Random story idea

Random story idea that I know I’ll never get to. Started off with the story and then I got the title in my head and winced. It might feel like this all leads up to a joke title but honestly, the construction was the other way around and I think the story itself could be a lot of fun. So I put it all here for you to enjoy. So, you know, enjoy:
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Michael and Lauren were the best of friends. They’d grown up together and managed to remain friends through puberty, high school and college. Now, they’ve graduated and are out in the world, looking for their place in it. Michael has ideas of being an artist, but also seems to make a good short order cook. Lauren has a knack for fixing cars, and wants to own her own garage. They’re working it out.

Until a flash of light and a dead body change everything. Lauren found him, the dead man, in her guest room. He was naked, except for a pair of sandals, and surprisingly light. She called the Police and then called Michael. Michael showed up. They stood there, trying to work out what to do until the cops showed up when the flash of light hit them.

The light came from the dead body itself and threw them through the nearest wall. Which, Michael was sure, should have hurt. Except it didn’t. At all. When they realized that, they moved the body to Michael’s before the Police showed up.

Since then Lauren has found herself able to move faster every day and Michael has the ability to spin lies and humbug that people believe every time. Every day they get slightly more powerful. Which is good, since they’re also being hunted.

Things started coming around, and hunting them. Hooved, furry, snorting, horned things. Along with centaurs, glowing, floating men and women and even stranger manner of being. All of them looking for the dead man, who isn’t decaying at all.

They’ve realized, since, that the dead man was a God, and his friends are looking for him. Slowly, the God’s powers are leeching into Michael and Lauren, which is the only thing keeping them alive, but can they achieve demigod-hood before they’re killed?

They’re about to find out…

in
WEEKEND AT HERMES’

SPY MOUNTIES!

I think the Canadian’s need a spy agency. Like SPY MOUNTIES! I would write SPY MOUNTIES! It could star super-sleuth Agent Double-Oh I’m Sorry and his partner, master of the Canadian martial art Considerate Kick-Boxing Agent Aboot, Eh whose penchant for thick wool caps makes her the envy of everyone.

They could solve such harrowing, nail-biting crimes as:

The Case of the Tim Horton’s That Wasn’t Open 24/7

The Case of that One Rude Guy

The Case of the Vaguely Creepy Baby

…and more!

SPY MOUNTIES! The show you can watch with the whole family as men and women in big hats and thick coats solve crimes and avoid the occasional moose.

Canadian purchase

So I had an idea recently. It started with offering bad names for a friend’s soon-to-be-born child. She suggested I get my own. But then she said “buy” and I thought about it and came up with a better plan:

I would like to buy a Canadian.

Why a Canadian instead of a baby? Look at the facts!

CANADIANS:

  • Know from decent beer.
  • Come with vouchers for free health care.
  • Also come with a raffle ticket and chance to win a free Zamboni.
  • Enjoy hockey.
  • Still dislike Quebec.
  • Know who Don Cherry is.
  • Fear the power of Don Cherry’s jackets.

BABIES:

  • Yell all the time.
  • Poop and pee all over.
  • When they aren’t spitting up.
  • Can’t buy me a beer.
  • Or discuss a good book.
  • Or do much of anything because they’re BABIES.
  • Can discuss Don Cherry, though, oddly enough.

Now, the Canadian I buy must also be willing to pretend to be an extra cat, as I am not sure about the legality or buying a Canadian, really, and also my landlord might mind. We could be zoned for no Canadians. So, yeah. Pretend to be the cat. This isn’t some creepy cat costume thing. It’s just, you know, should the authorities show up, it should go down like this:

Cop: Hey! Is that a Canadian?

Me: No, Officer. That’s my other cat.

Canadian: *lies down on floor, sleeps*

Cop: Looks an awful lot like a Canadian.

Me: Had to pay lot for such a rare cat breed, I tell you that, sir.

Canadian: *claws the couch*

Cop: Hmmm, well, I suppose… Canadians would be hard pressed to claw couches, after all.

Me: That they would, Officer, That. They. Would.

So, the cat thing is a must. Also, please note:

ABSOLUTLEY NO:

  • Canadian babies – nice try but we’re onto you. Stupid babies.
  • Celine Dion – Stay back, foul demon woman.
  • Alan Thicke – There have been several reports of people returning their Alan Thickes for refunds and I want none of that.
  • Québécois – Seriously guys. Stay there and push for separation again. Dorks.

So, yes. Looking to buy a Canadian. Shouldn’t be too hard.

A crack appears.

For a little while now I have been thinking of working on what I’ve been calling a post-Kirby novel. A book so large that the destruction of universe would only be the start. Something epic in scope and scale that could house all of the ideas and building blocks I’ve been fascinated by since forever. I won’t actually be writing it for many months yet, but the opening just popped into my head and I thought I would share it. Please keep in mind this is very first draft and rough. I’m sharing it because I can and because I feel like it, but it probably bears only a decent resemblance to what the finished product will be. That being said – enjoy:

Across all of time and space a crack appeared. Colors beyond comprehension strobed across creation. Everywhere and everywhen suffered equally and simultaneously. Trillions of life-forms scattered among millions of planets writhed in pain and confusion.

The crack spread, growing wider in both time and space. heat, that basic expression of molecular movement changed. It became fear. Uncompromising and incomprehensible fear. A fear so great and so basic that even non-sentient life, even lifeless matter, struggled in its grasp.

Stars stopped, the mighty fusion engines at their hearts giving out. Life withered and curled in on itself, regressing down various evolutionary chains just to try and escape. The fear spread to all times and all places, there was no escape. Inch by inch, second by second, the universe undid itself. Fear on a quantum level continued to spread. Soon molecules themselves broke their bonds, atoms refusing to be near each other. An entire universe reduced to dust so completely it had always been dust.

With one exception: The super-sentient Waveform of Krondar Six. Secretly controlling the fate of seven galaxies at the height of their civilizations, the Waveform felt the crack start. It expanded, then contracted and finally twisted in such a way that time itself could not pinpoint its peaks and valleys. The Waveform escape and entered another universe. Our universe.

The super-sentient Waveform of Krondar Six lay dormant, vibrating meaninglessly though millions of years and endless miles. It knew, just before it settled, that should it become active the destruction would begin again. The super-sentient Waveform of Krondar Six was a carrier wave now, holding within it the fear and destruction it had managed to avoid.

The super-sentient Waveform of Krondar Six knew that risking the destruction of another universe was selfish, but life often feels the pressure to endure, regardless of risk and the Waveform was no different. Still, it laid dormant and safe, drifting between the stars and moments as nothing more than a story. And thus is was.

For a while.

McKenzie, P.I.

Found an idea for a new series I want to see on TV. Yes, on the one hand, it’s another P.I. show. On the other hand it’s way better.

He’s taking back the streets, and taking matters into his own hands, and taking his time. He’s taking things. Because he’s a kleptomaniac.

McKenzie, P.I. – Pocketing justice

Nothing ends up in the evidence room, except the truth.

Hmph the Cat

Hmph the Cat

There are cats, you see, and then there are cats. Hmph is neither of those. Hmph is one of oh lord those cats. The sort of cat that doesn’t just look at you, he judges you. Every second of every day he judges and finds you unworthy. Unworthy of what, he isn’t telling yet. But it’s probably bad.

Hmph has no use for you. Sure, having thumbs and making good human furniture keeps you alive, for now, because Hmph has decided to out-source such things to the human race. But let’s not get big headed about it. There is Hmph and then there is everything else in the universe. As long as you remember what order those things come in, it’ll be fine.

Living with Hmph is not always easy. Generally though, since the failure is yours and not his, there isn’t much you can do except scratch him along his neck and apologize. Hmph accepts tribute, as well, in the form of small squishy balls that bounce and can be chased down hallways.

About now you’re wondering why anyone would want to live with Hmph the cat. He seems like such a beast of a cat, just cold and uncaring. And while that is mostly true, he also realizes the inherent benefits of curling up and sleeping next to people.

Really it’s rather like having a pet demon of your own. A very patient, sleepy demon who can’t be bothered to actually damn anyone because it feels like so much work.. Realistically having a pet demon is kinda fun. You know where the evil in the universe lives and how to make its eyes go slitted and sleepy with the right amount of petting.

Hmph the Cat. Remember the name. You’ll be hearing from him… trust me.

*Note – Hmph is not a real cat, but rather an idea. For now.

Twitter broke the news?

Last night the whole Osama bin Laden news broke. All across Twitter the news was being reported. Get this: They happened to be right. However, calling it the “future of news” is a scary concept because when you look at what actually happened you start to see a troubling pattern.

The NYT Blog had a solid bit dissecting exactly how the news got to Twitter.

All right, it went like this:

  • The President says he is going to give an address at 10:30PM EST. (He ended up not speaking until well after 11)
  • Twitter starts to make jokes and guesses. This is what Twitter is good at.
  • Keith Urbahn, Rumsfeld’s Chief of Staff tweets: “So I’m told by a reputable person they have killed Osama Bin Laden. Hot damn.” and follows it quickly with “Don’t know if it’s true, but let’s pray it is.”
  • Twitter decides this is true and starts to spread the news.
  • When it turns out they were right, Twitter users declare that they “broke the story.”

Notice how there was no verification. No checking of facts. One guy in a spot to maybe have heard but, honestly, maybe not, said something which even he expressed as possibly not true. Based on that, and that alone, Twitter users around the globe decided they had broken a story.

No, they got lucky. I’m not saying that Twitter isn’t great and a useful tool for spreading information, because it is. But it is also a very good tool for spreading false information. Twitter, oddly, doesn’t get the credit for breaking stories when it claims different people are dead every other week. Oh, that’s because it’s wrong.
Continue reading Twitter broke the news?

The Doctor Who MMORPG

There was a press release recently about a Doctor Who MMORPG. It said, in part: “Robert Nashak, EVP Digital Entertainment at BBC Worldwide says, “Doctor Who: Worlds in Time will be a free-to-play multiplayer online game that invites players to save the universe by using their wits to solve time-bending puzzles and pulse-pounding challenges. Three Rings is the ideal team for this groundbreaking creative partnership. Not only are they visionaries in the online gaming space, they are lifelong Doctor Who fans with a passion for delivering the level of quality that our players will expect and deserve.””

And so, all right that might be fun but when I first heard about it I thought about what I would do with a Doctor Who MMORPG. I mean there’s, right now, only one Time Lord, so players can’t be one of those. What are there a lot of though?

Daleks.

Every player would, in my game, play a Dalek. The goal of the game would be to kill everyone.

Every. One. In. The. Universe.

Also, if possible, specifically hunt and kill the Doctor. That would the goals of the game. You play a Dalek and you have to exterminate every life-form in the universe. Throughout time.

There would also be a chat feature, of course, so players could band together and form more function fighting units. However if any player used punctuation other than a period at the end of a sentence (with the EXTERMINATE! exception in place, obviously) they would be accused of showing emotion, be deemed inferior and be hunted by every other Dalek in the game.

Think about it! Twelve year old kids couldn’t go around and teabag, because to do so would be to prove they were inferior and make them hunted and lose their character! It would be a self-correcting system. Incidentally that gores a long way toward proving that Daleks are the superior race, but hey, what can ya do? I mean, I don’t know about you but I would play this game. I would play the crap out of it.

“I have a level 12 Exterminate and a Plunger with +5 to face-sucking-off.”

“I’m Cult of Scarro and I have a +28 to my laser!”

“Really Dalek Bob. You are excited. Come… closer.”

“Huh? All right. Why?”

“EXTERMINATE!”

Yeah, I would play that game a whole lot.

INTRODUCING: Pastries not Pasties

While on Twitter the other day, two good friends, Jett and Fantastica, and I were joking around and the idea “Pastries not pasties” came up. Which, of course, led me to a place where we could make this a clothing line.

It wasn’t an easy process, and the line has just started so this first round may not be as robust as you would like. But give us time. Pastries Not Pasties is here to stay. Kinda. And while we’re here we will be ever expanding and growing and finding new ways to wear baked goods.

For this first round we had some trouble finding a willing model, but eventually we did. I can’t reveal her name but it rhymes with Blarbie. Now, while she was willing to model for us in some very risqué clothing, we did agree to hide her identity. The images themselves are borderline work-safe. Actual nudity has been hidden.

Let’s get to the clothing!
Continue reading INTRODUCING: Pastries not Pasties

Nineteen Eighty-Hare

I leaned heavily against a wall. Trying to catch my breath was a mistake but I couldn’t keep running. I just couldn’t. “BIG RABBIT IS, WE SAY IS, SON ARE YOU LISTENING, BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU” was painted along the wall. How they found space for the lettering I don’t know.

I found the strength to keep moving.

The thing of it was, I didn’t have the heat on me. No one was after me and I could’ve just gone back home. But after what I saw that night, after that, I just couldn’t. I found what they did to Porky. Poor bastard.

Technically they took him to ask a few questions. Technically he had decided to move to another city. Technically… a lot of things. This night someone had left me a key to a door I didn’t know existed, and it was there I found him. Well, films of him, anyway.

Stripped naked in a cage of rats, he squirmed and squealed like, well, to be fair, a pig. I’m not sure why I was given the key, the directions, shown what I was shown but I had a feeling…

For weeks now I kept a journal. A journal of my thoughts and dreams. Stuff that I wasn’t supposed to have, much less think. It must have been found. So I ran. I ran though no one actively seemed to pursue me. I ran to find my love. Marvin. Oh, how his helmet shined in the light. He wasn’t from around here, as it turned out. Despite what we were told. He said the wars were fake. He said he loved me. He said we’d be safe.

Damn it, I couldn’t break down in tears. Not yet. Not until…

Our front door was open. Just the tiniest bit but enough to notice. I went in anyway, what else could I do? Inside I found nothing. They had taken him. I knew I would be next. I had earned it. I looked behind me and saw that I was being followed. Followed by my own weaknesses this whole time.

They came for me then. They re-educated me. They reminded me that duck season is rabbit season, thinking you saw a puddy tat is seeing a puddy tat, and that freedom is slavery.

In the end, I walked out, on my own. On. My. Own. As we all were. Monsters like me, Gossamer, we don’t meet interesting people. Not if we’re smart.