Happy Hacksgiving!

Greetings Hacks Fans!

Props to Brian, our faithful west coast Hack, for keeping content on the Hack site over the last few months. A Hack-laden wedding sort of got in the way of our postings for a bit, plus it is commonly known that we hacks tend to take a blog-hiatus during the summer. But fear not, we have returned! Stay tuned for new and exciting Hack literature from your favorite slacker hacks!

- Hack Central Command

DUCKED UP

If I were a duck, he thought to himself, then I probably would not spend my time imagining I was a person.

The logic of this assertion was reassuring given the utter reckless chaos that his life had become in the last week or three.

As long as I know that as a duck I would not wonder about being a person that I can handle the rest of it.

The problem with the rest of it was that he knew, deep in his gut that the rest of it was completely ducked up. But he had an enormous difficulty describing the exact nature of the problem to anyone else. Idly he wondered if perhaps the ducks would understand, and then abandoned that line of reasoning. Too much duck-think could get a guy lost just when he was about to hang on to something tangible. Like apples or Slinkies.

Everyone seemed so cool with it. The it which he could not describe but knew was wrong. Wrong in the way that kept him up at night, wrong in the way that none of his heroes of the screen or written word would have accepted for a second.

The heroes would have not only called out the wrongness, but been able to clearly and articulately explain the exact nature of wrongitude to the audience at large. Then, suffering for their beliefs, they would launch a campaign of right-setting which would cost them everything, but vindicate them in the end. It would be worth it they would gasp with their dramatically compelling but dying quack.

He wondered if waddling more would make him feel duckier and allow him some relief. The heroes always knew how to talk about the dragon – they never wallowed in abstract duck wondering or frustrated mumblings. He would need to take action. Action needed to be taken. He just needed to put his words to the world and come out with the thing which was the matter with the stuff.

Maybe tomorrow. After TV and games and internet and stuff.

The big it had something to do with goals or values or the confusing of the two, he was sure of that. But any time he mentioned it to someone, they would nod and smile and talk about their goals and values. Usually skewing the two together which was the whole problem. Could he make the M-noise with a duck bill? What if he was a duck and had to explain that the whole problem hinged on making money or milking monotonous moments? Might he, at that point, as a duck, wonder if he could be a person, if only to speak those bill-forbidden consonants?

M-m-must m-m-make m-m-money. Yeah. That might be something. Got to pay the bills, but you can’t say money with a bill… hmmm… getting closer.

He should share this with his friend. Tomorrow he would have to make one. Then he would share it. Then he could get rid of his friend because friends just expected things from people and that dragged down the whole glow of friendship thing. Bastards. Why couldn’t they leave a guy alone? Mallards probably never crowd each other. Expecting things. Of course they can’t even say what they are. “Hello, I be an ‘allard. Quack.”

Totally ducked up.

-Brihac

Write a page from a travelogue of a space adventurer.

Dear Diary.

Cletus and me were playing zap-the-cleaner today and I got banished from the rec room for three shifts. What’s a kid supposed to do for fun around here? I mean, we go to class during the sun shift and we sleep during the second space exposure and that leaves a whole shift with nothing to do.

I read the earthside stories from before the great travel. They go one and on about the majesty of space and the way it makes you understand your insignificance in the sweep and scope of infinity. I done that too, but it don’t take but about half an hour. That’s like only one sixteenth of a shift! That’s right, I know my numbers. Fat lot of good that does when you got nothing to do.

Maybe we shouldn’ta played zap the cleaner, but it is the only thing which means something when you play. See the cleaner drones were made earthside a whole long time ago and they have this self repair thing about which works mostly, but not all the way. Anyway they repair the parts of themselves what keep them cleaning, but there is this kind of energy leak on ‘em that if you touch one it shocks you so bad your hair stands up and you can’t breath for like three breaths. So me and Cletus, we play a kind of tag ball with the cleaners zipping around and if you don’t pay super attention to where you are, ZAP! Man, I laughed so hard when Cletus was flopping around on the ground, how was I to know he was going to be an idiot and whack his head on the bulwark?

He got himself a new synth-plate in his head and they say the hair will grow back eventually. Maybe we’ll get attacked by space pirates who fly flaming asteroid destroyer ships. They could take me prisoner and raise me as a pirate. I’d make a good pirate… boy-howdie, space travel is boring. I bet I could get Drucilla to play Zap the cleaner with me tomorrow…

-Brihack

Rat-Formers: the musical

Write a synopsis of the perfect summer blockbuster. (not an EXISTING movie, mind you, but a short story of mashing all the elements of what makes a blockbuster great, like Titanic meets LOTR or something.)

Everybody rush down to the theater for the biggest comedy blockbuster of the summer. The Rat-formers! Remy Potter grew up in the southern arm of the Andromeda galaxy, but he always wanted to cook - no opportunity on a world without any organic life forms, but a stray TV signal zipping through space changed everything.

Can Remy work his way into the elite kitchens of France without a human realizing that he is really an alien robot who can transform into any shape he chooses?

Will he be able to convince immigration that his gay love affair with Sioux Chef Adam Sandler is real? After all- he’s supposed to be gay, not a transformer-sexual!

Will Garcon Snape kick him out for his violation of the rules of defense the dark culinary arts? They say he cooks like magic, but can they prove it?

You laugh as Remy consoles his new earth friend who gets a sexy woman pregnant and lacks the emotional maturity to deal with it, you’ll cry when Remy gets locked in room 1408 and struggles to overcome supernatural forces and you’ll be on the edge of your seat as you watch Remy challenge social and sexual convention in a hilarious send up of Cecil De Mille’s Blazing Cans of Ham - his last project before his death which was never released.

This film has a running time of 400 minutes and is not yet rated.

One week

Write a story set during your most recent vacation.

by Bryan

The cordless phone crackles a bit and pushes sound through cheesecloth, but it's the intent that matters. Never mind the Fs that sound like S and forget the pop of the Ps. If you can catch the drift of the disembodied voice on the other end, no one comes out the wiser. This is Communication 101 at Mahoney U.

For the better part of the year I was stuck to that black hunk of wires and metal and hard-to-kill plastic (proven through countless dropped calls - the ones that fall 10 feet per second after gliding away from the wedge you create with shoulder and ear). Always I was searching, looking, pining for employment opportunities from the comfort of the wood chair in my then-girlfriend's living room. The process intensified those last six months after moving far enough away from home to obliterate any thoughts of the weekend visits with Mom and Dad, venturing to make my fortunes monetarily and metaphysically in a city ripe for my taking.

It was then, at the end, that the phone granted one call of clarity and I could peacefully lay it back in its cradle. It somehow knew that this call was important - It rang a little louder and a little longer this time, as if to say this was the call I was waiting for. "Put the resume away," it seemed to say, "and settle in."

A brief conversation. Crystal clear. No hisses or pops. And I sat it down once the call ended, and I looked around the living room. Six months I'd been on again, off again. Six months not knowing where my next paycheck was going to be, or from whom. But now I knew. I had a week before I started the job.I had a week of vacation.

The Gold Coast

Write a story set during your most recent vacation.

By Marcy

A heron stood by the shore.

I have of course seen herons in my lifetime, but never one so close. Even as I stepped near it, it stood its ground, gazing out over the horizon of the Atlantic. Two long tendrils of – what? Feathers? Hair? – waved in the breeze like a topknot on its head. It seemed rooted in the sand, and but for the occasional slight turn of its head, one would think it to be a statue.

I managed to get within three feet of the heron before it lifted one of its long legs and took a step aside. I stopped, and slowly sat down where I was. The heron rooted itself back into the sand and regarded me briefly with a quizzical gaze – as if I were the curiosity on the beach.

It wasn’t a glorious beach day by any means. It was overcast, and the ceiling of clouds undulated like a grey mirror of the green glass water below it. I watched the white caps on the water in the distance. Who knew what wonders nature could whip up from one moment to the next in such an environment? Behind me, above the beach, houses stood, still nursing wounds from Hurricane Ivan. That had been nearly a year ago, but the damage was still evident.

With thoughts of raging wind and spraying salt water in mind, my eyes searched the horizon for bigger waves, lightning, tall masts in the hazy distance. This was, after all, Florida’s treasure coast, and many a galleon had disappeared beneath the waves of the Atlantic. The host at the treasure museum said that frequently, after a storm, it was not uncommon to find the chance doubloon mixed in with the sand dollars after the tide went out.

But today was just a gloomy day, unthreatening, maybe heralding a drizzle or sprinkle or mist. I sincerely doubted that the chilly breeze coming off the Atlantic at the moment was going to bring me gold. I looked up at the heron from my spot nearby and wondered what he was watching the waves for. It looked back at me as if to ask me the same thing.

SEMI PROFESSIONALS JOURNAL

Write a story set during your most recent vacation.

TRAVEL SECTION

This time of year a majority of the Semi-professionals are traveling to the GEIGE convention in the Midwest. GEIGE or Good Enough Is Good Enough is entering its tenth year (no one is really sure, but it’s definitely more than eighth) and it shows no signs of changing. Founded by a group of semi professionals who already lived in the area, GEIGE has become a unique blend of vacation destination and political hot bed.

This year, the Grand Marshall of the GEIGE parade is Hans Vaguersonton, whose tenure as the Grand Marshall has mirrored the time the parade has been held is, in his own words, "just about ready."

What makes this year different is that the OCD (Organization for Complete Dedication) is on hand to protest the ideology of the parade and tempers on the OCD side are running high. GEIGEs on the other hand tend toward vague resentment rather than outright anger and you can bet the resentment is stewing briskly about now.

What has existed over the last decade as mere ideological differences between two stylistically different factions has erupted into what this Freelance Journalist would call a full-scale-holy-war. Both sides not only abhor the beliefs of the other, but further contend that the other leaves a larger carbon footprint than the other while simultaneously embodying the root of all evil.

Spokesperson for OCD, Regina Grabnofski has these heated words about the parade.

“The GEIGE are lazy, self indulgent shits; they flaunt their apathetic ignorance as if it was a belief system to be admired by real professionals. Get real. And by the way this has nothing to do with Hans and I dating in the late 80s.”

Vaygerson, who was finally reached for comment replied, “The OCDs comments are not entirely true, y’know. She is looking at it a very specific way. Besides she is so uptight, I mean, really. Its no wonder we broke up.”

Supporters of both OCD and GEIGE will be flooding into Circlet Square come Monday to witness the debate between these two mighty philosophs.

Look for continued coverage on this event in the next issue of Semi Professional Journal - coming to news stands some time in summer. Probably.

Tanks for Nothing

Assignment: What is life like in a fish tank?

(A lament from an alcoholic goldfish named Bruce who used to work at a radio station)

By Bryan

This is the dawning of the age of aquarium,
where love is thicker than water.

But I've got those backwater blues
In my neighbor's garden in the shade.

They say you never miss the water
But as any little fish will attest,

I can't feel at home in this world anymore.Won't someone change the filter?

Getting Tanked

Assignment: What is life like in a fish tank?

So, I belly up to the Sand Bar like I always do when the light begins to settle down through the Great Tommy’s blinds. I order my usual Herring Wallbanger with a twist of brine and try to make sense of my life.

I drink to forget my evil twin. The one who always lurks at the edge of the glass, pretending not to meet my gaze with his big bulbous eyes, man is he ugly! Curse him and his ghastly visage. Who does he think he is?

One more drink as I try to set my mind to the larger questions in life. Like, is there life after the great swirl? Why do some scalers go belly up and others float on? Oh, who am kidding? I’m just looking for some tail to chase.

Bubbles was looking good a little earlier today, but that massive turd that’s been trailing out her back side since noon is a little disturbing. Its not that I’m coy or anything, but... yick! Use the aerator for Tom’s sake.

Ah, here he comes; Angelo, my buddy. He’s kind of a froofie in the looks department, but the soul of a bottom feeder. Drinks for both of us!

Tonight we need a plan. I suspect that our plan will involve snagging the food as it floats – it’s what we usually do. Don’t get me wrong, when we were younger and we would grab grub on the surface, but I can’t do that anymore, the gas that causes at my age! You know the old saying, “he who burped and darted really just lied and farted.”

Any-hoo probably grab some grub on the drop and then suck some rocks. There is some new gravel over by the diver I’ve been meaning to sample. Maybe if I see my twin I will give him a nasty head butt – then maybe he’ll swim off, the lousy algae-eating clam-tard! I need another drink.

Whoo! What a great plan! I can’t remember what we did last night, but that sounds like a great plan. Where’d my drink go?

-Brihack

Changing Mind

by Marcy
You have been given the power to change one thing in the world. What is it, and what are the ramifications?

Change.

The word emboldens some, strikes fear into others. Change is as inevitable as death, which in itself is a change. There is no escaping change, though you can change change thanks to free will. Change is equal opportunity – everyone can make it, no-one can escape it. Change is a stalker, a constant companion, a catalyst, and a destroyer. Change brings new life, new discoveries, new disaster. Change is fair, balanced, cruel and kind. Change is everything, and is human, and is life, and is death.

They tell me I have the power to change one thing in the world. As a human being I have always had the power to change many things, even before they bestowed this on me. But they’ve given me more power – enhanced power. With this power I could stop wars. I could end hunger and poverty. I could change the foundations of the church – any church. I could change history, reverse global warming, make it so the holocaust and inquisitions never happened. But I can only do one of these. They’ve only given me the power to make one big change. What would you change, with ultimate power?

And if I made that one big change, what would come of it? Millions of little changes, none of which guaranteeing the original change I’ve made will stay changed. I could throw a boulder into a stream and alter its course, but the water will still flow. Was their experiment on me so that they could see the grandiose result, or did they simply to see what I would change? The power has paralyzed my mind – of course I should be philanthropic, humanitarian. Of course I should help - the good of the many outweighs the good of the one. But what good will I do?

I take the choice very seriously. I have pondered it for years. I have seen horrors in this world, global, national, personal. Would I change any of them? What should I change? This choice is too much for a human to bear. This choice should belong to the universe, the Great Spirit, The Goddess, God, whoever is in charge, not me.

What would I change, if I could change one thing?

I wait, and I weigh my choice, and when I one day reach a decision, I hope it will be a wise choice. Becuase after I choose, I can't change my mind. That's the one thing I can't change.

Friday Afternoon

by Steve Mast

I’m starting to tense up again, just thinking about it. “Do me a favor, hun,” she had said, last week, as if adding “hun” automatically nullified the crap she was about to dump on me. “Next week when you do that report, could ya add some graphs? Bar graphs, not pie. I’ve always hated pie graphs. They make me hungry. Some nice bar graphs. Reading all those numbers without graphs gives me a headache.”
“Sure, hun” I had answered. It was either that or Atilla, which probably would have gotten me into trouble.
Graphs? Damnit all, I wasn’t her damn secretary. I was a salesman, and it was my sales that let her buy that damn BMW she’s started driving. A bright red sporty car. Her husband had drawn flames on the side. Dark puke-green things that looked like they were drawn in crayon.
So what had started as a simple sales summary had turned into a massive company-encompassing project detailing every sales detail for the past year, and now she wanted charts! I was already going on hour six of putting this thing together and I figured I had at least a few more before I’d be done.
But fuming about the problem and wishing pain and suffering on my boss wasn’t going to get the report done. Instead I looked out the window to imagine myself going home. Good ol’ “Atilla” had gone to lunch hours ago and had never come back. She was probably at home with a beer in hand. Damn her anyway!
Never mind – I guess she wasn’t at home cause as I looked out I saw her car zooming up the street back toward work. She seemed to be going a bit fast and I wondered if it was too much car for her to handle.
Apparently it was, as she hit a bump, veered to the right, and planted her car, and herself, directly into a parked car.
Startled, I jumped up out of my seat and wondered briefly if she was all right. It was only briefly because one, or perhaps both, of the cars burst into a huge fireball.
I gasped and was flooded with questions. What should I do? Should I feel bad cause I was just thinking bad thoughts about her? Should I feel sorry that she was gone?
I sat down again and looked at my screen. The report glared back at me, menacing. I grinned back. Turning off the computer I decided it was time to go home and have that beer after all.

Greetings, Hack Fans!

(A note from your friendly neighborhood Marcy)

The Hacks are back after a brief lapse. It's been busy for everyone here in Hackdom, and with summer approaching, who knows how much we'll get written ... Hack Summers tend to involve us northeasterners getting out into the sun and air as much as we can before the snow returns. But we'll put up a valliant attempt to get words on the blog nonetheless, so stay tuned.

To quote one of my favorite writers, Brian Arnold:

"Write on!"

Surprise report

by Bryan

Her Royal Highness, at 0800 hours our time this morning, a warship in the gulf reported a ball of fire hit the southern zone of Abu Dhabi.
How do I confirm the worst? The absolute worst. The kind of thing we laugh about in strategy meetings, when there's that one general in the corner who's the only one not laughing. I wish I'd listened to him.
Have to be strong. Can't let emotion interfere here. I was prepared when we went to war. Hell, I could have handled the second coming of the Dark Ages. God I don't want to go out like this. Not like this.
HMS Surprise deployed at 0802 on 4 January, YOL 1809; first report at 0922.
Capt. S. Aubrey writes: "Bosun's watch first reported; given orders at 0830 sailed north to Persia from east Africa. Officer on deck reported seeing flash, Ship's Crew all report seeing fireball falling from sky. Some report dark center, as if large object was on fire. Did not report seeing impact.
My House will not fall. It will be remembered for getting us out of this. We will do what needs to be done. But how?
Upon investigation Capt. Aubrey reports a large Engine, made of a metal he nor his crew have seen, created a crater on coast. At 40 metres out engine stirred, and 'stood up,' according to Capt. Aubrey.
NEXT PAGE FOR QUEEN'S EYES ONLY
And here we come to it. I wouldn't have believed it myself, though my advisers needed more convincing. Aubrey's one of the best men in the admiralty, but his report left even his staunchest supporters questioning the man.
It was then that the engine stood on two legs. It had two arms, and what appeared to be a head that "looked" at the crew before bending over and "transforming" into what appeared to Capt. Aubrey and his crew as the HMS Surprise.
And now, well, now no one needs his report. Now they need me more than ever. They need to know why the unmanned HMS Surprise is here, on the Thames, changing into a giant man and walking toward the House of Lords.

The Serpent and the Rainbow

A bedtime story by Marcy

Above the trees and in the breeze the rainbow spanned the sky,
An arc of color, pure and bright, she sparkled way up high.
And in the grass along the dirt the serpent slithered through,
Looking for his noontime lunch - perhaps a bug or two.

But when he made it to the stream he saw the bow above,
Her shining colors waved hello, and the serpent fell in love
He followed her for miles and miles but never could get close,
The colors dance and laugh and shine, but the serpent felt morose.

It was late and far from home, and the serpent stopped his quest,
He felt a fool for chasing a dream, but at least he tried his best
The rainbow started to fade away with the waning sun,
The serpent would not make it home before the day was done.

He stared up at the sky in vain, the rainbow finally gone,
And just before he looked away, he began to hear a song.
From over there, yes - through that grass, he came upon a pond,
With all the crickets a snake could eat forever and beyond!

And singing on a flat top rock a serpentess so fair,
With scales of green and red and gold that shimmered in the air.
The serpent knew now that his quest had not at all been wrong,
The rainbow had been showing him where his heart was all along.

They lived together by the pond and sang their songs in love,
And once in a while the rainbow appeared and listened from above.
The serpent thanked the rainbow when he finally had a say,
For showing him his one true love who sang for him each day.

So if you find you’re chasing a rainbow you can’t catch,
And you feel it’s all in vain and you’re a sorry wretch,
Just remember what you need isn’t always what you bid,
Trust your heart and take your quest and you’ll be glad you did.

JAWS MEETS BAMBI (Take 30)

by L. David Wheeler, who's silly enough to admit to writing the following.

SCENE OPENS in INTERIOR OF SMALL HOTEL ROOM, lit dimly by BEDSIDE LAMP. Camera pans to BACK OF MAN, face unseen. Removes COAT, drapes over CHAIR. Loosens TIE. Camera zooms to head/chest view, pans to view FACE. Man YAWNS, then SUCKS IN AIR, revealing TELLTALE BRIDGEWORK.

JAWS continues loosening tie. RAPT KNOCKING at door. JAWS, startled, GLANCES QUICKLY AROUND, grabs REVOLVER from under PILLOW, then STARES MENACINGLY at DOOR. Slight, nearly noiseless GROWL escapes his lips. JAWS slowly walks to DOOR, OPENS it ajar to length that CHAIN allows. Camera frames to JAWS' view: YOUNG WOMAN with long, wavy SCARLET HAIR whose body appears to be constructed ENTIRELY OUT OF CLEAVAGE.

SCARLET WOMAN (uttering breathily): Hello -- Mr. Jaws?

JAWS (suspiciously yet intriguedly): Mmm, yahs?

SCARLET WOMAN: I'm Bambi. Mr. Scaratelli from the agency sent me over. (one beat) He said you were past due for a bite.

(SLIGHT SMILE crosses JAWS' FACE as he reaches to UNFASTEN CHAIN and SET-FRAMING MUSIC BEGI --

No!

Nonononononononono!!!!

Jaws-Bambi porn?!? Have I sunk this low? Apparently my muse is a crack whore.

Every night for a month, every night, I stare at the laptop screen or the blank paper before me. Do I start my Crimean War epic? Do I work up my sitcom treatment about a midget cop from the Hood and his partner the Evangelical Druid? Do I even write Lara a damned poem?

No. Because every night for a month, I'm bidden, inexplicably, irrevocably to heed the voices, the incessant, keening, insistent voices that shriek three words, ever and ever: Jaws meets Bambi. Jaws meets Bambi! JAWS MEETS BAMBI!!!!

I thought writing a little trifle about the fawn lapping water at the stream only to be eviscerated by the killer shark from Hell would be enough. A little exercise to be worked out and tossed aside. But the next night, the voices were back. Louder, more insistent.

JAWS MEETS BAMBI!!!

Some of them weren't too bad. I was kind of fond of my story about the aged buck and shark meeting up at a Home for the Aged Anthropomorphic Non-Humanoid Fictional Characters, where the crueler residents like Cujo called the shark "Gums." And my psychological think piece about Bambi the deer's dreams haunted by visions of a tireless, vicious killer of the depths -- and Jaws' dreams likewise haunted by visions of a little deer wobbling about on an icy pond. A touch meta, but it worked ...

No, it didn't. Because I hear it still.

JAWS MEETS BAMBI! JAWS MEETS BAMBI!

Jaws has been the Spielberg shark -- and that's a lawsuit and a half waiting to happen -- as well as a young, soulful street-gang second-in-command with braces; an office worker who never shuts up with graphic stories about her fiance (untrue) and her medical conditions (all too true); and a sled. (We'd only learn Jaws was a sled in the final scene. Of course I realize it's been done before, do you think I'm an idiot? It's never going to be published or released, it's a damned EXORCISM, don't you GET IT ... who am I talking to? Ummm, no one. myself. ummm ...

Bambi's been the Disney deer -- and that's a lawsuit and six halves waiting to happen -- and all manner of nubile young women of loose virtues, because, quite frankly, if your name's "Bambi" and you're not a nubile young woman of loose virtue, you'd better be a deer. Well, to change it up, I threw in an utterly nonconvincing drag queen.

I even tried to play with it a bit: "Jawas meet Babar." Because Lucasfilm would never sue anyone, of course.

JAWS MEETS BAMBI!!!

But a porn movie following the illicit adventures of a minor henchmen from a couple of the more forgettable James Bond movies? (Nobody liked "Moonraker," right? I mean, come on.) That's a couple lawsuits and halves waiting to happen: the Fleming estate AND MGM. Whoopee!

I can't take it anymore. I think I'll need a bigger boat.

Kinda wobbly, aren't I?

And again, it starts.

JAWS MEETS BAMBI!
JAWS MEETS BAMBI!
JAWS MEETS BAMBI!
JAWS MEETS BAMBI!
JAWS MEETS BAMBI!
JAWS MEETS BAMBI!
JAWS MEETS BAMBI!
JAWS MEETS BAMBI!
JAWS MEETS BAMBI ......

Bambi Vs. Jaws

By Marcy

EXT – FOREST POND – TWILIGHT

It is winter, and Bambi’s friends are laughing at him as he attempts to walk across a frozen pond. His limbs are splaying about as he struggles to keep his footing. Below the surface, a dark shadow follows the fawn’s every slip-slidey move.

BAMBI
Hey Thumper! Watch This!

Bambi attempts to do a triple Salchow. His hoof cracks the ice.

That’s al the shadow needs.

A great white shark explodes through the ice, gobbling Bambi in one gigantic chomp. The bunnies and skunks run screaming for the shelter of the forest.

The shark descends back into the pond.

JAWS
Mmm … Venison.

(scene)

Director Commentary: “I felt that the original versions of these two movies weren’t fully realizing the vision I had in my head. So we went back in with CG and completely redid the scenes to better reflect what I would have wanted these movies to be, had I actually directed them. We also took out much of the original dialogue and replaced it with stilted, cliché dialogue, and made sure the actors had absolutely no chemistry through my directing. I realize there may be legions of fans whose very lives and imaginations were forever altered by the original versions of these films, but that’s just not good enough for me. Our next project will be the prequel to “Jaws vs. Bambi” – “Spawn of the Fawn” – in which we will discover what Bambi’s father, the king of the forest, was like as a snot-nosed kid. He’ll be befriended by a strange, obnoxious, completely superfluous character who will be sure to annoy the hell out of loyal fans of the original films. Oh – and there will be a lame scientific excuse for how Bambi and his father acquired their ‘powers.’ So stay tuned!”

- George Lucas

Bastille, my sunshine

A parody of “Steal my sunshine” by Len
By Marcy

I was lying in my cell on Sunday morning of last week
Indulging in some rancid meat
It’s a dank and stony room, and it feels like it’s gonna be my tomb
The walls are stone and three feet deep
I’ve been here for a year, though my sentence wasn’t very clear but
The aristocrats think I’m a creep
All I did was make a pun in a pamphlet about the King’s latest fun
Now I’m in Bastille sitting on my bum

I know they’ve got it in for me
(Bastille, my sunshine)
Calling me a revolutionary
(Bastille, my sunshine)
Got flea bites on my knees
(Bastille, my sunshine)

I was lying on the bench that serves as a bed in my suite
L-A-T-E-R that week
The stale baguette I ate was starting to dissipate
And hunger crept back into me
I heard shouting at the gates and someone yelled “no, no please wait!”
(But in French, of course, that’s what we speak)
And outside I heard the guns, but I was locked up and couldn’t run
So I missed a million miles of fun

And now, I’ve got to flee
(Bastille, my sunshine)
It’s been a lovely stay but I must leave
(Bastille, my sunshine)
Wonder what they’ll do with me
(Bastille, my sunshine)
I know they’ve got it in for me
(Bastille, my sunshine)
Calling me a revolutionary
(Bastille, my sunshine)
Got flea bites on both my feet
(Bastille, my sunshine)

Steel Bass

Now, it ain’t like I ain’t woke up in some strange place afore. I mean one time me and Zeke got into some bad shine and we both woked up so far down the Mississippi that they ain’t never heard of Canada! Had to work the river boat all year to get back to my shack.

Well it’s a looking like that weren’t nothing. See me and Zeke was pitching woo with these two gals at the inn who spoke all this strange gibberish, but they was purty as all get out and next thing I know Zeke is saying we should follow them to this boat. Me, I like boats and I like the purty gals so I says to Zeke that that was a fine idear.

It was not.

So this was about the time I met Peter. He said his name all funny, but he’s a Peter. I knowd it right off. So, Peter was on the boat what the purty girls took us too and his job was to clobber us something awful so that we was asleep when the boat leaved for far away. Peter is a big guy and he clobbered me good, but he clobbered Zeke better and Zeke never woked up. I could tell Peter was all broke up about it, which did nothing to bring Zeke back, but you gotta give a fella a little break if he feels broke up about making a mistake like that. I hurt a fella or two in my time and felt a lot of hurt on the inside about it.

So we all had this boat trip for a long time which wasn’t too bad. There was other bodies aboard that there boat, but they mostly kept to themselves. Work on the boat was damn near a holiday compared to working on the river! And one of them pretty girls spent a night or two with me which made the whole thing a damn site better. Oh, she smelled purty.

When the boat gets close to land I started to scratch my head cause the beach don’t look right. The two purty girls and Peter have a long chin wag about something in their gibberish and the girls looks ascared of something.

I ain't one to drag a tale on too long, so lets just say that a lot of these gibberers pull up in another big boat - they all weared the same color coat like they was in the army, but the colors was all wrong. They grabbed us all and they was yelling and shouting and pushing and one them laid a hand on my purty girl which made me fly all into a rage of course.

Now I live in this cage that they call the steel bass or something like that. It don’t look like a fish, but its sure got plenty of iron in the bars. Now I been in the pokey before, the thing of it is they usually feed you pretty regular. This place ain’t run so good. Plus there’s all this gibberish yelling outside which keep me from sleeping regular.

All that being said, I think things are settling down for me now. I am behind bars and that don’t usually change too fast. The crazy folks outside are all yelling about turning things or revolutions or something, but I don’t much care. I’m just gonna settle in and relax for a while, maybe Peter will teach me some gibberish to pass the time.

Brihack

Feliz Cumpleanos!!!

Here's a big, joyous (sadly belated because I suck)

HAPPY BIRTHDAY

to two of our fellow Hacks:
Matt (March 30) and Brian (March 31)

(Had I not been in Scranton painting doors and walls last weekend I might have been more on top of that ... sorry ...)

posted by Marcy

(who does not claim ownership of this photo, the credit is on the photo)

Lunch bullies

By Matt

Arrrgh! Be that a word?
'Tis a question immortal
No answer have I

A ship be sighted
White sails the horizon show
So hungry a crew we

Life be tough at sea
The English be hearty fed
Their food we will take

Aside their ship drawn
Our swords at the ready be
Plunder their corned beef

A battle won, we retire
To our fortunate repast
Pirates we always be

Rum we now consume
Fat and happy we rest
Our next fight soon comes

Till that time cometh
Hearty lunch we shall consume
Hark, there be more sails

Arrrgh! Be that a word?
'Tis a question immortal
No answer have I

AVAST

The town's in ruins,
treas'ry looted, coffers gone;
but what really hurts:

Seared into my brain,
pumpernickel, ham and Swiss
impaled on cruel blade.

Weep for ravaged lives
and savage, stark injustice.
I miss my sammich.

-LDW

Corn costs a buccaneer

By Bryan

Green peas on flat spoon
Rolling lazily around
above the soup bowl

An eye-patched man comes
ill tidings he brings under
a flourescent sky

Guarding the deep bowl
I stand with scabbard to fight
Alas I'm run through

Woe, My Salad Has Sailed

by Marcy

Spinach and Romaine
Carrots and Garbanzo Beans
And lots of Feta

Baby Corns so sweet
Crispy Noodles and Almonds
Mandarin Oranges

Grilled Chicken slices
Kidney Beans and Black Olives
Sunflower Seeds Too

A hint of dressing
A masterpiece of texture
A balance of taste

This leafy salad
My pride and my lunchtime joy
Stolen from the fridge

The void is dreadful
My stomach longs for my lunch
Fridge pirates will pay

They with no morals
Stealing others' sustenance
Will be hunted down

I mourn my salad
And I send doom upon them
I called the Cracken.

Pirated

Pirates stole my lunch
The absolute greatest lunch
The lunch I ne’er ate

It was truly queer
When a newbie Buccaneer
Stole it with a sneer

Deep personal loss…
Bandits bamboozled my stuff
May they burn in hell

No eye patch had they
No parrot shoulder sitting
Just malevolence

I like’ed my lunch
My lunch is my life time bliss
Bliss takers should choke


My lunch program was
My first application wrote
Software pirates suck

-Brihack Arrrrgh!

The Great Sage

A lady in a grocery store once told me “your garden is a reflection of your heart.” How could I know I would, in the cereal isle, meet one of the great sages of our day? Well, of course I wanted to have a beautiful heart so ever since I have been devoted to my garden, turning up the hardened rocky soil, the thorny weeds, and the disarray and replacing them with a supple grass, grapes, tomatoes, plums, peaches, strawberries, bright flowers, and figs. (In a side note I always stayed away from the lemons and limes – nobody could accuse me of a sour heart) I even tore down the apple tree when it refused, on threat of death, to produce a sweet fruit.

So you can understand my embarrassment for my neighbor who has more of a barren wasteland than a garden. What a sad sad glimpse into the poor man’s heart. I could bore you with the details of his life, bemoan you with the reasons why he has turned into such a miserable and slovenly man. Instead I will merely give you a glimpse of his garden and allow you to see all that for yourself. Do you see the way his only tree, some wild oak that was standing when he bought the place, has a mold growing on the north side? It’s that greenish-blue hue. The fallen branches lying on the ground like forgotten soldiers. Dandelion springs shooting up like metaphors in a short story. I walked out this morning and saw three tumbleweeds lying about, as if attracted to this mess and needing to be a part of it. I have no doubt that they rolled there on their own free will.

My kingdom for a brick! Or at least a stack of bricks that could separate me from this abomination. Bricks and maybe some cement to glue them together. And some guy (or gal) willing to form those bricks into a wall.

Instead the chain link fence allows me perfect view into his heart of hearts. Take this morning for example. I walk out into my garden and he’s out there with his dog (I won’t go into details about what his dog adds to his garden) and a Frisbee. I’m pruning and shearing and picking and weeding. He’s jumping and laughing and playing and the dog is running and jumping and chasing.

“Hay Richard!” I shout over the fence. I’ll use “Richard” because I want to protect his identity, cause his actual name is Dick.

“What’s up, my man?” he stops what he is doing and walks over to the fence.

He’s never listened to me about this before but I try and try again. “The yard is looking a little bit ratty today. Starting a Tumbleweed collection?” I figure humor may be the best route.

“No, man,” he says, “but ain’t they cool look’n? All round and brown and ready to roll. Say, you wouldn’t happen to have some extra plums, would ya?” I hand him a basket from over the fence that has a little bit of everything. Maybe it will inspire him. “Hay man, I’m super surprised that you don’t own a dog.”

I’d never owned a dog. I told him so.

“But a dog completes you man. A dog is what can make a person whole.”

I ran these words through my head. A…dog…completes…you. I’d never thought about it before. I had a great heart but I knew I was missing something.

Suddenly I was bitter, resentful, and envious. Here was my neighbor, who had been complete this whole time, even if he had such an ugly heart, and there I was, next to him, incomplete, not even a whole man. I felt ashamed.

Nobody would be able to accuse me of being incomplete. The great sage has spoken. It was time to get a dog.

-Steven Mast

Drunk Neighbor Rick

By Marcy

It was early, I was grumpy, and there was my loud, usually drunk neighbor. This morning he looked like Hangover Man, the archnemesis of Party Dude. But I had to ask just to make sure my apartment wasn’t an isolated incident.

“Hey Rick – you have hot water this morning?”

Rick shrugged at me as he ambled to his dirty pickup. “Didn’t check. I shower at night.”

I know, because the pipes squeal and keep me awake. And usually he’s hammered, and can’t hold onto shampoo bottles. They fall from his soapy hands to the tub floor with hollow thuds at regular intervals. Or at least, I’m guessing what the noise is as I lie in bed below his apartment. I’ve never been in the shower with Rick. UGH - I shudder to think about it.

Rick threw a garbage bag into the back of his truck and nodded in my direction. “You should call the landlord if your hot water’s out.”

Thank you, State The Obvious Man. “Yeah, if it’s not fixed by the time I get home from work, I will.” I opened my car door and retrieved my coffee from the roof where I’d set it. At least it was a gorgeous spring day. I could eat my lunch outside, with a book, and no-one would bother me except bugs. And it might even be too early for bugs.

Rick opened his truck door and it creaked with a metallic groan. Some rust fell off of the hinges and clinked onto the pavement. “Wellp, have a good day there, Chad.” He hopped in and turned the motor over, and the door slammed with the falling of more rust.

My name isn’t Chad. It’d Brad. Stupid moron.

His truck backed out of the parking spot and nearly hit my Honda. I thought about yelling for him to watch it but he threw the car into drive just in time and pulled away, peeling out of the parking lot like he was at the start of a drag race. The garbage bag rolled out of the open truck bed and fell to the ground in a cloud of muffler smoke, and a female arm dangled from the opening.

I puked. And then I called the cops. And then I called work to tell them I’d be late.

The cops stayed at our building until it was dark and had sent out an APB on Rick’s truck. They think when he got to wherever he was going to dump her he realized the bag was gone, and he had skipped town. They didn’t think he’d come back – likely set up in another town and start over there. They’d have to wait until he started leaving another trail – apparently they’d been looking for a serial killer who had been dumping women’s bodies in garbage bags all around the city.

That night I curled up in my bed and couldn’t sleep. The fear that Rick would return and come after me for blowing him in was too great. One undercover guy, on lookout, was supposedly parked out front of our building. It didn’t reassure me. But somehow I managed to drift off to sleep, weary from the shock and fear of the day.

I awoke, hours later, to squealing pipes and intermittent hollow thumps from the apartment above me.

Last day

Sorry for the departure from the assignment. I had thoroughly intended to follow it. But this story came out. I think it's because I'm writing full-time again, so Existential Bryan reared his ugly, confusing head.
By Bryan
On the last day of your life, the world moves with you. Thump thump. Sometimes it has to catch up.
The guy next door goes for his paper. Yours is already on the table, spewing stock quotes and personal injury ads in one dusty breath staring dead at the burnt-out kitchen light. The phone rings. Pops. Leave it. Thump thump.
On the last day of your life, seven forks are left in your drawer. You will use four. Drop one on the floor thump thump. You will use three.
The song on the radio has played at the same time every day for the past week but there's an extra note this time, somewhere between losing the love and getting her back. Thump thump.
You lost an argument in your head once, something about washing your feet in the shower and debating the merits and abilities of the washwater to adequately perform its function solo, or does it need the cloth? The vice presidency of bathroom politics is lost to you on the last day of thump thump your life.
And it is then, pausing rigid with spatula under the heat lamp of the stove as your eggs fog over, that you begin to doubt the most-improved singer award from chorus you earned was really yours to own. Pity is fickle, which worked in your favor, but talents need definition or else you'd still be proud you learned to blow smoke rings in college. All this you'd learn in a week but it is the last day of your life and the eggs need salt.
Thump thump. A brick comes through the window. It has two words on the small sides: One is written in a different language and you shouldn't understand it but you can; the other is "hint." And your fork drops because all the blood in your body hurries to your brain where everyone's working overtime; your brain is opening up and someone's in there flipping switches. And it makes sense, that poem you read in 11th grade written by the old dead dude. It was rather insightful but you could write it much better now.
Thump thump. A brick comes through the window. That's the third time this week, but the offending vaulters' parents don't care. You speak in non sequitirs to no one who'll listen. On the last day of your life the parents don't care. Much like yesterday, neither do you.
Thump.
Th

The face of change

Philip grabbed his chipped Caribou mug from his night stand and jabbed it under Mr. Coffee’s nasal drip without bothering to wash out yesterday’s black ring. The mindless drip grew into a weak stream that felt like a mocking indictment, as if it were his life’s blood leaking through the beans - being strained of any value. Phil was not a fan on Mondays.

He didn’t hold it against the Mondays, it wasn’t their fault that they were followed by four other mind numbing week days, just like it wasn’t his fault that he was always followed around by four mind numbing nitwits who called themselves CPAs, but probably couldn’t spell it. King Philip the 1st, emperor of a raindrop called the auditing department of Logicons R&D division.

Oooh-rah.

Mr. Coffee gave a last wet gasp and Phil pulled out his cup wondering if its stimulating effect might be heightened by skipping the part where he dumped it down his throat and simply poured it down his pants. Could he get disability for that and stay home? Phil knew he needed a change.

Attempting to button up his white collar with one hand, Phil wondered if change was possible; real change, not just changing from Dentine to Juicy Fruit, but genuine, paradigm shifting, earth shattering change. Hand slipping, Phil sloshed a wave of coffee onto his clean-ish white shirt.

At least I get to change my shirt; he thought bitterly and began the process of one hand unbuttoning. The coffee stayed in the hand, it was a rule.

Phil was about half way to work before he realized that his neighbor Ron had clearly possessed two heads. Not like, a mannequin head under one arm or some kind of two faced makeup, but genuinely had two heads, each just off center of the top of his torso, each with its own neck, each with its own goatee.

It was not until Phil raced into his office to share this startling observation with his newly two-headed coworkers that Phil felt deep down in his soul that change, real change, was possible. Holy crap.

-Brihack

Song of the Sea Serpent

By Marcy

I wrecked my car, and it’s all that sea serpent’s fault.

I was driving to the beach, north of Salem. The sun was bright off the water and my sunglasses weren’t cutting it. Last time I buy aqua-tinted lenses just to match one outfit. It’s all about polarized lenses for me from now on.

Anyway, I was reaching up to adjust the visor when I saw it. It looked like a dragon – but with no wings. Just a huge scaly body, the color of basalt and ocean glass, its eyes as bright and yellow-white as the sun that was reflecting off the water behind it. Steam churned from its nostrils and rose from its back. It arced into the sky, the bottom half of it still submerged.

And it sang.

I will never forget the sound of its voice. It was clear, crystalline, pure. It sang to the sun, wavering there above the surface, treading water with a hidden tail. Its voice rang through the summer air, swirling in the clouds and drifting on the salty ocean breeze. I closed my eyes and fell into the melody.

I awoke, my car halfway submerged in the tide, tire tracks stretching behind me through the sand back to the road. The serpent was gone, replaced by flashing lights and freaked-out beachgoers.

And I hummed the song the serpent sang all the way to the asylum.

Everyone knows Minotaurs can’t drive.

Everyone knows that Minotaur’s can’t drive. It’s more than just the hoofs and the horn-to-head-room issue; it’s a mental possessing thing. Minotaur’s are natural maze dwellers, so the linear progression involved in most driving trips messes with their heads. Straight lines and Minotaur’s do not mix. This all pales in light of their overwhelming instinct to lurk and then jump out and scare people – this hard wired reflect does not translate well when these bull headed beast get behind the wheel.

But it was late, and I’d had one too many and, to be honest when you have been friends as long as Stan and I, you stop seeing the horns, hairy legs and the washboard stomach- you just see your buddy. Personally I blame the designated driver campaigns you see on TV all the time. They never tell you the real deal, like buzzed driving is drunk driving, but it’s always better than letting your friend Stan the Minotaur drive. PSAs are never big with details or particulars.

Pity.

Now don’t get me wrong, the arresting Orc made a lot of sense when he pointed out that Stan had polished off a barrel or two all by himself. But we all know that wasn’t the real problem. I tried to make a case for racial profiling, but the judge wouldn’t go for it. Stinking elves, always so logical and calm and focused on facts. He can pretend to be impartial but he was just made because Stan ran over his son. I mean the kid was already 600 years old, what more did he want from life?

Anyway, that’s why I lost my license. And my freedom. And my skin. Oh, yeah the loss of skin hurts, but luckily the magic keeps me from dying of infections or passing out from the pain. So, it’s only another year or two and Stan says he’s really sorry. He’s going to traffic school next weekend. That Stan… what a guy.

-Brihack

Writing Assignment: Pesky troll

By Matt

“Honest officer, it wasn’t my fault.”

How many times has that line been used over the years to get out of a ticket or explain an accident? Well in my case it was true, it wasn’t my fault. Sit back and you’ll hear the tale of the time a troll wrecked my car.

It was late winter, March in fact. I’d just gotten some bad news at work. I work at a word factory, see, and I’d just found out I’d have to work 16 hour days, six days a week. Now if that’s not a killer schedule, I’m not sure I understand what a killer schedule is.

Now as you can imagine, as I left the factory, I was in a pretty rotten mood. I mean, it was a two hour drive home and now I only had eight hours to drive home, get some dinner, go to bed, and then get up and start all over again. That meant I was going to about 3 hours sleep a night at best.

So there I was on the freeway, humming along at a cool 75 miles an hour, listening to the afternoon DJ on the radio make some of some poor drunken unfortunate. It was snowing a bit, but the roads were just wet. It was a pretty easy drive, all things considered for late March. I was in the last half-hour of the trip as I hit the city and I was getting pretty groggy. That’s why when the troll appeared, I thought it was just a paranoid delusion. Little did I know…

The troll appeared as I was passing a one of the massive tractor-trailers with two trailers hooked up to it. I pulled alongside the behemoth, hauling food for the local uber-super-duper mart. That’s when I heard it…

From somewhere in the back there was this low growl, which sounded suspiciously like my cat, who I knew wasn’t in the back seat. Just the same I glanced back through the rear view mirror. Seeing nothing, I passed it off as being a product of my weary mind.

I punched the accelerator and my car's 250 horses pulled it past the lumbering semi. As I pulled in the right lane again, I heard it again. That same low growl. This time, it seemed a bit closer. Again I looked in the rear view mirror. Nothing. I turned my attention back to the road. That’s when it happened.

The growl came again. This time it sounded as if it had come from the seat next to me. I looked over and saw it. The troll was about five feet tall, with coffee- colored skin covered in festering boils. His face was dominated by a massive nose and fat, ugly lips. His eyes, mere slits were like looking into the soul of darkness itself. Most strange, though was what came out of its mouth.

“I say, chap, nice of you to notice me. Might you give me a lift to Eleron? I’m frightfully late for a pillaging seminar, and if I don’t arrive soon, I just might be sacked. Couldn’t have that now, could we? I’m afraid my people’s idea of sacking is quite unpleasant.”

At this point, an odd feeling came over me. My stomach grew tight, my breath coming in gasps. As I tried to focus on the wheel, the road started growing more indistinct, until there was nothing but blackness.

When I awoke, I was surrounded by firefighters and policemen. My car cocooned around me, I was unable to move more than a few inches. There was no sign of the troll. After about an hour of frantic work by the rescue workers I was freed and taken to a waiting ambulance. As I was being put inside, I noticed a street sign. Eleron Boulevard.

The Big Wrinkle

Tim was small for his age. He was skinny with bumpy knees and sharp elbows. His eyes were like two big pools of milk with bright round plums in the middle. Tim liked to have fun. He loved to run around a lot and play games and pull on pigtails and trip smaller kids in the hall and splash water all over the place from the water fountain.

Tim had a smile on his face most of the day and half of the night. He would stay up late to read books about good guys and bad guys and dragons and pirates and hunters. Tim loved to imagine that he was a hero from one of the books he read late at night, deep under the bed covers.

If Tim had the idea to ask one of the other kids at school which character they though he was like they would have said the annoying side kick or the villain. This would have been true, but hurt Tim’s feelings - so it was best that he never asked. Tim was loud, Tim was fast and Tim made every day about Tim. Tim was the king of Mondays to Saturdays.

But Sunday was another story. On Sundays Tim spent time with “The Wrinkle!” Four whole hours every single Sunday was unfair, Tim knew this was true from the bottom of his toes to the top of his sandy blonde hair. He felt like he was being punished for something he never did. The Wrinkle was the worst! The wrinkle was all about the “creepy smell” and the “quiet”. If Tim could just watch cartoons or bring his video games or listen to the radio or throw a ball around the room or just not go at all things would be better. Being at school would have been better. But Sundays were Wrinkle days. Mom would drop him off at the Old People Home for the Aging to spend time with Uncle Oliver. Oliver the Wrinkle! Tim knew that Uncle Oliver not his real uncle, Uncle Oliver was some kind of great uncle or cousin or something.

If his mom had asked, Tim would have told her that he was sure that Uncle Oliver was part elephant. His ears were huge! They hung off the sides of his head like a pair of melted candles. And the hair that came out of them! The Wrinkle had no hair on his head, but there was enough hair spraying out of his elephant ears to cover a large rat!

Sunday was always about being bored and stinky and gross. Sunday felt like it lasted a whole week!

* * *

Tim watched the cartoon cat get pulled from a chair and out the window, screaming down the street. He was pretty sure real cats would not do that, but he would check next time he saw one.

Mom called him from the other room, “Timmy!”

Tim pretended not to hear her. He could probably watch another cartoon if he just ignored her for a few more minutes.

“Timmy, time to go. Uncle Oliver is waiting!”

No he isn’t, thought Timmy. Uncle Oliver doesn’t even know when I am there in the room with him. Uncle Oliver does not care if I come or not. The Big Wrinkle is just getting extra stinky so that he smells extra weird when I get there. Maybe his ears will block the door to his room so we can’t get in.

“Timmy!”

“I’m doing it!” Timmy called back, sliding off the sofa and clicking the TV off. He felt like all of his energy clicked off with the TV. Today was going to take forever.

…to be continued

-Brihack

Cleaning Up

By Bryan

NOTE: I don't know if this is a beginning, a middle, or an end. I write stories like that sometimes, and rarely do I go back to them. I guess I'm satisfied in letting people guess what it is, and let them draw their own conclusions. Here, you'll find yourself asking who, what, and where, and the only real question answered is why, but it's only partially answered.
ALSO: I begin my new job as editor of the Lexington Minuteman tomorrow. I'll let y'all know of the Web site once I get me some stories posted.


“Sorry,” he said as he picked his three remaining teeth. “Ain’t goin’.”
This makes it easy. As a last resort I’d planned to knock those last three chompers clean off his gums. He had his chance. And when I say join us or die, men usually listen. Usually.
This summer makes me sweat at bad times, like when you got to keep it all in and not show anything. The wrong soggy spot or wet forehead can give the impression you got something to hide. Maybe that’s what he’s thinking. Jesus it’s hot.
He’s gone back to his beer, and the two goons with me just keep staring at him. They don’t know what else to do. The bar’s dark but I know he sees them, even as he stares at the busted TV on the wall leaking a basketball game through the static. He probably thinks I’m going to make the last move. He’s right.
“Hawk isn’t takin’ no for an answer, Smokey. You and I both know the Demons are on their way out anyway. Heard just last week they split from the house on Route 30. Got no money, no prospects, and the last three robberies put most of you in jail.”
He’s listening still. Didn’t know I found out about that house, did you? In their heyday the Demons had some 50 or 60 of ‘em across the Midwest. Three were always kept top secret, where their treasuries were. But even those dried up like dust, and I’m the wind blowin’.
He’s looking at me again. Neither of those glassy eyes look like they got much smarts behind them. But even a dumbass like this one knows when he’s beat.
I remember when a guy like this – arms thick as trees, tattoos all over, and leather to match them – could shake down a liquor store owner just by lookin’ at him. The backing he had could open the floods of Hell on you if he wanted. He scared kids like me. But you get older, you start seeing things the way they really are. They operate like a machine, these guys. But you loosen enough of the screws and the whole damn thing falls apart. Maybe that’ll happen to us Angels one day. I’ll be long gone before then.
“Nope,” he says. “Ain’t goin’.”
That’s too bad. You’re already gone.

Souls of Men

This week's Assignment
By Marcy

I don’t remember a whole lot from before when I fell. My earliest memories have been taken over by darkness now. But I vaguely remember light; very bright light … brighter than sunlight, and radiant. Sometimes when the heat from the stone floors around the magma pools splits and blisters the pads on my feet, I think about that light. When I am alone at night in my chambers, I imagine that light like cool water washing rock chips and dried blood from my cracked, bleeding feet. I meditate on the light. It engulfs me from toe to head, cooling the blood in my veins, calming the agony in my heart, drowning the cries of the tortured from my ears. I hold the light around me for as long as I can, before I have to go back to work. It helps me through the day, through my work, torturing souls eternally.

I try often to think about how I got here; it’s fuzzy in my memory, like much before my fall. I remember nothing of what I did, which I find ironic, as the whole point of this place is supposed to be about suffering for one’s ills for eternity. Whatever I did, He must have been justified in sending me here. His forgiveness only applies to the souls of men; not a luxury afforded to those of us who were part of his host.

Others have fallen, probably none more famous than our Master down here. And some of those others are nearly as twisted as the Master. But some of us aren’t. We do our jobs because we have to, we can’t remember why, and we hope that someday He sees fit to grant forgiveness to those of us without souls of men, who have no recollection what crimes we’re atoning for, but will spend eternity doing just that. In the meantime, I think about the light as I drift to sleep at the end of my shift. And I try never to forget it.

Crossover Bloggage

Howdy Hack Fans!
Marcy Here.
Here's an old Hacks post that originated on my blog, Playtime at Hazmat. I meant to post this on the Hack blog a long time ago and never got around to it. Dave, Bryan, and I were playing Lego Star Wars and somehow managed to write this story at the same time. Enjoy!

We'll meet the ninjas at the Barbary Coast

This post brought to you by:
Marcy, the Media Ninja
Dave, Lord Ledley the Ravager and
Bryan, Hooch the Destroyer

I just asked two guys playing video games in the same room as me to give me a sentence to start this story with. Then I made them write it with me off the top of our heads, each of us trading off a sentence at a time. Here's the pathetic but entertaining result:

"We'll meet the ninjas at the Barbary Coast."
"No, we shall not; have you so soon forgotten the Black Ninja Eradication of 2023?"
Halsom shook his head and pounded his fist into the wooden plank table, toppling Mardon's ale jug.
Truly, it was a strange conversation to be having at Wal-Mart but the furniture delivery was late and the stock clerks were restless.
And Myron the assistant manager was nowhere to be seen; they suspected he and Marge from layaway were off somewhere, uh, laying away.
"I assure you, the ninjas will be there, and they will be bringing with them the lost cheese of Zandlar," said Mardon, scratching his head and tossing the twelve sided dice aimlessly as he was thinking.
Before Halsom's reply, a bay door creaked to life and light flooded the room, casting gold sparkles atop the ale.
"Crap," Mardon hissed, "so much for cheese."
"I thought I told you morons no roleplaying on the job," bellowed Dan Yonker, the wall-eyed night shift manager as he strode through the goldish haze of the loading dock security lights.
And before the clerks could pick up their board, before their last thoughts could return to the loving crush of their mothers' arms, two ninja stars pierced their hearts, thrown from the able and mastered wrists of Dan Yonker, the last remaining ninja of Sheboygan and lone survivor of the Black Ninja Eradication of 2023.

Uncle Lou

A: Earliest? That’s a toughie. No… wait-a-minute I can tell you. Yeah- definitely. I was only like 2 or 3 decades old at the time when my uncle Lou came to visit and he told me something I will never forget. He says to me, and I quote here, “Being evil ain’t got nothin’ to do with doing bad stuff.” He actually bent down and looked me right between the horns at this point, one hand on my wing spike and he said, “Being evil ain’t about doin bad stuff. It’s all about bein’ unpredictable.”

Q: Then what did he do?

A: Well, you know Lou. Lead by example is his thing, so he kissed me gently on the forehead and then threw me down three rings on hell into some fiery acid.

Q: Quite an example.

A: You mocking me?

Q: Goodness, gracious, no. Wouldn’t think of it.

A: That’s what I thought. Anyway what a sense of humor that guy had, huh? I nearly regretted it when I disintegrated him a few centuries later.

Q: Surely... we all grieved his passing. So, this, your earliest memory, is to what you attribute all of your success?

A: You are mocking me you little white winged wuss. Look, we done here?

Q: By all means. Thank you for your time and is there anything else you would like the viewers at home to know?

A: Well, I got no more words for them, but lean over here I wanna give you a kiss on the forehead.

-Brihack

Marcy's Hill Story

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Canisteo_(village),_New_York

There was definitely something wrong.

My eyes felt swollen, and my pulse throbbed in my temples. Something was stinging the skin on the back of my neck. It took all of my strength just to push myself up to sitting. Below me I could see the elementary school grounds and the houses that spread out between Greenwood Street and the Canisteo River. I knew where I was sitting - smack in the middle of the “C” on the world-famous living Canisteo sign.

I reached back and gingerly touched the spot on my neck that was stinging and found it raised, scabbed over. There was something hard under the surface of my skin. Then last night’s events came flooding back to me. Bright light … floating … pain … large black eyes staring down at me surrounded by light.

Damn aliens had tagged me again.

I forced myself to stand, my wobbly knees protesting the walk downhill through the cross-country trails I ran when on the team as a teenager. I had to get back home, get out the exacto knife, and remove the tag. Not that it would help, they’ve tagged me three times before. But why make their job easier, right?

Dave's Hill Story

There it is. My city. The humble skyline, such as it is, of its business district, such as it is. The sleepy streetlights that don't illuminate all that much action -- this isn't Chicago, or even Cleveland. The steeples -- United Methodist, First Presbyterian, the Missionary Baptist on the west side next to Uncle Fran's BBQ. Ribs were top-notch, but Fran's brisket truly was to die for ... if you pardon the expression. Focus focus focus. Immediately below, at hill's bottom, the bypass. The truest route to elsewhere. Second-truest.

Heh. There's old Van Buren, where I didn't learn algebra or Earth science. Learned plenty about Darwinism, though, which is what middle school's for: Only the strong survive, or at least pass on their genes. Yep, it's still got the old-school jungle-gym, the metal monstrosity that marks a real playground -- none of these lawyer-approved mazes of nets and chutes and ladders. Cold, hard metal. Heh. When Randy Larsch got the upper hand during that fight over -- over something, I guess, middle school fights don't need to be about anything -- and smashed my nose into the third rung three times in rapid succession, the important thing at the time was that it was hard. Now, the thing that stays with me is how cold it was. Must've been one of those November afternoons that precede the first snowfall but see it coming on the horizon. Gave as good as I got, though -- a few weeks later, it was his blood on the jungle-gym. Heh. Ended up becoming friends, sort of -- in fact, these days Randy's my CPA. Was.

There's the old A&P -- or there it would be, were a Wal-Mart Supercenter not feeding off its bones. Three years of wearing aprons and Mr. Kelly's store of spare striped woeful ties, weilding the cunning pricing gun and stocking the shelves -- the bane of stock clerks, if you've ever wondered: tiny cat food tins of the Fancy Feast variety, which never stack quite straight thanks to their pull top and always seem to fall over and tilt and look slovenly and occasionally roll down the aisle. Heh. Blizzard of eighty-eight, we closed up and waited out the storm, and tapped an Old Milwaukee keg from the dairy cooler. Kelly didn't say anything other than he didn't want to know -- then he'd send us out to the front end for some pretext of another and pour himself a healthy draught himself. A&P's to thank, or blame, for Amy the unbelievable redhead and that one unforgettable summer -- and that one unbearable autumn. She was running register, I was bagging. Heh. Hey, everyone -- double entendre. We spent our share of time up here -- well, okay, not right here at the bluff but back there where the woods begin, exploring whatever we'd care to explore. It was like that old Seger song about mysteries without any clues. Sometimes I think my whole adolescence was scored by Bob Seger. Everyone's adolescence was scored by Bob Seger. Still the same.

Yup, there's the channel-13 affiliate I interned at back in '91, after taking one broadcast class and figuring to give it a real-world whirl. (Didn't take.) And my favored comics shop, World of Krypton, where Mike kept the old Curt Swan Superman designs in the windows, even in periods where the market was all big-gun-toting, big-vest-with-way-too-many-pocket-wearing, big-we-scoff-at-basic-rules-of-human-anatomy characters. And there's Martinez's place -- mecca for hot pastrami and cigars and racing forms and five card stud (red queens tended to be wild, just like real life, but enough about Amy). and, when Marty was of a mood, free shots of bourbon. You could spend enough time in his place and forget that women even existed, if it weren't for the calendars from his brother Oscar's garage. And there's Pine Haven ...

Yep. Down there are thirty-some years of memories and twenty-some thousand souls. And twenty-some thousand bodies.

Plus one. Mine. In Pine Haven, as of ten-thirty this morning. Or elevenish, if you want to go by when they shoveled in the last of the dirt. My family was there. Randy was there. So were Mike and Martinez and his brother Oscar. I suppose Uncle Fran would've been there too, if I'd known him other than to order brisket -- I guess I always felt too dilletanishly white in that place to strike up a conversation. And I suppose Mr. Kelly would, too, but he'd been otherwise occupied in an urn on Mrs. Kelly's mantle three years now.

I make my way downhill, not all that gingerly. Like what, I'm gonna fall?

Twenty-some thousand souls.

I clench my fists of ether.

And one's a killer.

--Dave W., 3-8-07

Lyle Koontz Jr.

Journal Entry #1, fifth try, day one of the weirdness

You know the guy. The exposed beer belly with a huge team colored letter blanketing its sweaty girth, drunk out of his mind and screaming incoherent accolades over the top of his sloshing plastic cup. The dude, who posts video of himself mixing a brew of Mentos and Diet Coke in his own mouth, then tries to sweet talk the ladies while foaming at the mouth. The guy who proves that the idiot with the loudest voice makes the poorest choice? You know that sociopath. Of course, I know him too. Lyle Koontz Jr.; he’s me.

Why am I writing this down instead of talking to my fellow Chino townies? Good question! Good question. Funny thing about that… So, last night after a six glasses of whatever was on tap and on special followed by a dare from one of my gang of fellow idiots at the Lush Pub I found myself on the bluff overlooking the sprawling town of Chino. To be honest I blacked out when I got to the top of the water tower, but I woke up with a hundred feet of bungee cord a gallon of white glue and a pink frilly dress stuffed in a paper grocery bag. Not a big deal, at least this time there were no animals. What I think woke me was the silence.

You never notice the little sounds of the city. The hundreds of car engines running, feet walking, doors closing, conversations, construction work – even the hum of the lights – it all makes noise and the absence of it – the totally unexpected and hortastically awful overwhelmingly absoluteness of it. I could hear myself breathe and the sound felt like trespassing. I have to go down there and find out what happened. I can’t just eat the glue; I tried, loses its appeal after kindergarten. So, here I go. Gonna head down and see just what the hell happened last night. Yup. Gonna go. Any minute now.

Soon.


-Brihack

A Note Found in a Bottle That Washed up on Shore in Oceanside, CA.

The note was scratched onto palm tree bark with a stick or some other such object.

To whomever finds this:

Contact customer service at Daegon Teleporters Inc.

Tell them customer Geraldine Mackovic from Wren Falls, MO is stranded on an island somwhere thanks to their lousy product. I can't remember the order number. I was only transporting to Chicago to help my daugter with her new baby.

I have no sunblock and I'm sick of eating fish and coconuts.

(Posted by Marcy)

Polyports Sucks!

To: Polyports Corporate office – Terran Industries division

From: One pissed off Mutha F****-er

Hey you big genital lesions, you suck! I would come down there and rearrange your face right now but I can’t, you know why? ‘cause my teleporter don’t work for shit and my face got rearranged. My nose is upside down you worthless sons of rats. It rained yesterday and I nearly drowned!

One of my eyes is in the back of my head and I wake up every morning with a black eye. I can’t see in 3D any more you spawn of the oozing pus from a diseased yak scrotum!

If I ever get my hands on you I am going to do to you what you did to my dog. The front half of him juts out of the front of my house and the back half of him sticks out into the living room. That’s the wrong end facing inside, let me tell you and he barks at the neighbors all day long. I have to tear down my house to get him out!

You sons of a motherless goat deserve to die. I tried to get to one of your stores on Io, but you need a teleporter to get there! How can you sell a product like this which does not work? Don’t send me a new one, come here and fix all of your mistakes! Then when you are done I am going to teleport a big steaming pile of massive Nerf poop into your intestines and watch you squirm!

You are the embodiment of evil.

You deserve to die.

Respectfully,

Turrets Mosley III

In the matter of your transporter, model number 08746

TO: Satish Mahalzat
c/o Syntech Transports

FROM: Cletus B.

RE: Transporter model 08746


Dear Mr. Mahalzat:

I purchased your home model of the E-Z Tranz personal transporter 30 days ago. I am writing to express my utter disappointment with your product and demand a full refund after your company puts my head back where it was.

I was using your product Wednesday to go from my house here in Farmington, N.Y. to the racetrack in Watkins Glen, N.Y. Previously I used the E-Z Tranz to make trips to the store, the lake, and Ghana, and after this week I would have used it to go to the doctor. But my sister drove me there in her pickup, as I can no longer sit in my own car. That’s because your product put my head where my rear should be, and vice versa.

Do you know what it’s like to fart burps? I don’t think you do, because if you did you would clearly put a warning on the box that this product may induce head and butt reversal, and as such make it difficult for users to sit or wear hats. As it is, I’ve had to endure taunts from the neighborhood kids who call me assface.

I sincerely hope you have a compensation plan in place for me, as I will undoubtedly sue you and your company until I’m blue in the face. Which, may I remind you, is just below my back.

My terms are thus: Make my body the way it was, plus compensate me for the anguish your product has caused. My lawyers and I determine that price is $1,000,000,000,000. Any less and I will see you in court. That is, unless you’re in front of me.

Thank you for your urgent attention to this matter.

Yours,

Cletus Buttheadski

Green blues

By Bryan

You are sixteen, prom time is nigh, and
your moss suit needs watering.
The way the light catches it, you swear
there are gold flecks in it. But it's been
getting browner since you first hung it
in the downstairs shower, away from the creeping
soap scum blanketing the bath between your room
and your sister's.
You've been spending all your time trying
to care for it but what the hell do you know
about horticulture?

Prom Transportation

By Marcy, who has been watching way too much "Super Sweet Sixteen" latey and thinks those spoiled girls need a dose of reality.

Rick Masters asked me to the prom – I was floored! I of course said yes and I skipped school the very next day to find a dress. Daddy gave me his credit card and told me to get whatever I want – like I wouldn’t anyway! I found the most awesome dress ever – it was deep purple satin with a barely there neckline by some designer I can’t pronounce. And I don’t care – I just loved it. It perfectly shows off my new boobs that Daddy gave me for Christmas. I found the perfect shoes to go with it – only $750, a real steal. And the jewelry – oh, god, the jewelry. Diamonds, that’s all I can say. $15,000 worth of sparkle, all on me! I wanted to wear something that would match the tiara when I won prom queen. And I knew they were going to vote me prom queen because I had thrown the most amazing Sweet Sixteen party and invited the entire school earlier that year. They owed me prom queen.

So prom night came, and I was getting dressed after a luxurious spa day to relax from school that week. Daddy had arranged for a Hummer Limo to pick up me and my friends - I was so stoked!! I put on my dress and my amazing jewelry, and my cheap shoes, and checked my hair one last time – making sure the updo had enough room for a tiara in front of it. And when I opened the door to my room …

…I don’t know how to describe it. It was like the house wasn’t even there. Instead there was a dark, torch lit cave. I looked back into my room, which looked perfectly normal. I thought maybe Daddy was playing some kind of practical joke on me, so I walked out and closed the door behind me. I called for him, but nothing changed. And when I turned around to go back in my room, the door was gone. It was just solid rock. I walked through the cave, crying off my mascara in the process. My heel broke on my cheap-ass shoes. I had to find the way out. And I didn’t get any cell phone reception wherever I was. But I have to say, my diamonds sparkled amazingly in the torchlight.

At last I found the mouth of the cave, and there were a group of scummy looking guys sitting around a fire. Three of them wore furs, and had large weapons sitting next to them. One of them wore a grey cloak, and looked at me as if he had seen a ghost. I told them who I was, that I was lost, and that I don’t know how to get home. They spoke in some sort of guttural language I didn’t understand. The scummy guys with the weapons looked like they were going to attack me, but the guy in the grey hood stopped them.

That was 5 years ago. I’m now 20 years old, and I don’t think I’ll ever make it home again. The tribe that adopted me claims I’m some sort of good luck omen. They feed me well and shelter me. I even understand their language now, mostly. But I miss Daddy, and my friends, and I wonder if Rick Masters thinks I stood him up. He had the prettiest green eyes.