Your Children Will Be Next

"Blessed be, the Ol'est of Tentacles," Gordon muttered. He thumbed his nose and craned his neck to peer around the corner of the building at his back. The source of the scraping noise revealed itself in the form of a tiny crone pushing a shopping cart with only one wheel. She was a hundred if she was a day, but bless the tired old bitch, she shoved with such might that the worn legs of the cart scratched deep scars in the sidewalk. Two beady, black eyes met Gordon's from behind immense curls of salt-colored hair and chalky white skin, and he quickly recoiled to the safety of a new view. 

The scraping, however, continued.

He thought of slasher films, picturing in his mind the poor brunette trapped helplessly in the car or the closet, her fate altogether sealed the moment she stepped into frame with only a B-cup. Her Hello Kitty sweater couldn't save her now, not now that the music had receded and the deafening and defining calm of her mortality filled the audience's ears, now when all is quiet and the stillness of the theater hums with the electric anticipation of the impending attack, the cut, the kill.

The scraping grew nearer, and in that moment, Gordon knew precisely how the poor brunette felt when she realized that this, this, was it.

He figured he could run, but in planning his escape route, the vision of the woman sprouting ten thousand celadon tentacles from beneath her burgundy shaw stayed his feet. She would give chase and he would flee like the hare from the fox, but before he could reach the crosswalk, a slimy appendage would creep around his ankles and drag him to the pavement, the moist nexus of all her limbs winking and yawning and stretching to devour him whole, and oh god, the odor...

The old woman appeared from around the corner and snapped him out of his daydream. She looked up at him with a cross, frazzled glare before pressing on, the tiny orb of her form pushing with all her might, the sternness of age amazingly willing the cart to scrape forward.

He sighed and shook the hair out of his eyes. He checked left and right and - upon discovering no other pedestrians paying them any mind - took a ginger step forward.

"Miss?"

"Fuck off," she rattled without turning around.

He swallowed and pressed her again. "Miss? Do you want a hand?"

She threw her hands in the air, the molted cart tumbling on its side with a crash. She turned to face Gordon, her eyes obsidian pebbles of furious hellfire. She spat when she talk, likely because all but one tooth had rotted from her gums.

"No, I don't want a fucking hand, you cocksucking Briton goatwhore. I ain't never in my life accepted help from a cocksucking Briton and I ain't never in my life starting today."

"Well, okay then." Gordon back-peddled until he was pressed against the brick of the building, but the tiny crone moved quick and closed the distance between them before he could get away. 

She shook a crooked, knobby finger in his face, yellow spit spraying his face. "And now you have to pick up my cart, cocksucking Briton goatwhore."

Rather than agreeing, Gordon side-stepped her and approached the mangled apparatus. He reached for it, refusing to take his eyes off the old hag's feet - he refused to look her in the eye at this point for fear she might pluck his right out - and gently hoisted it to a standing position.

"Money?" she demanded when he was finished.

"What?"

"Do you have any money? This is a robbery," she declared, pointing her forefinger and thumb at him menacingly.

"Uh--"

"Shut your trap and hand over the goods, Charlie."

"My name's Gordon."

This startling development proved too much for the woman to bear. She plopped herself right down on the sidewalk and began to bawl at the top of her lungs. Twice she stomped her feet on the curb, her tiny fists balled and shaking at the heavens.

Gordon hated her, this he knew, but pangs of pity stole his heart and nearly brought him to tears to see the old bat so upset. He promptly planted himself next to her and folded his legs and waited for her tantrum to stop.

She wailed for another minute, catching more than a few curious and horrified expressions from the occasional passer-by, but at last she started to settle down. She studied Gordon with those tiny black pools, now almost concealed beneath the puffyness of her swollen red cheeks. A fine rivet of snot dangled from the tip of her nose and she sniffed twice.

After a moment, she said, "I'm sorry I robbed you."

"That's alright. What's your name?"

"Penny."

"That's a pretty name."

"It's a coin," she insisted.

Gordon nodded and made a noise of awe, which she seemed to appreciate.

"Where are you off to?" he asked her.

The expression she returned would have been entirely the same, had he inquired about geopolitical turmoil and its international ramifications in Malaysia. He decided to change the subject.

"Have you ever heard of the gay bomb?"

"My husband died of that," she nodded.

Gordon nodded too, then continued. 

"Back in the nineties, the United States Air Force was researching all sorts of fucked up ways to fuck with the heads of their enemies. The Geneva Convention doesn't exactly apply when you're spraying troops with bee pheromones in a virtual minefield of beehives. They were trying out all sorts of things - bombs to make the enemy combatants stink to the high heavens or just plain out shit their pants. My favorite experiment, however, was the gay bomb.

The gay bomb was intended to be a tactical aphrodisiac cannon; drop it on an enemy bunker and laugh all the way to the treatise table while the good ol' boys are banging each others brains out uncontrollably. This thing would literally make enemy soldiers drop their weapons, drop trough too, and go to work on each other's backsides.

Of course, the project was unsuccessful. The research team determined that no aphrodisiac potent enough to overpower a man's will to not buttfuck his bunkmate was available. The project was abandoned, but not before it won a Nobel Fucking Peace Prize for 'instigating research and development on a chemical weapon'.

It's a small wonder Uncle Sam isn't letting the blue boys tie the knot; he's too busy making 'em plenty of dates."

To Gordon's astonishment, Penny seemed to be following his every word with acute interest. Problem was, she didn't seem to realize his tale was finished. She continued to stare, her chin in her hands, leaning forward as best she could on a bed of tummy fat and sour old coats.

"-- and then your husband died, because of the gay bomb," he offered.

She smiled and leaned back, seemingly satisfied.

"Was he in the war?" Gordon asked.

She appeared horrified a moment, then shook her head. "No, of course not. He was at Chuck E. Cheese."

"Your husband died of the gay bomb at Chuck E. Cheese?"

"Yes, of course," she snapped, not the least bit polite about how foolish she found his question.

"Oh, right. I remember," Gordon said sheepishly.

"Gordon!" came a voice from down the street. He turned and squinted against the sun. Half a block away, Parker was waving furiously in his direction, hanging out the window of a battered yellow taxi.

Gordon leapt to his feet. "Parker!" he called before he could stifled his own excitement. He could spend time later pondering why he was so happy at the sight of the runt, but at that moment he was running, the soles of his shoes slapping the sidewalk as he sprinted toward the cab.

"Gordon, oh my god, Gordon!" Casey greeted him when he approached the window from behind Parker. 

The swell of excitement continued in rushed explanations and greetings, Gordon spiritedly shouting his recollection at them through the window while they in return shouted theirs to him. It came to a halt when Parker quite suddenly inquired, "Who's your friend?"

Gordon looked over to discover Penny peering up at them, smiling.

"Uh--"

"Make some room!" she demanded to Parker. Parker began to protest, but she swatted at him through the window. He relented and pushed the door open, allowing her entry, his mouth agape and his stare fixed on Gordon.

"Gordon?" Casey said, pressing herself against her door to avoid contact with the tattered hag now squeezing between her and Parker.

"Guys, this is Penny."

Penny nodded and stuck a hand out to Casey. "Pleased to meetcha," she gummed.

"She's coming with us?" Parker asked in a tone thick with the sentiment that he hoped it was not so.

"I don't think--"

"Just until the next stop or two," Penny explained. "I need to see a man in Minnesota."

"But we're not going to Minnesota," Parker said. "Or, at least, we might not be going to Minnesota."

Penny stared at Parker for a moment before leaning over to Casey and inquiring, "Do you let this nigger talk to you this way?"

"Right then," Gordon conceded before climbing into the passenger seat, next to the very irate driver. "Penny's riding shotty for a while," he explained to the windshield, too afraid to look behind him.

Muses

"That's..... something Mali." By that point Joe's voice had become dry and raspy, an after effect of the deeply involved conversation he had just carried with Mali, a length he hadn't attained prior to the accident.

Mali looked up at him from the green spiral bound notebook she finished reading off of. It had just occurred to her that, though they operated as a group, she carried some dependency on Casey and Gordon. It was obvious why. Casey's motherly instincts were a comforting welcome and Gordon shared with her the foreigner card, a concept the rest would soon understand.

"This was nice Joe, I mean all things considered. I'm usually afraid of the things that come out of my mouth, but I feel like it doesn't really matter here. Thanks."

Nodding was all he could do before his medicine wore his consciousness thin.

Gordon found himself in a curious situation. After mysteriously being bailed out, he found himself with a note replete with address and hospital room number. Gordon scratched his head and laughed, a nervous habit he found comfort in.

"What have these blokes got themselves into?"

Uncertain where to begin, Gordon simply walked, hoping serendipity would give him a smile and a wink. To waste time until an idea came to him, Gordon sat on the sidewalk, absorbing the scenery and pondering a story.

There once was a merry band of pirates who sailed the highest seas. The world feared the very utterance of their name, the dreaded crew of Jack Hawksmoor. He and his nighthawks were no scallywags, they only pilfered what did not belong to those they stole from. Merchants dared not attempt to cheat the people, lest they suffer the wrath of Jack and his crew. Defenders of the weak they were, and one particular adventure tested their mettle.

As they sailed the ocean in search of adventure, they came across a beast the likes of which few had seen. Jack had heard tales of a being older than time itself, a creature referred to as "Ole Tentacles." Jack wanted to see if such a beast existed, knowing he could attain something from it, be it knowledge or treasure.

Jack set sail for uncharted waters, his crew in high spirits. They sung songs of joy, of celebrations, of their fearlessness of the unknown. Jack knew he had a good crew, a group that were not only willing to face the infinite blue but accepted it willingly. As they approached the island, a body of land that can be identified by the perpetual darkness that surrounded it. A foreboding silence infiltrated the crews quarters, but not their hearts. They arrived on the shore of black sands, ready to face the Old One. As they ventured further in, The Endless One stood before them. They attacked fiercely, striking where they could but to no avail. Once Jack realized they could do no harm to a creature that will outlive the entirety of existence, a creature of malevolence incarnate, he commanded his troops to collect the tentacles they managed to sever and retreat. Jack's crew made it back in good time as The Tentacled One gave no chase, the very notion was beneath it. Jack thanked wonderful Poseidon that there were no casualties and ruminated with his crew on what to make of the Ancient One's severed parts.

Gordon sat up quickly, his idea required standing.

To Redress (Chris)

A second past, an eternity to some, a fluttering to others, but a moment nonetheless, that ended in abrupt Joy. Hugs abound, or at least to a degree that Joe could manage given his conditional stipulations.

"Looks like God gave you back to us for another day at least."

After the Joy and light banter ran its course, silence began to permeate the room. Any questions had already been answered and the assemblage weren't sure where to continue.

"So where's Captain America? Saving the day?"

"Well, according to a reliable source, he's in immigration, we're just not sure whether to set out and find him or what."

Sensing his calling, Joe took hold of the situation as best he could with three broken fingers.

"Well, here's my proposition for a plan. Casey and Parker go to the immigration office for Mr. Mischance, Mali here will keep me company until you guys return. I'm sure Casey knows how to use your phone to find the building and you guys can always call my phone if there are any issues."

Casey wasn't sure what Joe's aim was in the division. Was he ignoring her? Did he not want to address the situation? Should she even be making such statements given his condition? What puzzled her even more was Mali's perky willingness to part with her phone, the Mecca of all things her. Rather than over analyze the situation, she decided to ride it, taking Mali's quiet "Thank You," to heart.

"Alright Joe, we're off. I'll keep him in line while we hunt for our native Britannica. Parker, if you say one thing about your feet hurting, I will remove them so you'll never have to complain again."

Parker nodded, his cries for attention came to an end and he traipsed aimlessly into the hall.

As soon as the door shut, Mali lept on Joe and hugged him.

"Thank you so much for relieving me of Parker, even if it's just for a little bit. He was getting on my last nerve. It's not that I hate him or anything but it felt like every time we did anything, he'd want to pair up with me. He never left me alone, not even at Burning Man. You'd think exposing yourself to a born again Christian would drive him away, but noooooo he's on this quest to convert me. Well, whatever the case, I'm not going to speak on the subject anymore. Thanks again for the respite."

Joe smiled, as far as his bruised cheek would allow.

"No problem, I could tell you were annoyed so I thought I'd let Casey handle him for a bit. They haven't really interacted all that much either so I thought it'd be fun to let that play out. I'm sure they'll retrieve America's bastard baby soon enough. I was thinking about our stories, since that's all I could really do and i think we need new dice rolls. i believe we've told enough of those stories and need to progress a little don't you think?"

"I agree. I've been thinking about that for awhile actually and i know one thing I want is for our stories to have a happy ending for once. You guys are way too somber with all the sadness and the killing, it's all a real mood killer. Let's try something like that, have a roll require a story to have a happy ending. "

"Not bad, I agree even though I'm just as guilty as the rest of them. I've always found music to be inspirational, what if we told a story that has to be derived from a song lyric, how does that sound?"

"I like it, but I think there should be some guidelines."

"Like what?"

"Like I think the words from the song have to be in the story and I think you should only be able to use lyrics from a band once, that way we don't have Gordon doing a dozen John Mellencamp song or anything like that. Really gives it some variety."

"do the words have to be in a row in the story?"

"Nah, you can disassemble it, just as long as you can re-assemble it from the story, so a word here a word there as long as they're all there."

"Well Mali, sounds like we've got ourselves a couple of rolls, maybe we could wait until we get together again to do the rest."

"Or I could send Casey a text with your phone and have them come up with something."

"Or that. In the mean time, you mind telling me a story? I've wanted to hear one for awhile now."

"Sure Joe, but it doesn't have any real merit. I'm still working on some things."

"Not a problem, I just heard a story from a tape recorder like yesterday so don't even worry about it."

"Come again?"

"Never you mind, now on with it."

Why do we not move is a question that never arose. To say that they were a stagnant culture would be a declaration no different than the statement "They are human." It has become as much a part of them as the hair on their head or the fingers on their hands. Through what method can be traced through their lineage but whether they are members of the leegs or the illeegs is really situated in their demographic. How did their parents maintain inertia? Were the means just? How did their bodies react? All questions asked that will never be answered. Who is there to voice what has no thought attached? A thought must be have an impetus after all, even if that motivation is simple spontaneity. Given that as the fundamental precept, where does a mind go with no desire to propel itself?

There were once a group who dared deviate, who wrote doctrines on the idea of resisting, of operating outside the spectrum of leegs and illegs. The two standing parties knew little, but what they did maintain was what they liked and what they did not. The interruption of their status quo fell into the latter.

They struck: bluntly, bludgeoningly and improficient. Mercy did not enter the fray nor could it given the means and method applied.

remnants existed thereafter, but none carried enough weight to interfere with the cold war that could never and would never meet any kind of conclusion, save total annihilation. That, however, wouldn't be a resolution at all: wiping the board doesn't end a game, it merely starts a new one.

An Improbable Contrivance (or: To Arms)

And he confided further, "In those days, I didn't understand anything. I should have judged her according to her actions, not her words. She perfumed my planet and lit up my life. I should never have run away! I ought to have realized the tenderness underlying her silly pretensions. Flowers are so contradictory! But I was too young to know how to love her."

A yawn interrupted her and Casey closed Utah Memorial Hopsital's copy of The Little Prince in her lap. Twice she cracked the tightness in her neck before settling her feet - warmed by the fluffiest pink slippers the gift shop had to offer at $3 a pair - on the edge of the hospital bed. She studied the ridges and valleys Joe's legs formed beneath the teal-colored bed sheets, her eyes acutely scanning him for the slightest jerk or twitch.

The machine to her right sputtered again, causing her heart to skip a beat and the air to choke in her throat. After a moment it settled and resumed its metered hum, but she swore - up and down and across her life - that Joe coughed every time it did this. She considered calling the nurse once more to check the wires that connected Joe to this clearly deficient device, but the fact that he continued to breathe - just as before - settled her to keep waiting.

"Wake up, bitty," she mumbled.

"Hey," came a familiar voice from behind.

Mali rapped twice on the doorframe before striding in. Parker, his hands woefully shoved in his pockets, approached soon after. He appeared shaken up, though mostly just damp from the rainstorm outside.

"Hey," Casey nodded before embracing Mali. Mali clutched at Casey's shoulders and then was still - waiting for Casey's tears that would not come. After an uncomfortable surplus of moments, Mali tentatively released Casey and offered a perplexed look.

Parker, however, broke the unspoken exchange when he inquired, "Is he going to die?"

"Parker!" Mali hissed. Parker winced at her scolding and edged away from them.

"He's going to be all right, he's just out right now. The doctor said he'd probably wake up before dawn, so I was waiting up with him."

"Oh," Parker responded, sounding strangely disappointed at the news.

"So what happened?" Mali pressed.

"A car," Casey replied.

"Whose car?"

"Someone's car -- an asshole's car."

"Gordon has a car?"

"Not Gordon's car. Where is Gordon?"

"Immigration."

"Immigration?!"

"Evidently."

"Why?"

"Not sure."

"Then--"

Mali raised a hand to stop her and produced the envelope and the letter from the deep wells of her coat. Casey snatched the contents from Mali's hands and studied them. When she finished, she peered up at her friends, her mouth hung agape.

"What the fuck?"

"Language!" Parker insisted.

"That was sort of my reaction," Mali nodded. "The 'what the fuck' part, at least."

Casey sank into her chair and held a hand to her forehead.

Baby girl, when it rains, it pours - and when it pours, God's shitting on you.

In all the furor of Joe's accident, Gordon's disappearance, Mali and Parker's bewildering predicament, and now the advent of an unseen stalker following her halfway across the western United States, Casey felt decidedly numb toward the death that dwelt within her. She had read, years ago, that women who get abortions will often feel a hole inside themselves - a missing piece of what once was, now hollowed and left empty.

As Mali returned her attention to the screen of her device and Parker continued shifting his weight from one foot to the other, Casey bit at her lip and wondered why she didn't feel empty.

"Okay, so," Mali began, squinting at her PDA. "Immigration's offices aren't too far from here."

"I can't walk anymore," Parker whined.

"We could get a taxi, or maybe take a bus. I wonder if people still work the desk at immigration holding cells at four in the morning?"

Parker sighed and leaned against the nearest piece of furniture to illustrate his passive-aggressive point. To his later dismay, the nearest piece of furniture -- the sputtering box of wires Casey had tussled with all night -- toppled over, bringing Parker to the floor right along with it. Wires pulled free of Joe's body, speckling the bed and walls with tiny constellations of blood. Parker screamed for help as the tangle of wires threatened to consume him, his writhing only serving to entangle him further.

Casey, her eyes as wide as dinner plates, shouted for a nurse. Mali simply stood there in silence, awestruck.

"You fucking idiot, you're going to kill him!" Mali finally managed.

"Kill who?" Joe hoarsely mumbled as he rubbed thick, sticky sleep from his eyes.