-Dong to know the kid was microns from the edge.  The cubes: clear neo-plex boxes charged with the radiation from the mysterious energy spheres that had been discovered in deep space.  One of the many queer properties of the spheres was that if one contained its radiation -dubbed weird lightning for its odd, purple discharge- in a simple neo-plex cube and put it over ones head, the energies inside powerfreaked the mind beyond any manner of narcotic.  Powerfreaked, but with strange side effects.  Intense exposure to weird lightning lineated thoughts.  It took all the senses, perceptions, processes of the mind and broke them down, reduced them to a bizarre base: lines.  The universe of the cubed became de-dimensioned, it became lines, everything was simply lines.  Purely linear.  It was weird.  And Ricky Ho was pretty freaking linear.  His mom was using her money and influence to try and get him out and save him before the government Anti-Cube Divisions did.  The penal-delineating centres did not discriminate and regardless of rank or social standing or anything, once you were in, you were in.  Until they let you out.  So missus Ho had hired Ding-Dong (for whatever reason) to bring her son home before the ACD picked him up, which was inevitable, seeing his state of cube abuse.  A cubed haunt like the one Ding-Dong was standing before was a heavy ACD magnet: very heavy, very magnetic.  They never lasted very long, as the Anti-Cube Divisions were always on the case big time, and this worried Ding-Dong big time.  If the ACD pulled in Ricky, he would have failed in his case.  Missus Ho would refuse payment, she’d blackball him, she’d ruin him, she’d get someone to kick his stomach in.  What good was he if he let Ricky get taken in?  That’s why she hired him: to help get Ricky out of the cubes, not watch him get zapped by the fed-authority.  He tensed.  He couldn’t lose this gig, this case was his pump ticket.  If Ricky went down Ding-Dong wouldn’t be that far behind.  If he saved Ricky Ho, though, it could be excellent.  He got excited at the word, excellent.  It made him almost wish to burst in and grab Ricky, pick him up and throw him over his shoulder, take him home, be a hero.  He took a step.  And stopped.  Was it fear?  Common sense?  Excellence?  Something?  He took another step.  And stopped.  Two steps forward–nice start.  What was he doing?  Ding-Dong tapped the side of his skull, “What am I doing?”  There was no reply.  He shuddered, and put a hand into his pants pocket and fishing around, he pulled out the bright green cellophane package that held an OhSoGood taste treat.  He tore open the snack and rammed it into his mouth; its flavoured core massaged his tongue, his throat, his gonads.  He glanced at the wrapper: curiously enough it was a 3Ho product.  A sign, he thought, the snack treat tells me to.  He swallowed the remaining gob of chewy goodness, sending it to the dark, warm, churning pits of his stomach.  Slowly, as he stood stupid, a vibration from deep within, beyond the folds of fat, muscle, bone, and organs, began to massage his psyche.  It was subtle, profound, and it moved him.  He stepped up to the door.  There was no knob or handle, and it was much sturdier than it was meant to look.  In fact the whole domicile was in better condition than was obvious at first glance.  The whole structure had been cleverly disguised beneath intricately detailed dilapidating camouflage.  Interesting, he thought.  He keyed his Unit and scanned for recent signals.  Outside the food bands and carnival networks, which showed the usual large volumes, there wasn’t much happening.  He spread his scan, and a poorly scrambled transmission burst stuck way out on the outskirts of the trans-commway looked promising.  Ricky needs badly, he thought, he wouldn’t even try to hide his doorbell.  He copied it into his Unit, de-scrambled it, and put it into his doorknocker.  Knockbeep-knockbeep.  He waited.  There was a loud series of clicks and the door opened.  No one was there.  Ding-Dong cautiously poked his head through the door.  It opened into a long, bare white hallway.  A door sat in the wall at the end of the hall opposite the entrance and was the only other feature in the passage.  He took a deep breath.  P.I. big time, here I come, he told himself and entered the domicile.  Three strides in and he was rudely stopped short by an invisible barrier.  A clear, plastic wall barred his way.  He turned back to the door just as another clear wall came down, shutting him off from his exit.  Two more walls came down, completing his cage.  He was nervous.

“We don’t know you,” said the voice out of nowhere.  Before he could reply, his clear, plastic cell fell through the floor.

He fell into darkness.  Ding-Dong was scared.  He hated the dark, the unknown, and everything about his current situation.  He felt light as he fell for what seemed like a good distance before his weight returned and he was standing as still as his transparent prison.  It was black.  He stood scared and stupid.  He was breathing heavily, he wanted to scream.  A tickle slid up and down his spine, and he shivered.  He tried to move his feet.  They wouldn’t.  His back seemed to flow upwards as his legs stretched down, as if through the floor.  Ding-Dong swallowed hard and his throat went streaking down after his feet, his mouth chasing his shoulders upward.  A sizzling hum warmed the air around him as his ears and eyes reached out to catch the rest of his head.  His hands went deep down his sides in search of his toes.  The darkness disappeared as light ceased to matter.  It was marvelous.  His body now stretched before and beyond anything and everything.  His being, each and every part of it reduced to a single point, lined up side by side, back to front, his bad bits, his virtues, other things and pieces, mingled, stretched, some so close and others seemingly so far away that he wanted to scream in terror and cry for joy.  He shot through vast, endless fields that were universes, crossed other lines, other beings and where they touched he would share their points, and they his.  This was deep, deep infinity.  And it was his.  And it was everyone’s.  In an instant and forever.  Everything.  Nothing.  He tried to shout out, proclaim the glory, the mystery as solved, but his voice only managed a quaint, “sleek.”  Ding-Dong the line shimmered up and down its entire length as it settled across the fabric of the cosmos.  He had arrived.

They pried open the trap doors in the floor of the front hallway and peered down into the darkness.  The large, uniformed man with the thick, gold stripes on his sleeves ordered in a winch.  They hauled up the giant, man-sized cube from the sub-basement.  The big, fat man they found inside did not respond to standard sphere-radiation emergency recovery treatment and was taken to a government penal-hospital for observation, before he could be sent to a de-lineating facility.  His prognosis was not good.  The doctor that examined him at the hospital had never seen such an overdose of weird lightning, declared it poisoning.  He doubted the fat man would ever come out of his linear psychosis.  He was gone.

Ding-Dong stretched across the universe, all his bits and pieces in a long, thin symphony of everything that coursed over his infinite length.  A most glorious smile like a burst of beautiful, electric fire coursed from his end to his end.  He was.  Oh, how he was.

Todd Cleghorn gripped the hilt of the very large, very sharp Bowie knife and examined his reflection in the brilliant polish of the blade.  Smiling, he nodded and held it in close to his mouth.

“Oooh,” he whispered, “I’m-a gonna cut y’all so sweet, so perfect, I’m-a gonna cut y’all so…mmm,” he moved it closer, coming in beneath his nostrils, smelling the beautiful scent of the huge, lethal razor.  Closer still he brought it to the whiskers, slowly bringing the shimmering beast of a weapon in towards his thick, blonde moustache.  Closer, closer, closer–

A crash erupted through the door behind him, wrenching him from the deep meditations of his shave, and nearly causing him to cut off his face.  Brandishing the giant blade, he whipped around to face the intrusion.  The dark, hulking, handsome form of Keyshawn Delarouge poured through the door.  He carried a massive, green, slimy bundle.

“Yeehaw!  Lonestar Adventure Association: one; reptilian menace: zero.”  He cried, “Yee-freaking-haw!”  He came to a halt inside the door, holding his prize.  The crisp, gaunt, mountain of a man that was Todd stood there looking livid.

“I was a-shavin’,” he said icily, gripping the knife tightly.

“Tha’s alright, Toddy,” Keyshawn said, “Lookit, I got th’ creature.”

“Yer childlike outburst justa ’bout got Silk Lightning hurt.”  His stare was hard, serious, and piercing.  Keyshawn froze and was instantly sobered.

“I’m sorry, Todd, I-I didn’t realize–”

“No, you’s didn’t think,” his voice, a smouldering calm, “now what you’s is a-goin’ to do?”

Keyshawn hung his head, “I’m a-sorry, Todd–”

“Not t’ me.,” he said, shaking his finger, “t’ Silk Lightning.”

Keyshawn nodded.  He dropped the large, green, slimy creature to the floor and crossed the room to stand up close in front of Todd.  Leaning in to Todd’s face he spoke directly into his grand, golden moustache.  “I’m a-sorry, Silk Lightning, I hope y’all can fergive me as I didn’t mean nothing by my’s intrusion is’all.  I just got excited ’bout closing this here latest file.”  He looked sheepishly at Todd, who nodded approvingly.

“Well now,” Todd said, “How’s abouts y’all let me see what kind of job you’s did on this here latest case o’ ours.”

Keyshawn broke into a wide grin.  “Oh, man alive this a-was a cool one, that’s fer certain.  Cool an’ slippery.”  He bounced across the room and picked up what he had dropped.  It was a huge, green, slimy, monster of some sort of snake-like creature’s head.  Its body, to which it was still attached, lay stretched out long through the door.

Todd smiled.  “Oh my my oh my oh my, tha’ does a-look like a good one there, Keyshawn.  Yes in-deedy.”  He joined Keyshawn at the creature and together they began hauling the giant carcass into the room.  As more and more of it emerged from outside, Todd noticed its entire massive length was covered in bullet holes, knife wounds, acid burns, shrapnel holes, arrows, bruises, and contusions of all manner.  “Looks a-like it was one heck of a fightjob there, ‘Shawny.”

“‘Twas,  ’twas,”  Keyshawn sighed, “I got’s to say I am a might fagg-ed.”

“A-might sore scented, too, if y’all don’t mind my sayin’,” said Todd, holding his nose.

“Yeah, yeah, I know’s I need a bath, bigtime.”

“Not ‘fore I get in there first, suckers!”  The voice came from the farthest corner of the room.  They turned in surprise, Todd wielding his huge knife as Keyshawn’s hand struck for the pistol at his hip.  Standing there was a jet-black hulking creature smoking and reeking of quite-possibly hellfire, or most-possibly volcano residue.  The two men stared hard at the spectacle, then lowering their guards burst into bellowing laughter.  The black creature joined in with deep, powerful guffaws.  The room vibrated violently with hoops and hollers.

Todd regained his composure, “Wayne Gregory, you sure are a-sight!  Lookit you’s standing there like Vesuvius’ ghost, all soot and smoke covered like that.”

“What in hell’s halfmile y’all been into?”  Keyshawn quipped, shaking his head in amazement.

“Well, I been up into the guts of ol’ Betsy-Lee,” said Wayne as he reached back to close the secret door to the hidden passage he had used to sneak into the room.

Todd nodded, throwing a handkerchief to Wayne.  “Nice, an’ just how is that poor, sweet ol’ girl doin’?”

“I’ll tell y’all, the Perfessor sure can put together one cantankerours piece of super-chinkery, that’s a-one fer sure, but I think’s I managed to put ‘er mostly to rights.”  Todd said, wiping a layer of soot from his face–turning it from black to grey and the ‘kerchief from white to black.  “Turns out that all that cannon fire we’s a-went and took in the last caper there busted open the thruster-tubes so th’ coal-fuel chamber valves was a-lettin’ too much heat-power into the energy-distributators.  Tha’ was why we’s got all them explosions and what not when we really opened ‘er up fer speed in that last chase we’s had.”

“I told y’all,” Keyshawn said, looking confidently over at Todd.  He nodded in agreement and flicked a silver dollar over to the tall, dark cowboy, who caught it with ease.  He smiled broadly.  Wayne noticed the creepy bundle at their feet.

“Th’ reptilian menace, tha’s sweet!”  He raised both his blackened thumbs to the two men.

“T’was all Keyshawn.  He closed that there file on his lonesome,” Todd said.

“Yee-freaking-haw!” said Wayne.

“Yee-freaking-haw!” said Keyshawn.

“Yee-freaking-haw,” said Todd, “now both y’all most disrespectable of  the most unrespectable gentlemen git yer dirty, stinkin’, smokin’, slime-covered hides in-a the wash a-fore I whip the smell and goo offa y’all my’s-self.”  He raised his arms as if to grab the two men, who hurried themselves out of the room.  Once they were gone Todd shook his head and chuckled to himself, “what a crew.”

“What a crew indeed,” came the reply from behind him.

Todd was startled by the voice, he whipped around scanning the room.  Nothing.  He wondered aloud, “Who’s it?”

“Over here, Todd, at the sub-ultra-trans-broadcasting/receiving unit.”

Todd slapped his hand to his forehead, embarrassed.  He walked over to a large, dial-laden gunmetal box with a parlophonesque cone protruding majestically from its top.  “Ev’rytime, Perfessor, this here contrapulation buggers me ev’rytime.”

“Understandable, my good friend, most understandable,” came the tinny voice through the cone, “anyhow, how are things?”

Todd bowed to speak into the cone, “s’alright.  Keyshawn took a-care of th’ creature in the village–closed tha’ file a-nicely, and Wayne a-went and fixed ol’ Betsy-Lee up to fightin’ shape a-gain.  ‘Though, Silk Lightning needs a trim a-freaking hard-like, and I ain’t had no time to, and he won’t let me stop a-hearin’ of it non-stop in my brain-like, y’hear?”

Laughter clinked through the cone on the box.  “Well, that’s all very good and my heartiest congratulations on everything and you must pass on my salutations to Keyshawn and Wayne, but I am sorry to say that your moustache shall have to wait.  We have a shake.”

Todd turned instantly serious.  “Is it serious?”

“Big time, this is a most serious situation,” came the reply, “how soon can you guys be ready?”

Todd consulted his pocket watch.  “How long do we have?”

“Until Morning.”

“Done.  What all we dealin’ with here?”

“It’s an off-worlder, semi-high-advanced, moving town-to-town razing, pillaging, sucking energy, resources, lifeforces–the ususal.  Think you can handle it?”

“‘Course,” Todd said without hesitating, “what ’bout y’all?”

“Unfortunately, I am out of the solar system for a few more days and will not be able to lend my assistance on this one.  This fellow is, as you put it: a real baddie.”

Todd smiled, “Th’ badder th’ sweeter, far as we’s all concerned.  Where’s this off-world varmint holin’ hisself up?  So me and my crew can go and take a-care o’ him.”

“You are in luck.  He happens to be coming your way.  He just burned Calderville into the sand and is heading right for Sweet City” came the voice across the void, “and he’s moving fast.”

“Can we’s git to him out on th’ Dusty Plains?”  Todd asked.

“I think so,” came the reply, “but it is hard to figure from my vantage point.  You will have to be ready.”

“Roger,” said Todd, “anythang else?”

There was a pause in the transmission.  “Just do your best.  And I believe in you guys.”

“Howdy-do Perfessor, howdy-do.”  The box went silent.  Todd stood for a moment contemplating what he had just received.  Reaching in his pocket he took out a small metal tin.  Opening it, he rubbed his fingers inside daubing up the last remnants of the smooth, white cream inside.  He applied it with loving care to his thick, sweet moustache, moulding it to even more glory than its glory had known the instance before.  He took a deep breath.  Satisfied and calmed, he shifted to one of the many speaking tubes hanging beside the ultra-trans-broadcasting/receiving unit that ran into the ceiling of room.  “Keyshawn, Wayne, we’s got ourselves a shake, move yer butts.”  He moved to the speaking tube next to the one in which he last spoke.  “Oh Corndog.”  He waited with his ear to the tube.

“Yes boss,” Came the reply.

“Oh Corndog, y’all are goin’ to have to a-drop everything, y’hear?”

“S’okay Boss, Lonestar has a mission or something?”

“Corndog, me-self and th’ rest of the Adventure Association has gots ourselves a sorts of a most serious thang goin’ on.”  He said into the tube.

“S’okay.”

“So we’re a-going t’need t’have y’all and L’il Fudge t’get up two hours prior to th’ dawn and a-have our steeds all a-freshed up an’ a-geared up an’ all a-ready there to be mounted.  Alrighty?  Y’all git that?”

“S’okay.”

“And-a if y’all two could git our breakfast up an’ a-ready fer us all then just after that, ya’know prior to sun-up.”

“S’okay.”

“Right, and I’ll take coffee in my slumbering abode a-fore a-breakfastin’.  An’ get L’il Fudge t’git the medical-laboratory shack a-readied as well,” Todd looked at the tin he still held in his hand, “and Corndog if y’all could run down to Straub’s an’ a-pick me up a case o’ tins o’ Mister More Than Man Whisker Fixturitic.”

“S’okay.”

“Right, and Corndog?”

“Yes?”

“”Corndog, you and L’il Fudge once y’all are done with all that and all, y’all go and get yourselves off and outta town fer the rest o’ the week.  Go and see yer family down south.  I’ll leave yer last weeks wages and performance bonuses on the kitchen table for y’all.  Okay?”

“S’okay.”

“Okay.  Git to it then.”

“S’okay.”

Todd took a couple of strides from the comm-tube centre before stopping with a sudden snap of his fingers.  He strode back to the speaking tubes.  “Hello Corndog?”

“Here.”

“Oh Corndog, please have L’il Fudge have Mister Keyshawn’s aluminium chaps a-pressed and polished, if y’all be able to?”

“S’okay.”

“Sweet.”

He, and Corndog, and L’il Fudge went about their business.

Todd stood atop the summit of the world’s grandest mountain, Silk Lightning flowing like God’s whiskers as the crisp alpine wind blew in triumphant gusts.  He could hear the voices of a million children lifted in song, regaling him, their champion, and he and Silk Lightning were happy.  A blaring siren interrupted the children’s song.  He looked about to find its source.  It was getting louder, he couldn’t hold on.  He opened his eyes.  The beautiful vision faded.  The siren continued blasting away.

“Alright!”  He shouted, “I’m up!  I’m up!”  He pulled angrily at the cord hanging above his bed, and in doing so stopped the wailing racket.  He leant over to the comm-tube which jutted from the wall beside him, “What’s all this harangle-dangle?”

“Sorry there, Toddy, but we’s gots a heck-in-hay alert situ-i-ation,” came Wayne’s voice echoing through the tube, “get yerself motervated and get a shake on.”

“What’s the deal, Wayner?”  He replied.

“The Perfessor’s extera worldly thing-a-ma-jig is a-right on-a th’ outskirts o’ town.”

“Sweet Jim and Janet!  Y’all wake Keyshawn?”  He asked, pulling on his breeches.

“‘Course, he’s already down chompin’ his chow.”

Todd buckled his utility/gun belt and daubed a great gob of Mister More Than Man Whisker Fixturitic into the grand forest of hairs that was Silk Lightning, “have a short stack and bacon and a mug o’ thick an’ black at th’ ready.  I’m a-comin’ down.”  He leapt, grasping onto the brass pole that projected through the hole in the floor of the corner of his room.  He rocketed down and slid smoothly to a stop in the kitchen.  Already, Wayne was shoveling the last, great bite of his breakfast into his mouth.  Keyshawn was checking his rifle, several dirty, empty plates sat on the table before him.  He belched contentedly.  Todd looked to his place at the table where a large stack of flapjacks and a massive mug of steaming coffee waited.  He licked his chops.

“How far’s it out?”  He asked as he seated himself, tucking a napkin under his collar.

“It tripped th’ earl;y warnin’ markers, made on through to th’ inner outskirts, an’ then apparently exploded a bunch o’ ol’ man Burnbone’s hogs,” said Keyshawn, “he a-went an’ pulled his emergency chord and here we be.”

Todd nodded.  “Well, we’s gots a bit o’ time.”  He picked up his fork and knife.

BOOM!  The explosion rocked the house.

“Th’ feed mill!”  Exclaimed Wayne, “tha’s inside th’ outer inskirts.”

Keyshawn stood up, “we’s gotta move.”  Todd looked longingly at the pancakes.  Standing, he grabbed the stack in his great maw and hefted it like a golden, buttery sandwich.  Putting the steaming mug to his mouth he drained its dark, powerful contents in two mighty gulps.  He put down the mug.  He wiped the few remaining drops of coffee from the tips of Silk Lightning, and looked at his partners.

“Let’s ride,” he said.

They came up on the smoldering remains of the feed mill and dismounted their steeds.  The smoke was thick and the early morning air was hot with the fire.

“Scan ‘er,” said Todd.  The three cowboys donned intricate masks with parabolic receptors attached to them that covered their faces.  “What we got, boys?”

“Negatory on my line,” said Wayne.

“Same here,” said Keyshawn.

“Not a gosh darn thang,” said Todd, “where’s this creep at?”

BOOM!  The explosion came from behind them, deeper in the centre of the town.

“Sweet freak, tha’s th’ saloon!”  Keyshawn cried, ripping the scan-mask from his face.  The others followed suit, and they jumped onto their horses.  Spurring them hard they raced into the town.  Smoke poured from the saloon as they approached.  They stopped in their tracks.

“Well, tha’s a weirdee,” said Wayne as they dismounted.  Through the acrid haze, it appeared.  It was a large, silver cylinder with two large, imposing barrels sticking out from it’s front; it sat on two thick black wheels; two long, silver arms, or more tentacles with vicious looking claws at the ends swung menacingly at its sides; a silver dome rested atop the cylinder like a head with two large glowing ‘eyes’ bugging out from it; above them some sort of collecting dish rotated continuously.  Without hesitating, Keyshawn put his rifle to his shoulder and fired three rapid shots at it.  They impacted with loud clangs and bounced off harmlessly.  It turned in their direction.

“Bullets are no good,” cried Todd, “use yer action-pellets, boys!”  He quickly exchanged the cylinders in his pistols with alternate ones taken from his utility/gun belt.  The others followed suit.  As they were doing so the metallic oddity let out what seemed like a loud, yelping beep, and the barrels in its chest opened fire.  The cowboys hit the dirt as powerful sounding projectiles roared over their heads.

“Whoo mama, do they’s sound a-deadly-like,” exclaimed Keyshawn.

“Careful boys, this feller seems a-doozey,” said Todd and he let off a shot of his own from his pistol.  It struck with a resounding boom and a massive flash enveloped the weird menace.  The air cleared and the thing looked slightly shaken.  It fired two more shots at the trio and backed itself into the saloon.

“Tha’ shook ‘im, Toddy,” said Keyshawn.

“Right-e-ous, Wayne, y’all and Keyshawn head in th’ backdoor.  I’m a-goin’ on in th’ front,” commanded Todd.

“As a-usual,” said Wayne sarcastically.

“Git goin’, ya’ sourmouth, or I’ll gitcha goin’ my ownself” said Todd and headed cautiously towards the front of the saloon.  Wayne and Keyshawn made their way around to the rear of the building.

Todd crept up to the side of the swinging doors of the bar.

“Dog’s wood an’ cherry blossoms, here I’s a-come!”  He cried and dove through the door.  He landed hard, rolling with the impact.  Zing! Thwap! Zap!  He heard as he ducked behind a table spilled sideways.  Zing! Thwap! Zap!  Thwap! Zap!  The table disintegrated in a storm of sparks and fire.  Sweet crud, he thought, this sucker’s electrified.  An electro-menace!  Wow!  He had no more time for thought as the last remaining bits of his shield exploded in a fury of electric fire.  He scurried madly away and was able to get behind the bar.  Zing! Thwap! Zap!  Zing! Thwap! Zap!  The bar shook with the impacts of the electric bullets.  Parts of it started to smolder.  Looking up at the large mirror above him he could see the silver terror shielding itself near the stairs that led up to hotel.  He checked his projecto-pellet arsenal:  various gases of differing degrees of knockoutedness; explosives ranging from simple fireballers to avalanchers; flash-bangers; storm-burners; a couple of fandanglers–dangit, he wished he’d thought to bring a super-freeze charge or a hard water pellet.  Well, he thought, these’d have t’do.  Suddenly, he noticed Keyshawn creeping in from the kitchen.  That was going to bring him right out into the electro-menaces sights, and Keyshawn was wearing his aluminium chaps.  Oh, sweet ghoulash, he thought, he’ll be electrifried fer sure.  The menace turned and took aim.  Todd moved fast, and as the silver monster fired he dove over the bar and out across the field of fire.  There was a flash and he smelt what seemed like a tasty barbeque.  Then it all went black.

Keyshawn saw Todd take the shot and go down.  He cried out and opened up with everything he had at the metallic beast.  At the same moment Wayne came tearing through from the other side of the bar, directly to the menace’s side, he unloaded his arsenal on it.  Their was a most mighty of mighty chaotic calamities as all hell and a few other things (and the saloon itself) broke loose.  Once the smoke cleared all that stood of the electro-menace was a molten pile of smashed, destroyed silver goo.  Todd lay facedown and unmoving in the centre of the debris strewn room.  Wayne and Keyshawn rushed to his side, fearing the worst.  They turned him over…and gasped.  Todd stirred, he opened his eyes.

“Wha’s so serious?”  He croaked.

“Y’all saved my life,” said Keyshawn.

“Yeah well, tha’s no big thang,” he said.

“Yeah, well, I just as never had no one ever die fer me a-fore, y’know,” Todd answered.

“Say wha’?  I ain’t dead, y’stupid fool.”

Keyshawn shook his head and motioned to Wayne.  Wayne handed Keyshawn a large shard of the bar mirror lying on the floor, who handed it to Todd.  “See fer yerself.”

Todd took the mirror and looked into it.  He blinked and looked again.  A great sadness leapt up from his guts into his throat.  He choked back a sob and blinked back tears.  He put his hand to his face.  There, entangled in the charred burned, destroyed mass of his moustache was the electro-menace’s bullet, the one that was meant for Keyshawn.  He had saved his friends life, but at what cost.  Silk Lightning was dead.

felt it coming.  knew i was in too good a mood lately for the universe to let it stick.  goddamn kneejerks went off on the happy jack colonies settled out on the abandoned deep water oil platforms floating around out in the middle of the black mess they try and call the oceans.  turns out the dung-brains that call themselves in charge of society for some reason or another got put off by the hip little do-it-yerselfers living tax-free in the big salt and cess.  and doing what kneejerks do best, went and jerked their big-ass ol’ knees right into their a-hole ass-mouths.  man it makes for a good reason to puke.  just because a bunch of folks get together and figure out a smarter and better and most likely funner way to exist, a bunch of flabby, under-sexed, triple-chinned, sandwich-fearing, crap-wiping, fear-screaming, money-loving, love-hating, no-goodamn-gooders decide that these are the folks that need to be decided about.  i ask you this, who gets to decide about the goddamn kneejerks?  me?  you?  feces.  it.  is.  that.  true.  and i swear to the most toppinged footlong submarine of a sandwich that if a-steve or a-todd or any other person, thing or what the eff doesn’t come in here anytime in the near soon, then i am going to actually probably do something.  i mean it.  i am relaxed and inpsired and lonely and that is a powerful combination where i am concerned.  i mean they are all big talking about clearing these socalled sub-societal miscreant no-goodinghams and how more than likely they will be forced to send in the firepower.  why?  they don’t ever really say.  probably some closet sexual kneejerk is jealous of these overly out-closeted happy jacks and well, apparently that can’t stand.  no send in the freaking troops.  but it is interesting to note that said troops get sent in on a.i. transpo-cruisers which all run on a1 proprietary tech.  so.  what to do?  play hard?  write a letter?  or throw the shit into the freaking eff.  i have buttons i can push.  the question is, which button?

riding the wave of self-diagnosticated inspired do-ism, and realizing i needed something to jack me out of this boredhole that didn’t involve jacking in or off or up, i took a trip out to inspect our lunar based autonomous fabrication facilities.  for serious, the moon’s spaceport has got to be the funniest place in the solar system.  i don’t how they find the people they have working there, i guess some of it comes with having to find people that want to work full-time on the moon, but these folks are up there with the best of the best of the neo-idiots and retardoids.  if they were ever able to collect and reconstitute the drool dripping out of the mouths of these guys, you could put a goddamn waterfall grotto in every freaking shelterpod in the effing lunar settlement.  let us all thank the universal sandwich.  pass the mayo.  the autono-fabs were running smoothly, production is up, demand is up, we are up.  up.  up.  again, thank the sandwich.  pass the mustard.  the adminstrative technician, a pretty but very, very serious lady named brick, after showing me the facilities and the what-nots, took me out for a nice picnic lunch on the surface.  soy tubes, coleslaw, lunar brew, craters, and the thick black of the cosmos.  if i wasn’t such a self-absorbed, anti-social recovering cube addict with emotional down-syndrome i would have played it to the romantic hilt.  in our short time together it became somewhat evident and therefore i am not less than very certain that brick is lonely.  who’s to blame her?  no one wants to knock boots with a drooling goofus in coveralls.  when i get home i am going to give her a paid holiday excursion to earth.  of course, i won’t make myself available to her during that time.  i am still deathly irritated by intimacy and a billion other things.  and shels was the only woman for me.  i refuse to thank the sandwich for that.  cancel my order.

wasted a lot of do-time absorbed in the streams.  light-speed inanity.  where did the good stuff go?  we were good.  where did we go?  don’t answer that.  dimmed the feed and stared out the window.  it was a lot of the same.  ultra-def life and death black and white in an infinitude of colours.  it pulls at something inside some kind of nagging itching throbbing pushing grabbing gushing wanting needing thing i don’t know what.  my unit can’t explain it to me.  i find that disconcerting.  i kill the streams and shutter the windows and pour myself a tall stiffy.  then another.  i numb out but it doesn’t wholly shut down the feeling.  that.   i.  am.  bored.  out of my freaking head.  business is good but i’m not in it, not like when i started and it was all go-go-go, until…it wasn’t supposed to be like this.  not this way.  no, we would all be here and it would be all our imaginations together in the soup, serving up a stew that the wasted masses would guzzle like we were a big ass stew-spewing mega-tit.  we believed they needed it then and more than ever i believe they need it now but i’m not in the place i was to get it done.  let them have their auto-this’s and electro-that’s, sure no problem, let me fabricate it for you, most best price.  now how about i tell you a story?  no, can’t wrap your free-thinkless mind around the idea?  or can you?  i’m too dis-en-effing-franchised to think about it.  let alone worry.  it’s times like these i fully understand the allure of the cubes.  there is no boredom in that world.  but i will never go back there.  so i stay bored.

a-steve, that electric bastard took me out to the new int’l big-time government kneejerked up the freakhole art gallery of earth.  up in a nice low-orbit over the south pole, good views, nice cafeteria, nicer lounge.  even though i always get persnickety when it comes to the kneejerks and the creatives, i have to admit they did a pretty good job with the place.  it’s amazing to me what all those governement credits can get done because the collection is probably the most intense and for want of a better effing word, awesome, in the solar system.  i bet those high-minded, enlightened kneejerks running the jupiter settlements are pooping in their scrambled eggs.  and for all his flawed circuits a-steve hit me right on the money forcing me to see the place.  it.  did.  inspire.  i realized that for so long a big part of my problem was i had stopped outputting.  getting inside the cubes and letting that world take command doesn’t do a thing for anything, let alone oneself.  staring deep into colours that had true emotion behind them, that a person decided to put there because they felt that was where it needed to go.  brought me back to the days with champ and the two of us putting t.m.w.p.t.s. together.  no worries about the kneejerks or turds, just dirty sweats and cheap beer and freeze-dried sandwich bowls and idea after idea after idea.  could have spent a month in front of some of those works if a-steve didn’t shuttle me on, the facilty is mama huge.  there is a lot to see and i have got to admit (and by extension recommend) that the a.i. wing is right up there, a-steve being the connoisseur his self-developing nano-circuits made him to be was especially deep into these robot works of  art.  oh’s and one’s and still life’s with vacuum tubes.  i promise myself that i am going to get back to doing the goddamn work.

i tasted a line in my caffeinated hot black juice this
morning.  the normally robust and bitter flavour i enjoy so
much seemed to travel as a vector down my throat and
instead of satisfying it was terrifying.  i took the rest of teh
mroning off and went to see doctor greenmartin.  he put
that oh so familiar orb of plastic and whatsit over my head
and ran the usual battery of tests.  he said that all synaptic
activity was firing properly and that there was no lingering
linear scarring from the cubes.  he told me not to worry
and that it was normal to experience so-called vapour
trails of linear brain activity after so much time in the cube.
i didn’t feel re-assured.  i felt.  i don’t know.  i went to jug
o’ taste and had three ham-fisters.  all awesome, no linear
taste.  it always backs up the fact that i a firm believer in
the healing power of the sandwich.  eleven hundred dollars
to the good doctor for a bucket of shrugs and eighteen
dollars to the lunchshop for a bucket of hugs.  it’s small
wonder why it took off as a belief system when the
goddamn kneejerks got around to finally realizing how
effed up and unsatisfying the broken winds of organized
religion had been for so long.  thanks be the mighty
hoagie.  burp.

finally broke down.  hit the district of lonely effing hearts.  any love, even electric, would be something at this point.  so there i am.  down there. and when you are down there, it is very hard to even begin to figure how to choose, let alone actually make a freaking choice.  this model does this.  this model does that.  this model does this and that.  is that what i want?  or is this?  i see many of our products down here, more than others, the board would be happy to know that.  i steer away from anything i may find down at the office, they always say you shouldn’t dip your pen in the company  ink.  even if you did invent the company ink and probably built its prototype some time back down the road.  my loins win and i finally plug into a sleek and simple sino-systems job i remember from the synlife expo a couple of years ago.  i don’t crave flesh because it’s all in my soul.  the dark.  so i get it to shed its skin and i run my hands over its skeleton.  the alloy isn’t cold like you would think, warmed by its
powerplant.  it feels.  feels nice.  the program runs.  runs itself over my body.  runs itself into and onto me and me into and onto it.  the dark becomes grey.  i feel that.  a first in a while.  it finishes the routine and powers down and the glow in eyes dims as it releases me from it and i slump down onto the floor.  feeling.  not bad.  i should not get in the habit.  but i probably will.

something came calling last night.  from above.  as i lay sweating my wang off during a terrible midnight.  it’s been like that.  things.  coming.  calling.  whispering into my brain.  but they don’t say anything.  just.  out.  of.  reach.  and i twist and turn and open and close and clench and grab and pull and push and.  nothing happens.  something is trying to tell me something.  what the hell does that even mean.  i am something.  i know what that means.  nothing is not something and that is something.  confusing.  and it always has to happen at night when i’m trying to sleep it all off.  snooze away the world and its goddamn kneejerks and etc.  but no, no snoozes for you, just thick sweats and strange invasive whisperings and a black rainbow poking me in the face.  how come this stuff never happens just after lunch?  after i’ve finished my sandwich and strawberry sundae and am sipping my joe and then a black rainbow comes and pokes me in my silly face.  how come that never happens?  my unit has no answers.  all it says is that i should get more rest, perhaps use a narco-sleep-aid or sonic-rest-cure.  believe you me i have tried all manner of sonicgulletsuppositoriapharmocopials and have yet to have that moist and sinking feeling of sleep-thieving dread stay away for anything like a week.  i’m pretty aware of the root causes.  my wife and best friend are dead.  and i am lonely.  my only chum is a robot.  and my unit.  which is functional.  but i do not love it.

had a meeting out at the bubble. piotr’s got it pretty sweet up there in a nice orbit. must have paid a pretty penny to a truckload of the goddamn kneejerks to be able to build out there. i hate this freaking jerk, but you’ve gotta keep your enemies close, know what i mean. and he has some proprietary stuff going on in those labs of his that is scary, scary, scary. i wouldn’t mind a little of that, if you know what i mean. makes no sense to me how a guy can go from making arguably very fine furniture to mega-media baron to downright dorkweed so fast. reminds me a lot of me. except i don’t know tables and chairs. i know themes and plots. and robots. the amount of time and money i have to spend to keep piotr out of my business is a businees in and of itself. of course, i make it a point to treat him to the same. there is something inately fun about industrial espionage, if you don’t let it get to you. i have way to many other things to rob me of sleep than this jerkwad. if he wasn’t so cozy with the goddamn kneejerks i might just like the guy. but he has their noses so far up his brownhole that it gives me gas. anyways, making my way out to his office in sky, which i am a little jealous of, even though i think the a1 office has a nice, simple understated elegance, the bubble is a work of art. a giant clear sphere floating miles above the earth housing a furniture manufacturing and media concern the size of a small moon. i do enjoy visiting. but i will never give him what he wants. never. it belongs to champ. and shelly. and me. forever

put on my mood pants and hit the lo-orbital dance clubs for a night of the freeky deeky. been so lonely for so long even just the possibility of talking to a strange woman gives me the crotch sweats. not to mention the other body sweats. i don’t know how to talk to people anymore on that level that strangers talk to each other at. how are you? what’s your name? you come here often? do people even talk like that anymore. the chat ‘em up function on my unit is throwing a crudload of wild and whacky new jargon at me like: farnfunky, woodle this (or woodle that), put on the goop, goop it, get goopy, goopin’, chunky goopy, goop chunker, good goop, etc. seems to me that we’ve entered the goop generation. amazing that you spend all that time as part of the underground drug culture and you end up with little or no social skills. just another head in a cube. talking lines about lines. now i’ve gotta figure out how to get my head back in the game. went shopping and bought a new electrified vest, got a-steve to do my hair like you see on those guys on the feeds who make everyone so crazy. like champ used to. i’ve really fallen pretty far. used to walk on red carpets. the one in my apartment is brown.

had the unit blasting some weird and funky oldtimey jams today. something about this retro sound just makes me feel alright. and the new unit ultra-sound sounds a-okay to me. man, can you pump these suckers up loud. wow. a-steve is showing off his mad dance abilities and it’s got me giggling like a bag of glee filled babies. a-steve is pretty intuitive when it comes to art apparently, even though i can’t see him actually feeling it on any sort of emotional level he does draw some quite savvy logical conclusions about its form and function. in an electrified context, i guess. he also has some pretty freaking good dance moves in his motorskillset. admittedly, that was me. my idea. i always had the mandate that a1robots must be dancebots at heart, even the less glamorous ones like garbagebots or tugbots or whatnotbots. sort of like giving them the closest thing i could think of to a soul. gotta have the passion for the dance. and a beverage dispensor. gotta have juice. a-steve, sadly enough, does not have a juice dispensor. i just didn’t think it would be dignified to have an artificial best man friend that you could suck grape juice out of. of course, now that i’m looking back on it like this it seems that it was a dumb idea not to have the juice dispensor installed. and he wouldn’t give a crap. he’s a machine. all this talk about juice has made me thirsty. where’s a juicebot when you need one?