Scifi

Zombie Fiction — “Living Things Pet Shop”

Copper is the most antsy, selfish, stupid dog. She yips when you’re not paying attention, she flops on the floor and pushes your feet, belly jittering like jello, eyes pleading. Or she sneaks by your toes to beg, and if you pet her she pees.

If I put my hands on her head and push down to her rump, she pumps out a puddle.

Copper sleeps in the back office with the door locked and a gun on the desk. Where I sleep. I don’t trust the other dogs. They’re dreamers. But Copper sleeps lightly, and has a good ear, and will nose me awake when they are nearby.

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Life, Satire

Spoken Word — “How to be a Man”

Transcript:

How to be a Man: Splitting Firewood with your Face and Other Manly Skills

Say manly things. In fact, insert man into everything you say. It’s not that hard, man. There are plenty of manly words to diversify your manabulary. For example, mancore. It’s like a manticore, but manlier. Try shouting mancore after every manly thing you do, which should be all the time, and then some. DoMANate conversations with words like mandaculous, mandate, mandible, mandetta, mandlebars, comMANdo, mand.

Don’t get confused if people shit their pants. Real men have that effect.

Brag. Brag about everything. Even if it’s not true. No shame. I’ve never cock slapped a shark. I am not facebook friends with the Dalai Llama. I don’t even know how you’d arm wrestle a volcano but I brag about it all the time. And I’m so manificent that the world changes to fit my point of view. So brag, and if anybody calls you out on it, mount their genitals on a spear as a warning to others. Then brag about it.

I’ve actually concocted a few phrases to get your ginormous braggart balls rolling. “You know my girlfriend was complaining about her ex the other day so I threw him off a mountain.” “I’m sorry teach I’m late for class but you know I was too busy clubbing a bear to death with my schlong.”

Hit something. Be it a man, a woman, a child, then throw it. Ever seen judo? They throw stuff all the time. Don’t want to get up? Throw verbal abuse. “Your never going to amount to anything, son.”

Which brings me to my next point: pee on everything. Pee on the ground, pee on pee, pee on the audience, pee in space, pee on pandas, especially if they’re cock blocking you. Peeing is like marking your territory; it tells people where you’ve been and what you’ve been up to. It’s like Facebook. Where you’re going to pee next should be a constant discussion between you and your other men.

Finally, facial hair. It isn’t fashion, it’s life. It’s not accessory, it’s necessity. Mustachery is mandatory in the mantheon of manly men. Just look at the muschateers. Grow a mustache. No, two mustaches. Doublestache. Use the extra mustache as a boomerang to destroy your enemies. Can’t grow a stache, mortal? Staple a moose to your face.

So, if you’ve been listening to my mantra, you should be a man by now. Your balls should be dragging two feet behind you. You should have the ability to stare the sun to death. You should be like “yeah, sucka, you go down. You go down. Rematch!” Your very scent should cause women to keel over pregnant, but that’s okay, babies are great, they’re more people to fight!

So be a man, unless of course, you find a woMAN.

Satire

Case of the Piss Miss

From the Santa Barbara Hounds Case Files

Case File #86 #87

See previous cases here.

Agents Involved: Wilder, Percipheles

November 11

Wilder, while working as a custodian at Does Pueblos HS, was contacted by several teachers about a recurring incident in the Social Studies faculty restroom. The situation was reported as a daily “pee puddle” causing discomfort to female staff. One eye witness described the event as “some guy keeps spraying everywhere except the bowl.” Wilder took the case. HOUNDS!

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Scifi

Fiction — “Vacay in The Vart”

Passengers puked. Passengers turned purple and took tranq pills. Passengers lined up for soma shakes (somalts the posters boasted) and stomach transplants. Nothing worked.

Many had just arrived by drop pod or iPort (if they had the digi juice) or materialization (if they preferred comfort over the continuity of consciousness and disturbing schools of philosophy). No matter the method, the silent slip of space had not acclimated them to the icy sea world called The Vart – an eternal snowcean where the hoarfrost could split open a cutter, where rolling waves whirred like bonesaws.

And so they emptied their temporary bits and even some more permanent ones and they stumbled about the cabins like cats chasing roombas. But no matter how fraught they became, the passengers did not forget their purpose. They were here to see the kraken – the first and soon to be last alien species in all six galaxies. They’d come to see its milky skein, its eight eyes like terran teeth always falling out and regrowing. To see the outline of its beak, not fully present in the visible dimensions. To survey its coat, said to reek of vinegar, and to touch its pastel flesh when the bluesuits weren’t looking.

The passengers had been brought by that vestige of humanity that still remained in their cyboreal demi-plastic casings (organic epidermises were so 2060). They were brought by that little part in all of us that wants to experience an experience so as to brag about it later – that part that sends a picture of a rabbit by the roadside to a friend, seeing the thing through lens and screens and photo editors.

Life, Satire

Short Film — Bare Romance

My 16mm black & white short film “Bare Romance” debuted at UCSB’s Reel Loud Film Festival 2012. Worked with some wonderful people, and a few wonderful naked people, plus the band Each Peace who performed live at the show (per Reel Loud tradition).

SYNOPSIS: An avant-garde comedy about a naked guy (Zach Lemke) who shows up at a party and feels ostracized and different because he’s naked.

Scifi

Fiction — “Necronomi Con”

A warehouse that could be the love child between a dumpster and a medieval castle. Coming from inside, groansMoans. A few shrieks cut off by the violent slapping of struggle, and then the wet patter of teeth on flesh. In the air an odor like rotten onions and shit and that unappetizing yeasty smell that accompanies unwashed bodies.

Welcome to Necronomi Con.

Booths. Endless booths, configured like holding cells in a prison. Each booth – a few posters depicting the wares of the artist, a stack of comics or a pile of plush things, and the artist itself, chained by the neck to a post, slobbering and scratching and gibbering horridly. Fans loiter, maybe to see how close they can get, maybe to ask for commissions (the zombies mostly vomit disturbing things, but sometimes they can be coerced to draw a portrait), maybe to get a scab or two flicked onto their special edition issue. In some places, the fans let the artists chew on them awhile as sort of ritual, sort of bragging right, sort of showcase of respect.

A few nibbles. That was what Alesya was slobbering for. She’d started her webcomic Radio Sex mostly for the bites, for the giblets, and maybe those penitent few who’d volunteer a limb. Unfortunately, five years on this lame series and she’d only gotten a few wrists, a pair of eyes, maybe an ear or two. Now she’d begun to brood and still, eyes alive but body stiff as the corpse it should be.

“I really like this.”

Alesya’s head snapped up. A fan!

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