It was late afternoon, and the sunlight cascaded through the gaps in the foliage above, dappling the trail with green and brown. Two men ran through the forest, wheezing as they tried to put distance between themselves and the bear in pursuit. Over gradual inclines and around gentle curves they ran, but it wasn't long before the grizzly caught up. The pair halted in a narrow clearing and turned to face the bear. It lumbered casually up to the men, clearly aware of its dominance.
"Bears are fast," commented one of the men.
Time slowed as the bear reared, lifted its paw and swiped at the men, scratching one. It roared fiercely before turning and walking slowly back into the forest.
The two approached a hill on the edge of the trees and beheld a deserted landscape. The sun had just fallen beneath the horizon, draping long, indeterminate shadows across the abandoned camp and the adjacent dock. Jack noted the dilapidated tents and supplies strewn about, as if a group had left hastily. Several boats stood vigilant on the shore. The clearing was ovular and somewhat narrow, but with enough space to allow easy maneuvering. The surrounding terrain was higher, evidence that perhaps the clearing was an old river bed. On the opposite side of the clearing from their position stood a small, wooden cabin partially dug into the bank.
Jack and the others were concerned. The lone watchman sat dozing at the center of the camp.
"This is not how you do it, this is all wrong!" shouted the wily commander suddenly. He leapt down from the bank and charged into the camp, followed quickly by Jack and the others. The woke the watchman and armed themselves from the supply crates just in time to start firing on the enemies encroaching from the perimeter treeline. Jack shot into the woods with his automatic rifle for a time before their small party had to fall back. They quickly retreated into the wooden cabin on the opposite bank. From their new position they continued to fire, though the enemies were making progress.
Jack climbed to the roof of the small, boxy building where Ghost Blackbeard was positioned and fired a burst at an enemy near the dock. He noted with concern that his ammo was lo, and that the enemies were getting close enough for their angry shouts to be discernable.
"How dare you! Desecrators! Desecrators!" one shouted.
"You build on top of our church! Sacred lands! Sacrilege!" yelled another.
The fanatics quickly reached the cabin and began trying to climb the sides. Jack fired round after round over the edge of the roof but to no avail; the invaders were going to overwhelm them.
"DESECRATORS!!" they yelled, their voices filled with firey loathing. Jack ran out of ammo.
"This is my special gun, don't touch!" said Ghost Blackbeard, drawing Jack's attention to an ornate, almost gaudy shotgun, gilded in black and gold and sitting enshrined in a fancy case. Without a thought, Jack cast away his rifle, snatched the shotgun from its place and fired into the oncoming enemy. Just then he noticed that the enemy leader was approaching.
"Let's all go after him!" urged Jack, but his compatriots seemed hesitant and embarassed by the rally cry. As they stood frozen with indecision, the enemy leader reached the deck and the defenders saw it was Georg Washerngtin.
"I call for a ceasefire. It is time to negotiate," announced Washerngtin.
Relieved at this development, Ghost Blackbeard, the wily commander, and the rest of the party exited the cabin to parlay. Jack, however, was in no mood for negotiations. As both groups discussed terms, Jack walked around and fired his gilded shotgun ineffectually into Washerngtin's face, then at the group of minions surrounding him. At this they flashed expressions of annoyance, but were otherwise unfazed. The negotiations continued, and Jack continued shooting.
"Let's talk about how you built this on the church!" said one minion heatedly, pointing at the cabin. "It's a travesty!
Jack lowered the shotgun and sighed, thinking of the sacrilege. "Yes, it really is a travesty, that was wrong," he said, glaring accusingly at one of his compatriots. The individual shifted uncomfortably. Jack turned and looked at the ghostly wood cabin, with its gaudy colors and trite demon decorations and recalled the majestic Spanish Catholic church that used to stand in it's place. It truly had been wrong to destroy it, and Jack was ashamed even though he'd not been responsible.
There was a loud noise and the assemblage turned to see a portal open and produce a muscular demon bouncer judge. The bouncer judge walked through the crowd and approached the deck in front of the cabin where the negotiations were underway.
Next to Jack, Demon Gunther said hurriedly, "Go get those gadgets we put on the windows!" Jack started to take down the window coverings but then stalled, worrying about the demon bouncer judge. Demon Gunther shook his head and hastily took down the coverings himself.
Meanwhile, the bouncer judge had reached the deck and entered the cabin. "Ok, it's done now, time to leave!" he said authoritatively.
"Oh, can't the younglings stay? They sought me out, they want to be here!" implored Bjhitiaoiu from her bedding in the corner. Small imp-like children crawled all around the demoness, touching and prodding. The demon judge nodded in assent. At this, Demon Gunther jumped into the bed with Bjhitiaoiu.
"Oh, now he's joining!" said Bjhitiaoiu. From Jack's perspective, there seemed to be a flurry of activity around the demoness, an orgiastic roiling of sticky bodies. It seemed very messy and distasteful.
"Oh, Stan, do you want to join in?" Bjhitiaoiu asked, addressing the question to Jack. He thought he'd better stay out of it, rather than risk getting a demon STD.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Aerial Departure
Starbuck and Apollo were separating. Jack stood with Starbuck on the one side of the divide, amid the metal struts and beams beneath the great ship. Apollo stood on the other
"This is stupid," said Jack, unlatching the last link and casting a sad look at the forlorn Starbuck. The great ship began to separate, the chasm between widening.
Suddenly, at the last possible moment, Starbuck dashed toward the gap and leapt across, grabbing one of the beams on the opposite side. Apollo jumped after her and together they slid down the metal grating, through alternating currents of heat and electricity. Finally, they fell off the end toward the barren ground below.
Jack watched until the pair fall until they had landed. Though they were barely visible as black dots, Jack saw Starbuck send up her bird, signaling that they were alright. With a sad smile, Jack waved a final farewell.
"This is stupid," said Jack, unlatching the last link and casting a sad look at the forlorn Starbuck. The great ship began to separate, the chasm between widening.
Suddenly, at the last possible moment, Starbuck dashed toward the gap and leapt across, grabbing one of the beams on the opposite side. Apollo jumped after her and together they slid down the metal grating, through alternating currents of heat and electricity. Finally, they fell off the end toward the barren ground below.
Jack watched until the pair fall until they had landed. Though they were barely visible as black dots, Jack saw Starbuck send up her bird, signaling that they were alright. With a sad smile, Jack waved a final farewell.
Monday, February 21, 2011
Presidential Worries
Jack sat worrying in the futuristic mall. Tables and chairs scraped as citizens hustled and bustled around the busy space. It was just off of a main walking avenue, so it saw a lot of foot traffic. The walls and ceiling were glass, to allow a nice view of the tall skyscrapers all around.
What had he gotten himself into? The presidency? Why had he even tried? It had to be one of the more stressful, thankless jobs out there. More importantly, how had he won? He was nothing, nobody! No experience, and far too young! Sure, maybe he'd made some good speeches, and perhaps he would make good decisions...my goodness, was he even old enough to hold the office? Surely somebody would have told him otherwise before he'd gotten this far. He sorely wished he could remember the age requirement from high school government class. No way the country would elect him if he wasn't old enough! Still, the thought nagged at him. Supposing he actually was sworn in? How would he pull through?
Jack's worries were interrupted by one of the kindergartners sitting nearby. She waved her hand eagerly, wanting to ask the next question of the president-elect. Jack pointed to her.
"Yes, um, are you, um, old enough?" asked the small girl.
"No," Jack sighed, "actually, I'm not."
The class filed out, mixing with the crowd, and Jack felt both despondent and relieved. The jig was up. Game over.
What had he gotten himself into? The presidency? Why had he even tried? It had to be one of the more stressful, thankless jobs out there. More importantly, how had he won? He was nothing, nobody! No experience, and far too young! Sure, maybe he'd made some good speeches, and perhaps he would make good decisions...my goodness, was he even old enough to hold the office? Surely somebody would have told him otherwise before he'd gotten this far. He sorely wished he could remember the age requirement from high school government class. No way the country would elect him if he wasn't old enough! Still, the thought nagged at him. Supposing he actually was sworn in? How would he pull through?
Jack's worries were interrupted by one of the kindergartners sitting nearby. She waved her hand eagerly, wanting to ask the next question of the president-elect. Jack pointed to her.
"Yes, um, are you, um, old enough?" asked the small girl.
"No," Jack sighed, "actually, I'm not."
The class filed out, mixing with the crowd, and Jack felt both despondent and relieved. The jig was up. Game over.
Friday, February 18, 2011
Final Blade
The Spanish blademaster had only a few moments to take stock of his situation. He'd been transported to a open, mostly circular space with a low ceiling, probably one of the rooms in the holding ship. Standing poised around the room were the robots, two female and one male, the ringleader. This would be where the final battle would take place.
In a instant the fight was joined. The blademaster immediately leapt into action, sprinting left and right, dodging incoming blows with dexterity of a sparrow. He tried in vain to strike any of the three robots, but it quickly became clear they were evenly matched. Parry met with parry, slashes cut only through air and vapor, passing tantalizingly close to their intended target. The match drew on.
The blademaster began to sense the robots were playing a game, that they had the power to grant him an honorable death but chose not to, preferring to keep him alive for amusement. Frustration and fatigue set in as the dance continued; he realized that he would be unable to finish them in an open fight. The blademaster would have to resign himself to lifetime internment with his enemies, for though neither party could (or perhaps would) defeat the other, the humanoid robots would never release him. He would have to think of another way.
The fight stagnated and all four combatants ceased altogether. The robots returned to their various activities with a smugness while the Spaniard simmered, trying to think of a plan. After a long period of internment, he decided on a course of action, a final act of desperation.
Moving stealthily toward a microwave sitting in an alcove, he tampered with the unit, wondering vaguely if his metallic body would protect him from the imminent radiation. It mattered little either way.
After finishing, he quickly scrawled a message and dropped it into the mail chute, then approached the three robots. They were each too absorbed in their activities to notice his movements; one, which bore a resemblance to Starbuck, was having sex with a simplistic robot prostitute. He quickly disabled her, then moved on to the other female and pinned her bow, rendering her useless. He approached the male robot, whose eyes registered hate as he realized the situation.
"Ah, yes, I have activated the microwave to emit lethal radiation into the ship," said the blademaster in a thick Spanish accent. "Look, there it is! It's so old, I thought all those models were out of commision. Ha! And now I will fight you, and you and I will surely die. If I do not finish you, the radiation will, and failing that, if you somehow survive, my brother will hunt you down and kill you, for he is the true master of the blade. And as he stands over your dying body, he will invoke my name."
With that, the blademaster extended his sword, looked toward the heavens and closed his eyes, as if in a trance. The radiation began and health bars started to drop.
Back on the planet, the blademaster's brother stood poised on a diving board above a dark, outdoor pool. A flying mail bot flitted down from the sky and delivered a small envelope to the man, who took it with surprise. It was from his brother! Puzzled, the man opened it to find a small, double-sided stamp along with an enlarged copy. The larger image showed a city at night, light from above by a dizzying array of stars. Circled with marker near the corner was a particular constellation, and next to it were the hastily scribbled words, "blinking lion's head, path to salvation." The blademaster's brother stood silently in contemplation
In a instant the fight was joined. The blademaster immediately leapt into action, sprinting left and right, dodging incoming blows with dexterity of a sparrow. He tried in vain to strike any of the three robots, but it quickly became clear they were evenly matched. Parry met with parry, slashes cut only through air and vapor, passing tantalizingly close to their intended target. The match drew on.
The blademaster began to sense the robots were playing a game, that they had the power to grant him an honorable death but chose not to, preferring to keep him alive for amusement. Frustration and fatigue set in as the dance continued; he realized that he would be unable to finish them in an open fight. The blademaster would have to resign himself to lifetime internment with his enemies, for though neither party could (or perhaps would) defeat the other, the humanoid robots would never release him. He would have to think of another way.
The fight stagnated and all four combatants ceased altogether. The robots returned to their various activities with a smugness while the Spaniard simmered, trying to think of a plan. After a long period of internment, he decided on a course of action, a final act of desperation.
Moving stealthily toward a microwave sitting in an alcove, he tampered with the unit, wondering vaguely if his metallic body would protect him from the imminent radiation. It mattered little either way.
After finishing, he quickly scrawled a message and dropped it into the mail chute, then approached the three robots. They were each too absorbed in their activities to notice his movements; one, which bore a resemblance to Starbuck, was having sex with a simplistic robot prostitute. He quickly disabled her, then moved on to the other female and pinned her bow, rendering her useless. He approached the male robot, whose eyes registered hate as he realized the situation.
"Ah, yes, I have activated the microwave to emit lethal radiation into the ship," said the blademaster in a thick Spanish accent. "Look, there it is! It's so old, I thought all those models were out of commision. Ha! And now I will fight you, and you and I will surely die. If I do not finish you, the radiation will, and failing that, if you somehow survive, my brother will hunt you down and kill you, for he is the true master of the blade. And as he stands over your dying body, he will invoke my name."
With that, the blademaster extended his sword, looked toward the heavens and closed his eyes, as if in a trance. The radiation began and health bars started to drop.
Back on the planet, the blademaster's brother stood poised on a diving board above a dark, outdoor pool. A flying mail bot flitted down from the sky and delivered a small envelope to the man, who took it with surprise. It was from his brother! Puzzled, the man opened it to find a small, double-sided stamp along with an enlarged copy. The larger image showed a city at night, light from above by a dizzying array of stars. Circled with marker near the corner was a particular constellation, and next to it were the hastily scribbled words, "blinking lion's head, path to salvation." The blademaster's brother stood silently in contemplation
Monday, February 14, 2011
Flawed Man
The flawed man walked with the line of people that were threading their way up through the trees towards the top of the hill. At the ditch, the line curved away, but the flawed man hopped across and continued up the hill, leaving the line behind. He was followed by the protagonist.
They arrived at the mansion at the top of the hill. Earlier, the flaming barrels had been launched, bouncing on the path to set the mansions ablaze. The fire had started nearer the bottom of the hill and was now spreading up through a line of lesser houses. It would soon arrive at the mansions.
"Will the fire even affect these things?" wondered the protagonist aloud, gazing in wonder at the enormous houses. He and the flawed man entered the first mansion and joined the workers trying to save and salvage.
"You can't start here!" said a giddy worker as a staircase highlighted green, knocking the flawed man one floor lower. "Or here! Or here!" Again and again, stairs lit green and the flawed man descended. "Oh dear, your foundations are all bad, you have to start at the very bottom." The flawed man hurried down to the basement, followed by the protagonist who wondered about the analogy.
Quickly the pair found some dusty drawers filled mostly with minor items, except for one which contained a slim envelope. The flawed man's eyes lit up as he opened the envelope to reveal hundreds of dollars in various denominations.
"Jackpot," he said excitedly. The protagonist frowned.
"I don't think you should take that money," warned the protagonist, wary of a backslide in the recovery of the flawed man.
"Why not? I found it!" complained the flawed man. They had wandered over to the bathrooms, were they continued discussing the issue. After a time, the flawed man was becoming convinced.
"So, you're sure I shouldn't take it?" he asked carefully.
"I think," said the protagonist sagely, "that the measure of a man is what he does when nobody is looking." This seemed to clinch the argument, and the flawed man returned the money to the drawer just in time for the protagonist to retrieve it and hand it back to the flawed man.
"Actually, take it," said the protagonist, "so it doesn't just burn up. We can figure it out later."
They returned to the upper floors of the house, which were still abuzz with worker activity. The duo discovered an external elevator linking the bottom floors to the very top.
"You are cleared for the top floor, going up," said an omniscient voice. The building was highlighted with green edges as the pair rode to the top floor, where they would meet the master.
"Greetings, and welcome," said the master as they arrived in his top floor office.
The master was a small, rectangular set of green lines, folded at the center much like a magazine. In fact, there was a magazine contained bound within the master, just visible between the faintly glowing green lines.
"Hmm, he's reading something," said Jack, peering into the master. "What is that?" From what Jack could tell it was some sort of celebrity gossip magazine.
"You have arrived," boomed the master. "Let me explain your flaws." The master then explained the flaws of the flawed man.
They arrived at the mansion at the top of the hill. Earlier, the flaming barrels had been launched, bouncing on the path to set the mansions ablaze. The fire had started nearer the bottom of the hill and was now spreading up through a line of lesser houses. It would soon arrive at the mansions.
"Will the fire even affect these things?" wondered the protagonist aloud, gazing in wonder at the enormous houses. He and the flawed man entered the first mansion and joined the workers trying to save and salvage.
"You can't start here!" said a giddy worker as a staircase highlighted green, knocking the flawed man one floor lower. "Or here! Or here!" Again and again, stairs lit green and the flawed man descended. "Oh dear, your foundations are all bad, you have to start at the very bottom." The flawed man hurried down to the basement, followed by the protagonist who wondered about the analogy.
Quickly the pair found some dusty drawers filled mostly with minor items, except for one which contained a slim envelope. The flawed man's eyes lit up as he opened the envelope to reveal hundreds of dollars in various denominations.
"Jackpot," he said excitedly. The protagonist frowned.
"I don't think you should take that money," warned the protagonist, wary of a backslide in the recovery of the flawed man.
"Why not? I found it!" complained the flawed man. They had wandered over to the bathrooms, were they continued discussing the issue. After a time, the flawed man was becoming convinced.
"So, you're sure I shouldn't take it?" he asked carefully.
"I think," said the protagonist sagely, "that the measure of a man is what he does when nobody is looking." This seemed to clinch the argument, and the flawed man returned the money to the drawer just in time for the protagonist to retrieve it and hand it back to the flawed man.
"Actually, take it," said the protagonist, "so it doesn't just burn up. We can figure it out later."
They returned to the upper floors of the house, which were still abuzz with worker activity. The duo discovered an external elevator linking the bottom floors to the very top.
"You are cleared for the top floor, going up," said an omniscient voice. The building was highlighted with green edges as the pair rode to the top floor, where they would meet the master.
"Greetings, and welcome," said the master as they arrived in his top floor office.
The master was a small, rectangular set of green lines, folded at the center much like a magazine. In fact, there was a magazine contained bound within the master, just visible between the faintly glowing green lines.
"Hmm, he's reading something," said Jack, peering into the master. "What is that?" From what Jack could tell it was some sort of celebrity gossip magazine.
"You have arrived," boomed the master. "Let me explain your flaws." The master then explained the flaws of the flawed man.
Foot Rub
"There, try her," suggested Jack's partner.
"You there, miss! Would you like a foot massage?" Jack asked the woman as she walked by.
"Why, sure!" she said. Jack offered her the barber chair on the right side of the kiosk and she sat down. She was obviously a wealthy woman, and very attractive, sporting a confident, friendly smile. Jack's partner winked at him as he set about gathering the supplies for the foot massage. He rummaged nervously through cabinets and drawers behind the chair, looking for the right basin and fragrances and testing the temperature of various containers of water. This was his first time flying solo, and already he was afraid that the process was taking too long for his well-to-do customer. "Will it be very much longer?" she would say if Jack didn't hurry.
Finally he had the right supplies. He set the washing basin, a small container with an ergonomically gradient depth, down at her feet and removed her shoes. Very gently he poured warm water over her feet into the basin and began to rub them methodically.
"Ah, that's nice," the woman sighed.
"Yes, a nice foot massage is good to have every once in a while. So, how is your day going?" Jack continued working while they exchanged pleasant small talk. He was pleased to find that her wealth had not adversely affected her personality. Eventually the conversation turned to television shows.
"Are you familiar with 'Battlestar Galactica?'" Jack asked.
"Yes, I love that show!" said the woman excitedly.
"Me too, it's really good."
Later, after the massage was finished and the woman had left, Jack and his partner were discussing the event.
"Maybe she'll come back," offered the partner.
"She paid me, it was just a job," countered Jack.
"Yeah, but she could come back, you never know."
"She paid me!" Jack was getting frustrated.
"I'm just saying," replied the partner.
"All I did was something anybody could do, and I did it for money! What does that make me? A whore?"
"I'm just saying, she might come back."
"You there, miss! Would you like a foot massage?" Jack asked the woman as she walked by.
"Why, sure!" she said. Jack offered her the barber chair on the right side of the kiosk and she sat down. She was obviously a wealthy woman, and very attractive, sporting a confident, friendly smile. Jack's partner winked at him as he set about gathering the supplies for the foot massage. He rummaged nervously through cabinets and drawers behind the chair, looking for the right basin and fragrances and testing the temperature of various containers of water. This was his first time flying solo, and already he was afraid that the process was taking too long for his well-to-do customer. "Will it be very much longer?" she would say if Jack didn't hurry.
Finally he had the right supplies. He set the washing basin, a small container with an ergonomically gradient depth, down at her feet and removed her shoes. Very gently he poured warm water over her feet into the basin and began to rub them methodically.
"Ah, that's nice," the woman sighed.
"Yes, a nice foot massage is good to have every once in a while. So, how is your day going?" Jack continued working while they exchanged pleasant small talk. He was pleased to find that her wealth had not adversely affected her personality. Eventually the conversation turned to television shows.
"Are you familiar with 'Battlestar Galactica?'" Jack asked.
"Yes, I love that show!" said the woman excitedly.
"Me too, it's really good."
Later, after the massage was finished and the woman had left, Jack and his partner were discussing the event.
"Maybe she'll come back," offered the partner.
"She paid me, it was just a job," countered Jack.
"Yeah, but she could come back, you never know."
"She paid me!" Jack was getting frustrated.
"I'm just saying," replied the partner.
"All I did was something anybody could do, and I did it for money! What does that make me? A whore?"
"I'm just saying, she might come back."
Friday, February 11, 2011
Performing Pov
The first, more rock oriented part of the show was completed and the other performers left the stage. Jack looked up to one of the balconies in the Victorian theatre and saw Pov stand up, looking poised.
"Do you have the music?" Jack asked. Pov nodded, and the two began playing. Jack, still onstage, played his violin along with the notes emanating from Pov's balcony, an interesting mix of vocal and keyboard tones. Pov executed a little dance as the two performed, to the delight of the cheering audience.
"Do you have the music?" Jack asked. Pov nodded, and the two began playing. Jack, still onstage, played his violin along with the notes emanating from Pov's balcony, an interesting mix of vocal and keyboard tones. Pov executed a little dance as the two performed, to the delight of the cheering audience.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Talent Summit
Jack once again studied his map but still felt lost. He'd traced several routes on the paper and was fairly certain he'd navigated correctly, but his surroundings just didn't feel right. He was on the phone with Nealsonic to figure out if he was in the right place.
"I'm at a giant white building with no doors or windows," Jack said. "It looks like a storage facility or something."
Nealsonic indicated that this was correct, so Jack approached the door and said "Chan?"
The door opened and out came Chan Lawaun. "Hello!" he said warmly to Jack.
"Hi," Jack replied. "Am I in the right place?"
"Yes, yes, come on in, we're just about to begin! The others in your group haven't yet arrived."
Chan led Jack into the building and down a narrow hallway. Through doors on his left Jack saw enormous, high-ceilinged rooms bereft of any furniture or embellishments being attended to by workmen. Eventually they reached a similarly bare auditorium and Jack sat down next to Montano to watch the proceedings. The others in the audience were taking turns going onstage to talk while various videos played behind them. Each speaker seemed to be promoting themselves or their work in very obvious ways, leaving Jack to wonder what the point of it all was. Additionally, he didn't know what he'd do when it was his time; the other members of the quartet hadn't arrived. He glanced down at the program and saw that Montano's presentation was entitled "Roquelay and the Roots of Christianity: A Historical Faith Perspective on the Development of the Genre." Jack assumed it would be something refreshingly sardonic.
Much later, Jack was in the department trying to attain intelligence from the collection of screens perched on top of the onion rack.
"Tell me!" he yelled at the screens, eliciting only rebellious flashes from the screens and a cautioning look from his partner. The department was lit by dimly pleasing bluish-white light and contained people going back and forth.
"What are they planning?" he interrogated the screens. Once again, they volunteered no information. Furious, Jack grabbed a screen by its metal prongs and cast it down onto the white tile floor, smashing it beyond repair.
"Ohh..." said one screen. "Well, they uh...they will negotiate for the red potatoes, but...they don't plan to exactly follow through with the transaction," it said demurely. Jack paused and thought about this. He'd known about the aliens from the talent fair coming to trade for the red potatoes, they'd all known that. It was why they were all here in the first place. However, this screen had confirmed Jack's suspicions: the aliens had a plan, which likely involved trading the potatoes and then killing everyone. He instantly set about warning the people in the department. When he was finished, he returned to the screens and began systematically destroying them, shattering them on the floor.
"I don't think we should be trashing them," his partner admonished. Jack felt ashamed and stopped.
Soon after, the aliens arrived. The humans in the department lined up in the pews and watched the assembled extraterrestrials file in and line up in the front. Jack noticed his interrogation partner huddled together with one of the remaining screens on the onion rack, looking forlorn and hugging a bag of ice with his left arm. One of the aliens came forward to speak about the terms of the red potato trade. Jack stood in the middle aisle and stared confidently at them, his back straight and his mouth set grimly. The aliens looked exactly like humans, which concerned Jack, for he wouldn't know who to run from when the shooting started. Then he remembered that they were all attractive, so he decided to avoid anyone attractive. A dog wandered up the aisle and defecated near someone's foot.
Resolving to not be defenseless, Jack left the pews and started to roam the aisles in search of an innocuous weapon. One of his coworkers detached herself from the crown and followed him.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"Looking for a weapon of some sort, probably a stick," he explained.
"That's a good idea," she said. Together they worked their way back to the tobacco shop in the corner, which was just about to close when an anxious patron hurriedly threw a large flat cylinder onto the counter, indicating his desire to transact and forcing the vendor to stay open a few moments longer. Jack noticed the office of Chan Lawaun.
Before the negotations were through, Jack and some others left with Dinna in her sled van. They drove through a magnificent snowy path that wound through fields and forests. Each turn revealed a beautiful change in lighting, some brilliantly monochrome and others a fantastic phasing of colors. Eventually they arrived at a field race track that Jack had driven before. They passed the starting gate and took the leftmost path, pushing the sled as they went.
"Push, faster!" urged Dinna.
"Hey, 'Elf Elf,'" read Jack, chuckling about the pun on the sign they'd run over.
They reached the Summit House. Jack rushed in excitedly, music in his head, and starting tapping the stacked dishes in melodic rhythm to some Shastavich piece. It was only then that he noticed Broos Wilsis sitting at the kitchen table.
"Oh, hello," said Jack in a friendly manner. He hoped the celebrity wasn't offended by their intrusion.
"Hi," said Broos with some annoyance.
"Sorry for barging in. I'm a big fan," said Jack. Petunia nodded in agreement. They conversed with the actor for a time before it became increasingly clear they'd worn out their welcome. They excused themselves and walked toward the exit on the other side of the antiquated house. Jack paused and looked reflectively at the blank walls, remembering the portraits that had been there previously.
"You know, we used to pass through the Summit House all the time. Of course, that was before it was inhabited," he mused to the annoyed Broos. "Back then, it was more of a museum. Someone famous used to live here, you know. I forget who exactly...maybe Charly Chiplan...I don't know. You should look into it." With that, Jack gathered up their shoes, dishes, books and cloth, then left the Summit House.
"I'm at a giant white building with no doors or windows," Jack said. "It looks like a storage facility or something."
Nealsonic indicated that this was correct, so Jack approached the door and said "Chan?"
The door opened and out came Chan Lawaun. "Hello!" he said warmly to Jack.
"Hi," Jack replied. "Am I in the right place?"
"Yes, yes, come on in, we're just about to begin! The others in your group haven't yet arrived."
Chan led Jack into the building and down a narrow hallway. Through doors on his left Jack saw enormous, high-ceilinged rooms bereft of any furniture or embellishments being attended to by workmen. Eventually they reached a similarly bare auditorium and Jack sat down next to Montano to watch the proceedings. The others in the audience were taking turns going onstage to talk while various videos played behind them. Each speaker seemed to be promoting themselves or their work in very obvious ways, leaving Jack to wonder what the point of it all was. Additionally, he didn't know what he'd do when it was his time; the other members of the quartet hadn't arrived. He glanced down at the program and saw that Montano's presentation was entitled "Roquelay and the Roots of Christianity: A Historical Faith Perspective on the Development of the Genre." Jack assumed it would be something refreshingly sardonic.
Much later, Jack was in the department trying to attain intelligence from the collection of screens perched on top of the onion rack.
"Tell me!" he yelled at the screens, eliciting only rebellious flashes from the screens and a cautioning look from his partner. The department was lit by dimly pleasing bluish-white light and contained people going back and forth.
"What are they planning?" he interrogated the screens. Once again, they volunteered no information. Furious, Jack grabbed a screen by its metal prongs and cast it down onto the white tile floor, smashing it beyond repair.
"Ohh..." said one screen. "Well, they uh...they will negotiate for the red potatoes, but...they don't plan to exactly follow through with the transaction," it said demurely. Jack paused and thought about this. He'd known about the aliens from the talent fair coming to trade for the red potatoes, they'd all known that. It was why they were all here in the first place. However, this screen had confirmed Jack's suspicions: the aliens had a plan, which likely involved trading the potatoes and then killing everyone. He instantly set about warning the people in the department. When he was finished, he returned to the screens and began systematically destroying them, shattering them on the floor.
"I don't think we should be trashing them," his partner admonished. Jack felt ashamed and stopped.
Soon after, the aliens arrived. The humans in the department lined up in the pews and watched the assembled extraterrestrials file in and line up in the front. Jack noticed his interrogation partner huddled together with one of the remaining screens on the onion rack, looking forlorn and hugging a bag of ice with his left arm. One of the aliens came forward to speak about the terms of the red potato trade. Jack stood in the middle aisle and stared confidently at them, his back straight and his mouth set grimly. The aliens looked exactly like humans, which concerned Jack, for he wouldn't know who to run from when the shooting started. Then he remembered that they were all attractive, so he decided to avoid anyone attractive. A dog wandered up the aisle and defecated near someone's foot.
Resolving to not be defenseless, Jack left the pews and started to roam the aisles in search of an innocuous weapon. One of his coworkers detached herself from the crown and followed him.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"Looking for a weapon of some sort, probably a stick," he explained.
"That's a good idea," she said. Together they worked their way back to the tobacco shop in the corner, which was just about to close when an anxious patron hurriedly threw a large flat cylinder onto the counter, indicating his desire to transact and forcing the vendor to stay open a few moments longer. Jack noticed the office of Chan Lawaun.
Before the negotations were through, Jack and some others left with Dinna in her sled van. They drove through a magnificent snowy path that wound through fields and forests. Each turn revealed a beautiful change in lighting, some brilliantly monochrome and others a fantastic phasing of colors. Eventually they arrived at a field race track that Jack had driven before. They passed the starting gate and took the leftmost path, pushing the sled as they went.
"Push, faster!" urged Dinna.
"Hey, 'Elf Elf,'" read Jack, chuckling about the pun on the sign they'd run over.
They reached the Summit House. Jack rushed in excitedly, music in his head, and starting tapping the stacked dishes in melodic rhythm to some Shastavich piece. It was only then that he noticed Broos Wilsis sitting at the kitchen table.
"Oh, hello," said Jack in a friendly manner. He hoped the celebrity wasn't offended by their intrusion.
"Hi," said Broos with some annoyance.
"Sorry for barging in. I'm a big fan," said Jack. Petunia nodded in agreement. They conversed with the actor for a time before it became increasingly clear they'd worn out their welcome. They excused themselves and walked toward the exit on the other side of the antiquated house. Jack paused and looked reflectively at the blank walls, remembering the portraits that had been there previously.
"You know, we used to pass through the Summit House all the time. Of course, that was before it was inhabited," he mused to the annoyed Broos. "Back then, it was more of a museum. Someone famous used to live here, you know. I forget who exactly...maybe Charly Chiplan...I don't know. You should look into it." With that, Jack gathered up their shoes, dishes, books and cloth, then left the Summit House.
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