Archive for March, 2006
From the Research desk of 27 Anonymous
Posted on March 25, 2006
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Looking for the Closure series? Scroll below this post for episode 6, where Chuck speaks in tongue. You can also find the Closure series by clicking using the SafeTselector above.
In the meantime, I bring you a selection from the 27Anonymous archive. Really, the only funny thing he said that wasn’t profane.
Timothy Leary was an aviation scientist who was responsible for some of the U.S. “X” plane projects throughout much of the formative pre-moonshot American air culture. This was before the founding of the aerial city of “Lofticretia” where most of the NASA engineers summer and house their precious super-children.
As such, he designed craft that were intended to achieve greater and greater heights while still maintaining a normally aspirated engine configuration.
Scram, ram, nautilus and pogo engines all owe their existance to him.
He personally flew each and every test flight for his planes. Ultimately, no one got higher than Timothy Leary. He was high all the time.
His untimely death, due to abrupt and catastrophic decompression when his canopy ruptured unexpectedly (well, if it were expected, would the fellow be flying at all?) caused his brains to bleed out of his nose and ears. In truth, he had indeed expanded his mind.
Closure Part 6
Posted on March 23, 2006
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Dumbly I gazed at Chuck’s vacant face and extended arms. Reality was sinking in and the pain in my shoulder seemed less important. My arm, no longer really under my control, quit rubbing the clavicle area and wandered off to find something interesting to tug at. Ah, it found some of the “Do Not Grow Marijuana In Glove Compartment” stickers, which had been fired onto my stomach and legs as I tumbled across the floor. The sticker gun itself was still attached securely to my forearm, with two or three decals left on the fragment of feed tape hanging from it’s hopper.
Presently, Chuck’s twitching leg stilled, and it seemed as if the world became silent, though factory sounds continued on unabated. I stood slowly, regaining some of my breath, and began to hesitantly walk the dozen or so steps back to what was, moments ago, my little haven at Furd. Line position 194, hydroponics installation; the place where Chuck and I toiled side by side to make the Furd Expulsion a place safe for non-narcotic glove compartment agriculture. A place now occupied by the twisted corpse of the beautiful man I called “best friend” and his slowly growing pool of blood.
The blood washed away all thoughts of Chuck’s lunchtime revelation from my mind. Robots don’t bleed, therefore it must have been an elaborate joke, although the hand was quite convincing at the time. Suddenly overcome, I fell to my knees in front of that beautiful face. There were no tears in my eyes, just a dizzying sense of loss and.. something else. Staring at his still, staring, handsome visage, I suddenly longed to touch it as I never had in the year we worked together. I reached out toward his cheek and…
At that moment his mouth slowly and deliberately opened and his tongue flopped out with a wet plop. I jerked my hand back in surprise, and then leaned in to read. Clearly written in raised relief on the surface of Chuck’s tongue were these words,
’HIDE ME, BUDDY!’The words seemed to be made up entirely of swollen taste buds on his tongue; they were, furthermore, in a clean, courier typeface! I rocked back onto my haunches to gain a better look at the rest of Chuck’s bloody remains and noticed only then that the volume of blood was really quite small, and smelled noticeably of strawberries. Further, his torso, on my side of the fallen decal spool anyway, had broken from his pelvis cleanly, exposing the fact that his organs were not present in a way I imagine most organs would be under these circumstances. Instead there were black plastic containers, twisted, yet shiny linkages, and a small sack of cats-eye marbles.
Hide me, buddy, I mouthed to myself. As I considered how I would go about hiding a 180 pounds of bloody remains in a factory of two thousand workers, I realized I had already decided to obey the tongue. Actually, there didn’t even seem to be a decision to make! Funny how some things don’t seem to be open for debate–even with oneself.
All of this took only a few seconds. I nervously cast about, wondering who might have seen what happened. Cindy, Rake and Ty, the three workers from the Expulsion center-console deep-fryer work station some 60 feet up-line, were looking curiously in my direction and pointing. Rake, the taller of the men, was standing on his tip-toes and craned his neck. Conveniently, the hydroponic tube bin was blocking their view of Chuck’s corpse, but they could clearly see the top half of the fallen decal spool. How would I keep them away long enough to make a difference?
The answer was made for me as an effeminate, automated male voice rang out over the shop floor, accompanied by a sharp buzz,
“A HAZARDOUS MATERIAL CONDITION IN AREA 194 IS HAPENNING, PEOPLE! IMMEDIATELY LEAVE THE VICINITY AND AWAIT INSTRUCTION!” this announcement was followed by a gruff woman’s voice speaking in Spanish, “CONDICIÓN PELIGROSA EN EL ÁREA 194. DEJE EL ÁREA INMEDIATAMENTE Y SIGA SIENDO DE HOMBRES.”
Idly fingering the decal gun on my wrist I considered that area 194 was the hydroponic installation point…my area! Who set off the alarm? The decal spool wasn’t a hazardous material.. Cindy, from her position up-line with Ty and Rake, called out, “Joe, Chuck! Get out of there! You need help?”
I cleared my throat and, looking again at the courier text plea on Chuck’s hanging tongue, I yelled, “We’re fine. Don’t worry, go on!” Cindy joined Rake and Ty in a hasty retreat from the line, leaving me alone with Chuck and the repeating voice-over,
“A HAZARDOUS MATERIAL CONDITION IN AREA 194 IS STILL HAPENNING, PEOPLE! LEAVE ALREADY, AND AWAIT INSTRUCTIONS!” and then, “SI USTED ES HOMBRES VERDADEROS USTED DEJARÁ EL ÁREA 194. TIENE DESECHOS PELIGROSOS.”
Silently thanking whatever providence brought me this welcome cover, I ran to the nearest parts cart and upended it, noisily scattering miniature hydroponic lamps across the floor. Many of them came to a halt in the miasma of red, strawberry scented ‘blood’ surrounding the decal spool. I righted the cart and wheeled it over to Chuck, carefully avoiding the many hydroponic bulbs while trodding through the sticky red fluid.
I would probably have 10 minutes or so before the volunteer hazmat team arrived along with their union steward and his hermetically sealed coffee service. (Some union rules must never be broken)
I squatted down next to chuck and pulled at his outstretched arms. His torso moved away from the decal spool easily; apparently the thing had split him quite cleanly. As I was grunting under the weight of his flopping upper body, tipping it into the parts cart and receiving a throbbing reminder of the continued soreness in my shoulder, I heard the sound of a motor behind me.
Quickly dropping Chuck into the cart and shoving his arms down over his head in a futile attempt to keep him and his protruding tongue out of view, I turned around and saw a forklift approaching fast from below the mezzanine.
Behind the wheel was a grinning, wild-eyed man with a tiny clown head on his neck.
It was Bruce.
“Shit, I missed you, man,” he called out on approach, “too bad about Chuck.” He looked curiously at the parts cart, complete with Chuck’s hand and arm sticking out. “What…?” he shook his head, and then with renewed purpose, “I won’t miss this time!”
As the forklift began to accelerate toward me, I glanced at Bruce’s clown-faced little brother and finally understood my peril:
Upon the tiny head of his undeveloped brother Bruce had carefully drawn a set of dramatic, down-swept, ANGRY green eyebrows.
Pictures, Captions, and Four Year Olds
Posted on March 21, 2006
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 Sarah (of Sarah laughs and Blunt Cogs fame) made this picture. It’s the final product of Joe Minnetola’s hard work each day at the Furd plant. Curious? Click the picture or use the SafeTselector at the top of the page to pull up the Closure series. Quite possibly the best stuff I’ve produced since last July or so; I implore you to read it and critique. Episode 6 will be up in two days. Until then… My 4-year-old daughter has a journal that she keeps at school. In it the children are instructed to draw an image on paper and then a teacher transcribes the child’s story underneath. The following are from my daughter, Samantha. The apple, as they say, doesn’t descend far from the twisted tree from which it spawned. Click to enlarge! |
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| This one seems pretty normal. Don’t worry, they get worse. This is a bunch of leaves. They stayed on the ground until someone raked them up. I raked them up and put them in the garbage bag. I put the garbage bag in the garage. |
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| A simple, yet eternal story: Once upon a time, there was a girl next door. |
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| Like all love stories, this one ends in tragedy: I love you. This is a beautiful garden. It was raining. There was a kite. I hit my head. |
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| Waterfowl and frozen dairy don’t mix: This is a big circle. The ice cream is melting. The ice cream is strawberry. It is in the shape of a duck. The ice cream fell in the grass. |
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| A tale of high adventure! My Mom is in the park. She was walking and she got caught in the trees. The cowboys came and got her free. My Dad came to rescue her. He grabbed her and swung from the trees into our house. |
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| Don’t they all? This is the road. It leads to Disney Land. |
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Look, this one is beautiful to look at! It’s about a big Godzilla and another person: 2, 5, 7 persons. Godzilla is in the Iron Giant movie that my Dad has. I watch it with Dad. Iron Giant starts to be by Hogarf. It stays O-B-Bay. Not sure what to make of that last sentence. |
Closure Part 5
Posted on March 20, 2006
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So it was with a noticeable waddle that I made my way down the assembly line to my assigned station. The warmth in my shorts was passing rapidly, leaving behind a cloying, salty chill I figured would remain for awhile. It would be a constant reminder of the red smear of mini-clown lipstick I’d scrubbed off with my bare hands as I’d rushed from the mens room.
I was, I admit, a bit late at this point; but the line must never stop. The line must never stop, so Gail was working with Chuck, staying past her breaktime and probably muttering curses under her breath. The nicotene demons had her soul, and every minute unnecessarily sans-tobacco was a wasted one. I, as the responsible party to her momentarily delayed gratification, would bear the brunt of her hatred. This is a cross I’ve borne a few times without incident.
I approached the cab of this, the latest brand new Furd Expulsion to roll down the line. The familiar ribbon of the sticker feed snaked into the cab and wiggled in testamony to the fact that Gail was busily applying the “Do Not Attempt To Grow Marijuana In Glove Compartment” decals in my stead.
Gail was not alone, of course; Chuck worked beside her, quickly connecting the already installed wiring harnesses to the hydroponic grow-lamps he carried in his satchel. I waited outside as the two finished on the truck, imagining the tight confines of the cab the way I had experienced it, hundreds of times a day, five days a week: Chuck’s lithe form squirming out from under the dash while Gail, kneeling on the plastic covered upholstery above him with legs spread to offer him room, held her sticker gun aloft with the taut sticker feed suspended above them both on its way out the gaping door to the decal spool below the nearby mezzanine. As meaningless as I found the job, the warm camaraderie found in the tight confines of an all American truck chassis made it bearable.
Memory converged with reality as I watched Chuck spring to his feet, Gail clambering out after him. Nicotine withdrawal reared up and cast its wild, hungry eyes at me.
“Jesus, where the fuck were you?” she demanded as she quickly ripped off the fastener holding the clicking sticker gun from her forearm and shoved it into my chest. I hurriedly caught it and twisted it in my hands so as to keep the anti-pot adhesives from sticking to eachother. Stepping closer and clenching her yellowed teeth in a voracious grimace, her good eye rammed into my soul as her lazy eye lolled about, quite possibly looking at my ID badge. Both eyes were equally dark and sunken into her head, framed by the sandy hair straggling forth from her orange hard-hat. Atop which, incidentally, a portrait of the Marlboro Man smiled down upon me with beatific confidence and cool smokiness. Chuck walked up behind her and lay a concerned hand upon her shoulder. She jerked her head around to draw a bead on his placating smile.
“Gail, gail, just go on break, it’ll be fine,” his soothing, yet carefree tone and ready grin seemed to diffuse the situation. As she turned back to me, only slightly mollified, he winked over her shoulder at me, and I wondered again at our earlier conversation. Surely the whole robot-from-the-future-where-zombies-fight-the-50-foot-apes story was some elaborate joke. This was Chuck, work mate of almost a year. “Let Joe get to work. The line is moving,” he continued somberly, “The line must never stop.”
“..must never stop,” Gail and I both mouthed along with him. As mantras go, it was weak. But we shared it, and it made us brothers and sisters so long as we worked the line.
Gail moved to brush past me and paused, pointing her finger up into my face.
“Next time..,” her arm shook with the ravages of severe withdrawal and her sleeve fell back, exposing the long line of Nicoderm patches running up to her armpit. She concluded, “uh, there better not be a next time.” Clever pseudo-threat apparently finished, she rushed off down the line, clenching and unclenching her fists as she muttered imprecations against me. I turned back to see Chuck already dipping into a bin of hydroponic lamp tubes and filling the satchel he wore around his neck.
“Forget her,” he shrugged, “C’mon. Next one’s almost here.” We both looked up-line and saw a partially assembled Expulsion slowly creeping towards us. The workers at the immediately preceding station had just finished successfully bolting down the center console deep fat fryer and it was soon to be our turn to shine.
Strapping the decal gun to my forearm and testing the firing mechanism (which went “pop-pop!” quite satisfactorily) , I nodded and said, “right. Back to it.”
We turned, poised and ready, waiting for the Expulsion. Twenty seconds before show time, at least. I restlessly checked the sticker feed going up to the 5 ton decal spool suspended above us. Why Furd Motors felt they needed five tons of “ Do Not Attempt To Grow Marijuana In Glove Compartment” stickers on tap prior to each shift was a mystery I’d often contemplated. Another glance at the slowly approaching chassis and my mind drifted back toward lunch.
“Uh, Chuck.”
“Yeah, Joe?”
“About that shit from lunch, you know, the whole time traveling android thing…” but I had no chance to complete my halfway thought-out question, because at that very moment I heard the loud crack of a solenoid firing above me. I looked up and had just enough time to see that the release hooks for the decal spool had opened and 5 tons of futile admonishments were falling straight at me.
“Watch out!” was that Chuck?
Suddenly I found myself sliding across the factory floor on my ass, rolling wildly and grasping at metal supports and railings as I went. I finally thudded to a halt with my shoulder barking painfully against a painted iron guard-rail next to the slowly moving Expulsion we had been awaiting moments before. I sat up, trying to regain my breath, rubbed my screaming clavicle, and looked back to see the decal spool laying at a rakish angle. A crazy laugh rang out from the mezzanine above and I looked up to see a blur with jolly colors disappear into the waiting spools of decals. A soreness in my chest caused me to belatedly realize that Chuck must have shoved me out of the way. I now remembered his hands roughly shoving me away from danger, knocking my wind from me.
Only then did I think to look beneath the decal spool. Chuck’s eyes were unfocused, frozen open, hands outstretched toward me as if grasping, and his one partially visible leg was twitching violently, making little skittish noises as his non-slip boots hopped and slid across the painted shop floor. I could not see the other leg; it was blocked by the five tons of glove box stickers resting upon his shattered back.
Say hello to Bruce, and answer me this.
Posted on March 18, 2006
Uncategorized
| HUGE props and many thanks to Sarah of Sarah Laughs… for making this awesome picture of Bruce. Sarah is such a sweetheart, and I’m unworthy of her favors; I’ve given her NOTHING in return for her continuing charity. Curious about Bruce? Check out Closure Pt 3 and Closure Pt 4. I’ve also added a Closure category to the SafeTselector at the top of the page for your convenience. |
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| Be sure to check out Blunt Cogs for more of Sarah’s fabulous artwork. She also contributed this excellent DOG Priest armored church artwork to Dog Priest pt 3 |
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Now, dear readers, answer me this:
I have a rather long plot for Closure, and what was going to be a short story is looking to be a short novella. Does it belong on its own dedicated web space, or should I continue to post the episodes here?
Or, alternatively, should I wind it up quicker and get on with more important drivel?
