let’s criminalize ‘prettiness’ scar ourselves with sharp rocks compliments are insults bathing is unnecessary ugly animals all fat and filthy reeking foulness rubbing mud in our hair and throwing our shit at each other gouge out our perceptions with long dirty fingernails Is this the best we can do?
I’ve left my tower before.
I don’t see what the big deal is.
There’s sun and wind out there like there is in here.
Same sun, same wind.
The city at ped level is interesting sure, but not as interesting as say, Egypt during the Ptolemy’s
reign or Mexico city circa 1400 and I can go to those whenever I want without leaving my
Everything I could ever need is here.
I’m sure things are much the same elsewhere.
There’s no reason to take RL bodies on excursions where an AV of one sort or another will do.
I’ve read that people used to spend hours in airports, more hours on planes, to go to faraway
places and have meetings or maybe go on vacations.
I read these things but they do not register deeply. How could they?
Everything here is seconds away.
Others spend more time out there, in TRW, if not in their ‘actual’ bodies. Droners are
everywhere, for instance. And there are auta vehicles for a more hands-on experience of
You can ACTUALLY (vicariously) climb mountains, or fly kites, or hike, or whatever- if you’re willing to pay shipping you can be one step from anywhere.
I have several humaniform auta in storage, ready to be transported anywhere in the world I
might like to see in ‘person’.
I never know where to go.
There are too many choices, too many experiences.
Half the time I sit in my room alone with the walls set to white.
The work of an evil despot is never done.
How many mornings must I awaken to spit at the dawn? How many babies must I dump from their cradles? How many churches must I put to the torch? It’s never enough.
It all becomes tiresome after a while.
Oh, I am so sick of being evil.
“How many kittens must I strangle, Bradly?”
“…um… seven, Master?”
“No, no. That was rhetorical.”
“Nevermind. Look, I don’t feel like raping the prisoners today. Would you handle that?”
The hunched little man eyed me suspiciously, wondering what the catch was, I suppose.
“…as… as my Master commands…”
“It’s not a reward, Bradly- it’s a punishment. It’s more evil if I make you do it. I’m too attractive to really inspire horror.”
He brightened, slicking his greasy black hair out of his pockmarked face with filthy fingernails.
“Oh, I see Master. VERY evil yes. I am quite hideous.”
“Good. off you go then… I mean MUWHAWHAWHAWHAWHAW!”
“Very good, master.”
The ugly troll of a man limped off, dragging the leg I’d broken in a feigned fit of rage once when it had seemed appropriate. it had never healed correctly.
No doctors in my realm.
First of all, it was an apple, not a fucking fig.
Big, juicy fucking apple. Come ON- I was there.
All those painters brushing blood red fruit on canvas: Where did you think they got that fucking idea? You think they just couldn’t paint figs? That sort of art started happening like four thousand years after the incident in question. Two-thirds of the history of the earth. That’s nothing. Look- you’ve heard of Tutankhamen? One little dictator in one little kingdom, thirty-five—hundred years ago. And he’s not even important.
Well, the apple bit was one of THE DEFINING MOMENTS in mankind’s history. You think people would forget something like that? And it wasn’t like four thousand years worth of hearsay and distortion either. Noah’s family was religious as shit, right from the beginning. Repeated the same six fucking stories over and over every night before bed. Never altered one word.
So anyway I was there, in the garden of Eden the day god lost his fucking shit. Totally.
I was just trying to bring some calm to a situation that had gotten out of hand. God had made these ape-things and he was treating them like fucking lab—rats. Making them sing and dance on cue, making them eat all the dangerous looking shit he made, and, of course, making them come up with nonsense words to call all the animals. He laughed his fucking ass off.
My GOD, god is such a prick.
Kimyada > My Issue: why do i have a double bill? 01100101> Hello Kimyada, Thank you for contacting BombastHiveNonhumanChatNetworkSupport. My name is <insert faceless drone identifier here: please stand by for random name generation> <stand by> Problem: why do i have a double bill.? <stand by> <waiting> <waiting> Kimyada > um… 01100101> A service…
“The more that I think about it, the more OK I am with Lord Trump as our brave and foolhardy dictator. Total war could be fun; they seemed to enjoy it in Germany and Japan. Think of it as a chance to do a little looting. start some fires, break shit. tie off some loose ends. The end of the world isn’t such a big deal for people who aren’t afraid to eat a little human flesh. Are you one of us? Or are you fucking moving to Brazil because that’s looking pretty good right now.”
Very funny. Very fucking funny.
We used to talk a lot of shit before the sky fell and everything was changed forever.
Everything. Every. Fucking. Thing.
Things started to crumble even before he was sworn in. His homely, smug, conceited presence in all media for months on end was enough to start the country rolling toward the edge.
The December race riots led to the deaths of several thousand people throughout the southern block before election year could fade into history. They were set into motion when a black church was burned to the ground as trapped churchgoers tried to beat their way out through sealed doorways.
This was the first sally of the ALA. A political movement for the new racial war effort. By Trump’s swearing in this group had swelled to upward of a million members and had control of much of rural Alabama and Georgia.
“Well, I support them. I mean, I don’t support them, I support their passion. They really care about their country, and we all do.”
Although he elaborated at some pompous length, in the end it was not clear WHAT he
supported, but he certainly wasn’t condemning anyone over it.
A brightly lit stage surrounded by a rambunctious, hooting crowd. They throw various items at the people seated under the hot spotlights.
A girl, a teenager at best with big gaudy earrings, red lipstick and what appears to be a black eye under heavy mascara. It is hard to tell if she is frightened or enraged or both. She wears plastic jewelry on her wrists, high heels and is generally dressed like she shops at “discount courtesan outlet”. Her half shirt exposes a swollen belly that appears to contain a good third of her body weight.
Next to her sits a mild looking balding fellow of perhaps 40. He holds her hand and stares uncomfortably into the crowd. Besides his dirty hipster wardrobe, he is bland and has few defining features.
Stage right, and separated from the odd couple by several feet stands another chair, upon which sits a burly man with long white hair and a beard that appears to extend well past his huge Texas-style belt buckle. He wears alligator boots and a t-shirt with the phrase ‘I make the rules, bitch’ emblazoned across the front. It’s sleeves are rolled up to his shoulders, exposing arms of imposing girth.
He seems angry but sits quietly in the midst of all the confusion, like a tea kettle on a crowded stove, quietly gathering a head of steam.
“I have the results of the prenatal DNA test here. Does anyone have anything else to say?”
There are two large stars in the day sky here, both huge and bright white.
Staring at the nighttime firmament, one is bedazzled by billions of other stars, more than anything you’ve ever experienced back home. The bright sky rivals the city below, a continent-sized land mass beaming with the energy of industry, and swarming with life. From a high vantage point you can view the city lights extending in all directions, as far as the eye can see.
Our continent is the only one of note on this world, and its boundaries are the same as those of the metropolis itself, except those points where the city extends into the ocean basins. Sea to shining sea. It is a wonder like nothing in Solan space.
My name is Erbium Hollister and according to my implant I have been a resident of the world often called Tllorla for seven years.
I don’t know where this planet is in relationship to Sol, but as far as I know this is still the Milky Way galaxy. Keep believing that.
Tllorla is populated by around twenty billion ‘intelligent’ life forms of every imaginative description, but although there are many humanoids, and near humanoids, I have yet to meet or hear tell of another fellow HUMAN human since I was exiled here.
I’d been a volunteer back on Lune, daring to take up the challenge of deep space travel on board one of the first vehicles of its kind in the Solan system- the slip drive interstellar cruiser.
Although I was a pilot, the slip class vessel’s programming was so complex it could only be flown with the aid of per-programmed AI, meaning my job was reduced to pushing a handful of buttons at predetermined intervals- more show than necessity. They could have used a chimp and the result would have been the same. But where is the human pride in that?
I was to be the very symbol of mankind’s next great leap into space. What happened next was in no way my fault, and may not even have been the fault of the AI, or the ship itself.
We’ve seen this bit before a hundred times in fiction, from “Lost in Space” to “Farscape” to “Star Trek Voyager”…
As far as I can tell I’d accidentally hit a region of space that drastically accelerated me well beyond the intended bounds of the experiment.
The intent of the brain trust funding the mission had been to send me as far as Proxima Centauri, a system populated a century ago by human colonists using traditional generation ships, which in their turn, had traveled nearly three hundred years at a significant percentage of the speed of light.
I’d have represented the first in-person contact between the systems since that time, if something hadn’t grabbed my transport and shot it off- somewhere.…
I never wanted to live in the enchanted forest.
I’d inherited the shoe from great aunt Gertrude a few years before if for no other reason than that I was her last surviving relative- tales of profuse breeding habits notwithstanding.
I’d been up there a couple times as a kid, whole summers with Mom (never Dad- he never went near the wood) and although I remember there being many children on the property, Bertie had established her day care facility on the grounds precisely BECAUSE she’d never had children of her own. Never met the right man or something, I don’t remember the details. We were never close. So anyway, when I got the call from her attorney, Anthony “Squealy” Porkman (of Porkman Porkman and Porkman Property Law) about the shoe, it was also the first I’d heard that old Gertie was even dead.
I was surprised by the bequeathal, honestly. my mother’s aunt had always been something of a bitch to mom and me, something about her marrying a damn ‘outwooder’, and myself being the product of that apparently unholy union. Frankly my few childhood visits to the shoe, and to the other ‘charming’ locations inhabited by the few other relatives alive at that time, were more disturbing than fun. I wished I could have been swimming in a clean, chlorinated pool, or hanging out with friends at an air conditioned mall. Instead, I had a stagnant green pond I wouldn’t set foot in, and the constant stink of well-used footwear. Twice I was led off into the woods by wolves dressed as ‘grandma’ (i don’t know how they do it), and once I’d almost got stomped by an angry giant when ‘cousin’ Jack raided his garden for magic beans, and then fingered me for the crime instead of himself. The big guys aren’t particularly bright, I gather. Granted, there was some cool stuff in the forest. Castles- more of them than you’d think-caves, a couple of houses that if they WEREN’T haunted, should have been.…