Interests:Music, reading,animation, all kinds of video and computer games, nerd-dom, predatory animals (particularly foxes) and doing weird, spontaneous things. Expertise:I am king of retro hair. Thou canst touch me. I'm also pretty good at talking to myself, having bursts of insanity, and slacking off. Industry:Other
Danny Silver stood in the vestibule
of the New Hope
apartment building. He had pressed the buzzer for room 3774, and was just
waiting, until the static buzz was heard. Hello?
Said the garbled, crackly voice of an older gentleman on the other end. “Hey,
honey, I’m home,” Silver answered, mockingly, adjusting his utilitarian glasses
with his right index finger. Oh god, you
again... when are you just going to let me go? “When you give me what I
want. Now, are you going to cooperate, or will I have to leave you there to
starve?” A pause, and then the door to the lobby opened. He extinguished his
Winston in the dish of sand nearby. No smoking in this building. Back then it
was the owner’s prerogative. Danny appreciated this, at least, being a good
capitalist; but being a man who needed to light up every time he could, it cost
him a lot in cancer sticks. He stepped inside. He could tell what time of year
it was. The Spartan lobby was trimmed with the cheapest holly and mistletoe one
could find for ready money. In the corner, near the mailboxes stood a tree. In
true ninties fashion, it was artificial, but oh no it didn’t stop there. It was
bright silver, as if someone forced a fir tree and a pile of tinsel to mate at
gunpoint, and then videotaped it for the slew of perverts interested in that
type of thing. Bing was crooning scratchily over the PA system. It was
beginning to look a lot like Christmas for the fifth time that day. Of course,
it was quite a break from hearing Shatner and Harvey Fierstein duet on “The Twelve
Days of Christmas.” Danny made a beeline to the stairs, and the receptionist
waved to him. “Morning, Mr. Silver. Hear to see your uncle again?” Danny nodded
silently, continuing his charade, as he made it to the third floor, and to the
door of 3774. He opened and entered, looking around. The apartment was turned
topsy-turvy. Almost everything was on the floor, papers where everywhere, and
in the middle of the room there stood an end table and a chair. In the chair
sat Ronald L. Samuels, project director from 1938 to 1977 at CRG. He was quite
old, wrinkled and eroded by time, with grey, receding hair on his battered
head. And battered he was. His naked body was covered in cuts and bruises and
burns. It seemed Danny was busy the last few days. He was tied in the typical
cinematic fashion, and on the end table was placed the receiver for the
entrance intercom. Apparently he had to activate it with his tongue. When Danny
entered, Ron looked up at him with big puppydog eyes. “What else is it you
want, Daniel? You know I can’t do anything else for you,” he quipped bitterly,
his ragged voice still shaking with fear. Danny just laughed mockingly. “Heh.
No, I don’t know. What I don’t know is what exactly it IS you are hiding from
me, because I know you are hiding something.” Danny picked the meat tenderizer
from out of the utensil caddy on the counter, and it struck true across Ron’s
face, leaving a good indentation. He didn’t bother to cry out; all Danny got
from him was a hollow grunt. “I don’t have any papers. No papers, no
schematics. Your---your father made us give those all up after 85.” “I KNOW
that,” Danny groaned boredly, striking again, getting the flesh even more red.
Another hollow grunt. “I don’t have any equipment, either. Everything’s gone.
All… all I have is the numbers and addresses of the other men on the Flamel
project, and they would be able to give you exactly what I could; bullshit.”
Danny sighed, as he struck again, this time breaking skin. The man bled and
bruised openly. “I don’t need anything profound, you idiot. All I need is one
little lead, one little glimmer that could get me what I want. I want the
reversal engine, that’s all.” “But why?” Daniel leaned in close. “ 40 years ago
you and your little buddies where toying with that little machine of yours. For
some reason, one of you got your hands on something very, very important to me.
It’s caused me a lot of pain and suffering over the years… but now, NOW, the
flowerpot has spiked for the first time in 20 years. It’s close, and I have a window.
I just need to do ONE little thing and my personal hell will be over…” He
bashed the old man’s head again. “And if you tell me what you know, yours will
be, too.” He stood up, and Ron reluctantly rattled off a list of addresses and
phone numbers. Danny nodded, and lit up another Winston. “Thank you for your
cooperation,” he muttered. “Hey, there’s no smoking here.” Daniel was courteous
and extinguished the cigarette on Ron’s forehead. “Oh dear, pardon me,” Daniel
said mockingly as he twisted the fag back and forth into the forehead. The old
man screamed in pain. Afterwards, Danny peeled the charred scab of the burn
from the forehead, leaving an “o” of pale, young flesh, stung by every second
of exposure to the air. Danny took a flask from his pocket. “Oh god, no,” Ron
pleaded, but it was too late. The liquor spilled, and Ron screamed as it burned
its way into the wound. Finally, Danny set all this aside and pulled out his
pistol. Placing it on the very center of the wound, he muttered. “Be seeing
you, old man,” and squeezed the trigger. There was the usual deal, and the
apartment was flooded with a shower of bone, brain matter, blood, all in a very
cinematic fashion. Anyone who knows ballistics knows that you have a small
point of entry and a big freaking exit wound. This was no exception. Ron fell
to the floor with only half a skull. The other portion was scattered
helter-skelter across the room.
I had forgotten all about
the hill with the passing of the years. Time had filled my brain with
troubles, knowledges, and other memories to a point where many things
of the major circumstances of my life merely became muddled in a haze.
Part of this was most likely due to my lengthy absence.
At
the tender age of 15, while assisting my father with washing our car (a
1978 Cadillac El Dorado, in Cherry Red. The horn stuck for at least 5
seconds, and I remember a deep gouge in the middle of the upholstery in
the backseat, most likely caused by the vehement tomfoolery of a
younger sibling or a schoolmate father was carpooling. Why the hell do
I remember these things and not the hill?), I recall dropping my
sponge, facing the old man, and proclaiming, quite matter of factly, “I
think I have a few errands to run.” Father looked at me curiously, as
fathers are wont to do. “Errands?” he asked, incredulously. “What in
the world do you mean, Jack? Running errands is my job!” he laughed a
bit. I shook my head, no time for jokes. “I need to get something,” I
said. My tone was cold. Well, as cold as a 15 year old can be; at that
age our heads are still full of naivete, ignorance and cotton candy,
and we are unable to truly muster up and measure of true chill. Still,
I recall doing a serviceable job of sounding cold, and I simply turned,
and began walking away. “But son!” father called after me. “What about
the hill?” I didn’t answer. I hadn’t really thought about it, but I
didn’t want to. I just wanted to leave that man’s sight as soon as
possible, and so I did. I turned and I walked...
The
last 40 years I spent dwelling in the wilderness. I was in Scouting
Programs long enough to know how to survive out in the middle of the
world. I knew what to eat, what not to eat, how to start a fire, that I
ought to boil my water before drinking. It was
all in my mind, buried away for future use, and thus I was certain
everything would go completely smoothly. Of course, wouldn’t you know
it, it did not. Nor did things turn out all that horribly. I remember
only a total of about 16 days, spread out over the course of those 40
years, that I would truly describe as a “living hell”. Otherwise, it
was an uneven, but mostly satisfying and uneventful time in my life,
except, for, of course, the reason I went out in the first place.
Yes,
this great errand I embarked on, my grand quest. What was it for? I
remember thinking about it in my sleep at nights when I was a child. I
would see visions of dogs, large dogs, running about in a field. They
were in a panic, it seemed, as dogs usually are, but there was
something about them… they were happy, I could tell. Their tails wagged
freely in the wind, as they chased them about. They looked eternally
blissful as they ran in circles after them. “THIS is the kind of life I
want!” I told myself. I wanted to be someone who lived the life of
these carefree dogs, pursuing uselessness for uselessness’ sake! Caught
in a whirling torrent of perpetuity! Yes, ho ho, hey hey! That was the
life for me, John Sampson Greenville! Thus, I set off for the wilderness, seeking this perpetual life.
First,
I came to a tree. It was a tall, redwood, the old man of the forest,
with his branches spaced out almost as a stepladder for me. “Surely,” I
said to myself, chewing on my breakfast of woodlouse and bark, “this
tree goes on forever. I can barely see his top! If I climb, I’ll likely
climb forever!” And so I climbed… I climbed all day, unresting. I
climbed the next day, pausing a bit to rest myself. I climbed the next
day, taking a nap on a series of particularly sturdy boughs. I climbed
the day after that, drinking the rainwater that collected on the bows.
I climbed the day after, sucking down a nest of wren’s eggs. I climbed
for I don’t know how long. It may have been a month, maybe more. Yet
after that almost neverending period the unthinkable happened. It
ended… I reached the top of the tree. I was over hundreds of feet in
the air. I could see for miles. It was difficult to breathe. Still, my
climb had ended. It was all over… I swore at the sky, and without
another word I turned and I climbed back down. After another indefinite
time I was back on solid ground. I heaved a heavy sigh, and went off to
relieve myself.
Next,
I came upon a cave. The entrance was wide and dark. I could see no
light in it at all, and there was a wet smell coming from inside. “It
must be deep,” I said to myself. “And long. I could probably go on
forever inside of it.” And so I made myself a few crude torches and
went. I walked for day. I walked for another. I walked for another. I
went down deep, deep into the heart of the earth. I saw many strange
creatures there, wonderful secrets, buried treasures, but I did not
find my grail. The cave ended, and so did my search. I climbed up, up
up, back to the surface, on pure memory. The whole ordeal lasted at
least 6 years. By now I had a sizeable beard. I was taller, my voice
had broken. In my searching, I had become a man.
A
few weeks after this sorry affair, I came upon a wide river. It was
vast, the current blindingly swift, the waters crystal clear. “Surely,”
I said to myself, “I could drink from the same spot in this river every
day for the rest of my life!” And so I went about that. I took my knife
and and I carved my initials in a rock face standing over the spot I
choose, and then I took a cup of water and drank it. It was pure and
refreshing. The next day, I took a cup of water and drank it. It too
was crisp and smooth. This was repeated for the next day, the next day,
and the next. After many days (I’m not sure how many, maybe the amount
of a year,) I found the spot I normally crouched at to fetch my drink
was submerged in at least 6 inches of water. It was no matter, though,
as I could still drink, and drink I did, for many more days. After many
more days, I found the spot to be covered in a foot of water. No
matter, I could still crouch, albeit not as low, and I had to fight the
current a bit. I still drank, and drank for many many more days. After
many many more days I found that the river’s bed had completely
shifted. The spot I drank from, the spot I crouched at, and even the
rock on which I had carved my name, was submerged. I cursed, and turned
on my heel to leave. By now, I had felt a creeping arthritis enter my
wrist. I was at least 50 years old.
For
four years I continued my life as a hermit, not finding any other
chances at perpetuity. Reluctantly, I accepted my defeat. Never would I
find this beautiful thing, this perpetuity I sought. Ever would my life
be wrought by change and things coming to an end. With this, I made my
way back home.
Everything
had changed, as expected. No one in town had heard of me, my family was
dead, the Eldorado was a pile of rusted steel. Yet, one thing remained.
The hill. My god, the hill. I had forgotten all about her. What a
gorgeous sight she was! Truly a sight for sore eyes! She was tall, like
any hill should be, a steep mound of grass, dirt, rock, going up for at
least 300 feet. I had paid her no mind before, I didn’t realize how
lovely she really was. THIS is was my father meant, I wagered. He
wanted me to come up the side of the hill and stand and the pinnacle,
and drink in the view. At the sight of this beauty, perhaps my longing
for perpetuity would cease! Without another word, I bolted up the hill.
With all my might I ran. My legs pumped with pure zeal, my weathered,
torn old boots tearing up the turf. I ran for at least 7 minutes, up
the slope, my eyes upon the sweet sweet prize, when OOOF!
TUMBLETUMBLETUMBLETUMBLE! I found myself at the bottom of the hill. I
had tripped on a loose root and fell. Moaning, I picked myself up, and
vowed to try again. I ran with all my might, and again, found myself at
the bottom of the hill… again and again I run, and still I do not reach
the top… I am caught within a cycle of failure. I shall never see the
top of this hill.
This is a little story I wrote for an Long-Distance friend for her birthday, about her dog, Pence. I figured you might like it.
It was too late in the day to do anything new… It was past
lunch, supper was in a few hours, mom was busy doing housework. Nope, all Pence
could bring himself to do was to curl up on the couch and take a nice, long
nap. Naps are what pugs do best, he thought. In his imagination, ancient Zen
monks bred the little bug-eyed dogs for the select purpose of napping. He had
no way of knowing if this was true, but in his mind, it made sense.
The little black pug LOVED his
naptimes, he did. Just himself, the cushions, and the sunlight; it was like a
religious experience. It should be a sacrament in his cult, he thought. “The
First Church of Pence,” he said to himself. “The holy sacraments of which are
naps, snacks, and chasing things! Think of the followers we’d get!” He smiled
to himself as he began making up scriptures for this brand new religion, a code
of moral laws, a gospel story of how mom acquired him. This would be fantastic;
pugs from all over the world would flock to join this new faith all their
o—KRRRRRSH!
Pence was taken aback by a loud
smashing sound coming from the window. He leaped from his spot on the couch to
go investigate, running as fast as his itsy puglegs could take him. He slammed
the pugbreaks as he was brought to the scene of the disaster, as he saw broken
glass on the floor; he knew broken glass and pugfeet could equal puginjury. Not
pugfun. Thus, he tread lightly as to walk carefully around the wreckage.
What he saw truly baffled him. It
was a spherical object, roughly two inches or so in diameter, rough and bumpy…
it was a sort of moss-greenish color in spots, but mostly it was an earthy
brown. The smell was earthy too. Pence had never really sniffed the bed of a
forest before, but he figures that’s what one would smell like, judging from
trees he had smelt in his backyard. It was a very strange thing to see… he
completely wasn’t expecting something like this at ALL… it was so… strange,
earthy… nut-like. Nut-like? Nuts! Pence LOVED nuts! Well, at least, he loved
eating! Maybe his pugteeth could crack it and he could get at the nutty
goodness inside! It was worth a try, he guessed, so his little pugjaws opened
as wide as he could to get around the hopefully tasty visitor from the heavens…
he reared up, moved in, clamped down, and… bit air!
He looked up and saw the cause of
the problem; the seed, or whatever it was, jumped! It now stood a few inches
away, mocking him silently with all its cheeky unbittenness. The nerve! He was
going to have a snack! What a mean nut thing, not letting itself be eaten by a
legitimately hungry pug! Well, he wasn’t all THAT hungry, but he always had
room. Whatever; he knew it wasn’t going to get away THIS time, though… that
little morsel was HIS, and so he leaped at itwith all his might. Still, the little treat leapt away! It even made a
cheeky little hopping noise! A kind of a “whoop” like you would hear in a
cartoon! What a cheeky little thing this was; he was going to have to eat it
VERY, VERY slowly! Alright, this was the last time; he leapt again, snapped again…
and themorsel BOUNDED up to the
ceiling. Whoosing, it bounced off and ricocheted off of the floor,bouncing again and again as it seemed to zoom
around of its OWN ACCORd. This was only the beginning, though. The strange bit
started when the little thing STOPPED. It skidded dead onto the floor, then
began to rattle violently…
A tendril shot out of it,at least a foot long, and bended itself up
like a spider’s leg. Soon, another followed, and another, and another, each
accompanied by a sickly spurting noise. Soon the thing had eight, and if that
wasn’t enough, two tendrils shot out of the “head” and grabbed the pug by the
scruff. Pence squeaked, and found himself spirited away by the strange
nut-spider. Leaping through the window, it darted off, away from Pence’s home,
away from mom, away from his couch, his food, his toys, everything. Down the
streets of the Kentucky
neighborhood it hurtled, everything becoming a blur to Pence. He had no idea
where he was headed, though…
Just because I'm a delightfully eccentric fellow, I'm going to share this video with you all. Basically, it's a fan-made trailer of the Hyperion animated film The Brave Little Toaster, edited to show all of the "intense" moments. Now, I admit, some of the editing is a little iffy, but altogether I think this person did a great job. I don't know, but hearing Lampy scream "GET THE CORD OUT OF HIS MOUTH!!!" to swelling trailer music just makes me gigglefit all over, and Phil Hartman's Jack Nicholson/Dennis Hopper-esque Air Conditioner becomes even more cinematic. Brilliant!
By the way, the movie itself is pretty entertaining, too.
