Curiosity

I took the Television apart.

It’s something I do, always has been. Rip something apart, look inside, and try to reassemble it. Sometimes I manage, the toaster and lamp still mostly work, sometimes not. My computer’s just dead, and sadly so’s the television.

Compulsion, or honest curiosity? Whatever it is, I’ve taken apart nearly everything in this house at one point or another.

The only thing I never touched is the heavy padlock on the front door. The one you didn’t notice me locking after you came in.

I just like ripping things apart. To see how they work inside.

The Man in the Corner of the Pub

There was something strange about the man in the corner of the pub. No specific thing, he just seemed… off.

Not a big man, or particularly imposing, but something about him drew my eye the moment he walked in the door.

He seemed twitchy, like a spring wound too tight. A dark cloud hung over him, as though he was waiting for something or someone to set him off.

To give him the excuse to vent his frustration.

I finished my own beer, free hand resting on the straight razor in my jacket pocket, and wandered over to say hello…

Proving Myself

My presentation was, at last, complete.

My research’d been checked and double checked, and an independent study’d been performed by a team in Australia verifying my findings.

The findings were, I was confident, beyond dispute.

Moreover, the presentation itself was perfect. The power-point elegant, the charts easy to follow, and I’d even overcome my fear of public speaking. This was too important to let shyness stop me.

All the pieces were in place. I was ready for my meeting.

They called me mad when I first shared my theory, but I’ll show them who’s mad!

I’ll show them all!!!

BWAAAAAA-HA-HA-HA-HAHAHA!!!

Butterfly

The butterfly drew back it’s wings and flapped them. And on the other side of the world…

Nothing.

No volcanoes roaring to life, no tsunamis born. The ground didn’t quake, nor did the sky rend itself asunder.

There were disasters, to be sure. A hurricane raged in the Gulf of Mexico, but it was hurricane season, and it’d been raging for weeks. The sum effect of the butterfly’s wings was, globally speaking, nothing.

Nothing but propelling a butterfly through the air, to exactly where my eyes happened to catch it.

Making me smile.

Sometimes beauty’s nothing more than it seems.

The End of the Workday

Gorath returns home, sword bloodied, garment rent. He leans his weapon by the door, removes his dragonscale helm, and staggers, wounded but not mortally so, to his seat at the table.

After the day he’d had, respite was welcome.

His woman puts his meal in front of him, cleans his sword and hangs his helm, allowing him to eat in peace. A warrior, she’s learned, requires silence for his evening meal. He finishes his mutton, and she sits across from him, reaches out, and takes his calloused hand.

“Gorath?”

“Yes, oh wife?”

“I am with child.”

Goraths eyes light up…

A Man to be Trifled With

“I’m not a man to be trifled with!” I howled.

Jenkins bowed his head and returned to his cubicle. I smiled, satisfied I’d showed him who’s boss, and returned to my office.

Upon my return I saw it. My desk, chair, everything was affixed to the ceiling. My computer, upside-down, sat bolted to the desk. They’d even stripped the carpet and reassemble it piecemeal upon the ceiling. I’d no idea how many people it’d taken, but it happened while I’d been screaming at Jenkins.

It was then I realized.

I am, it would seem, a man to be trifled with.

My Satellite (part 3)

The project’d been difficult to complete, but Dr. Colossus knew it’d been worth the effort. With his satellite operational, the world had no choice but to bow before his genius.

His technicians counted down, and the rocket fired to life, an array of superlazers and mind control rays thrown into low earth orbit. He laughed maniacally, and brought the systems online.

At which point my own satellite noted it’s power signature, relayed an auto response to my headquarters, and shot it down.

A few days later Dr. Colossus received a very brief note.

It read: I don’t share. Nothing personal.




For more information on the Lazer-Satellite I sent into orbit please consult the following Drabbles

The Weather (My Satellite part 1)
http://munsistories.blogspot.com/2010/06/weather.html

My Satellite (part 2)
http://munsistories.blogspot.com/2010/06/satellite.html

Why I Shouldn't be Allowed to Own a Pharmaceutical Company

Test subject A took our prototype drug at 3:00pm and we settled in to observe the affects.

Three hours later he announced he was Christ risen, and had to kill pop singer Justin Bieber to avert the apocalypse. He started screaming, and continued until he passed out. He’s been alternating between screaming and drooling since.

We’re calling the project an enormous success, and will release the drug, in reduced doses, into the city water supply in the coming weeks.

We expect, with demand thus created, that our newest antipsychotic drug will be a big seller upon it’s release in October.

Gravity

“That’s it,” I thought to myself, “I’ve had it. I won’t be held prisoner by forces beyond my control one moment longer!”

Truly, it was time to make gravity my bitch.

Was success likely? Perhaps not, but I believed in myself, and wasn’t taking crap from gravity one moment longer. I was sick of being held in place, I’d go where I damn well please, and no force on earth would stop me.

I stood in the center of the room, closed my eyes, focused my attention, leapt…

And came promptly crashing to the ground, another victim of hubric overreach.

Now that the Oil Spill's Capped

The oil spill, finally, has been stopped, and by all accounts the fix’ll hold until the relief well’s drilled. Everyone’s thrilled, but none are happier than I.

I’ve been waiting far too long.

From off the coast, my newest robot lurches to life and makes its way, unstoppable, into the city. Everyone runs screaming as my battlebot, seventy feet tall, crushes everything in its past.

My biggest robot yet.

I’m desperately proud.

It’d lain beneath the sea three months, waiting to be unleashed. I didn’t like to share focus. The wait had been excruciating.

But now the oil spill‘s capped.

Internal Monologue

I see you over there, in the corner, crying. You don’t think I can see you, you don’t think I register any of what’s happening around me anymore, but I do.
You’ve been here every day since I arrived. Some days you read to me, some days you bring company. Some days you just sit by me, reading to yourself or watching the television they’ve inexplicably left in here for me.
Sometimes you tell me I’ll soon recover, and that everything will be just like it was before.
Before…
It’s been close to six months since they wheeled me, silent and unmoving, hooked up to so many tubes and machines I barely looked human anymore, into this little white room, after the accident left me unable to take care of things like breathing or feeding myself without help. But you haven’t missed a day.
That’s what love is, I suppose.
It’s the willingness to sit next to someone you’ve been told will never speak or move again and tell them they will, and all the doctors on earth be damned. It’s the willingness to hope, even when told a situation’s hopeless. And you’ve been here hoping, and giving me hope.
But I can’t help notice that you spend less time reassuring me than once you did. And when you do, it sounds more desperate. As though you were really trying to reassure yourself. And failing.
I can’t blame you, you held on to hope longer than I had any right to expect you to, much longer than I did. But every time I have to watch you cry yourself hoarse, head in your hands, slumped over the edge of my bed, thinking nobody’s watching, it hurts worse than the accident ever did.
I never wanted it to be like this for you, you have to understand that. You’re still so young, so vibrant. You shouldn’t be here with me when you could be seeing all that this wild, wide, wonderful world has to show you.
If I could speak, I’d tell you to move on, to go out into the world, to stop wasting your time here with a dead man when you, at least you, could be out there living.
If I could move, I’d wrap my arms around you, comfort you as you wept, hold you until you had no more tears to cry.
But I can’t. And you don’t even know I’m still in here. More than a ghost but so much less than a man that the idea I was ever a person seems laughable. If I could still laugh.
But all I can do is lay here, in my bed, watching you cry, wishing there was something I could do, knowing there’s not.
All I can do now is lay here and think to myself all the things I desperately want to say to you. Like I love you, and I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.

The Secret

I was recently given a copy of “The Secret” by a co-worker who genuinely believes in these things.

By “these things” I mean both “the power of constructive visualization” and “whatever Oprah tells her to believe this week”.

The book’d never been my thing, it seemed too new-agey and touchey-feeley for my tastes, but I try to approach new experiences with an open mind. It’s only fair.

So I read the book, closed my eyes and focused my energies on what I wanted to bring into my life.

So far, it hasn’t been working.

People still believe in “The Secret”.

#movieswithbatman

The next summer, every movie had Batman in it.

Hollywood execs had, it would seem, been reading Twitter that day.

Comedies where Batman had raised a child, actioners featuring Batman fighting terrorists. Victorian dramas where Batman advised the Queen regarding Scotland.

In one film, a high school girl who’d only just moved to town had to make a tough decision between the Batman she loved, and the Batman who loved her.

At first we were thrilled, we’d changed the world! Our stupid gag had forever altered Hollywood!

Then we went and actually watched these films.

Now: We are not thrilled.

Somewhat Preachy

Somewhere in the ocean is an island made of plastic.

I know this is true, I’ve seen it on Discovery Channel.

There, out in the waters, all our discarded plastic clumps together, brought by the wind and the current, in a mass larger than the state of Texas. Our plastic doesn’t decompose, you see, so every time we throw plastic away, it’s inevitably drawn to one enormous oceanic hub.

Plastic trash island.

It’s terrifying to see, if you see it. A testament to our waste, our hubris.

And as we speak, a million vuvuzelas make their pilgrimage to this island.

Threats

The best threats are threats unstated.

Anyone can threaten violence, physical or emotional, and anyone can deliver. However, the mere threat of violence lacks the art, the finesse, of an unstated threat.

Once you’ve explained what you’ll do, cards are on the table. The person threatened can acquiesce to your wishes or accept clear consequences. But with unstated threats, you leave the imagination to fill in the details. And the imagination always supplies something worse than you could ever say out loud.

This is why I never explicitly threaten. Now: turn around, and walk away. I’ll only tell you once.

The Coming of the Doombringer

A man came to my door today.

“I bring you doom.” He announced.

It was odd, I didn’t order doom, and knew no-one who’d send it to me, but here he was, and I’d no reason to doubt him.

He did look honest. He carried a clipboard.

I told him I’d no use for any doom.

“Just doing my job, sir.” He replied.

I couldn’t argue. It wasn’t his fault I didn’t want the doom he brought, and he likely had other deliveries to make.

I pondered a moment, took the clipboard, and signed my name.

And then I died.

Quiet Desperation

The man in the next cubicle spoke to me today. It‘s odd, we’d worked together years, but never spoke.

“There’s more than this,” he pleaded desperately, “surely! I can’t stay in this office with the world out there to see, I need to fly!”

He then went to the window, threw a chair through it, and jumped.

Forty stories, and he leapt like it was nothing.

Perhaps he was mad, and fell to his death.

Perhaps he was right, and flew to freedom. I’ll never know, I didn’t follow to look.

I stayed at my desk, and continued my work.

How Ebay Saved the World (from me)

My Uranium’s arrived!

It was a bitch to find, expensive too, but it arrived last week.

Not sure what I’ll do with it. Something evil, but no concrete plans. I saw it was available, bought it, and figured I’d decide what to do with it later.

Trouble is, it’s been a busy week. I’ve had a houseguest, there was that stand-up gig, and I never got around to hatching my scheme. I should hurry.

I’ve not felt well lately.

And while washing my hair this morning, a fistful came out in my hand.

When buying Uranium, make sure shielding’s included…

At the Pitch Meeting for Toy Story 3

Everything ends, and everyone leaves you sooner or later.

No matter how much you care about them, or how much the truly once cared about you, they’ll one day be gone, and no matter how hard you try there’s nothing you can do about it.

All you can do is come to terms with this, learn to live with it.

And I truly believe you can’t learn it young enough. Which is why I intend to make a children‘s film upon this theme.

“Well that sounds excellent. You go to work, and we look forward to seeing the finished product.”

Preperation

As you approach my little apartment, I putter around, making sure everything’s prepared.

I’ve butterflies in my stomach, but I shouldn’t. Everything ought to go according to plan.

I’ve bought wine and cinnabon, which I know you’d been craving. I’ve set aside DVD’s you’ll want to watch, by candlelight, and tomorrow we’ve a movie to see.

While downtown, under city hall, the timer on my newest weapon ticks inexorably down.

I’ve prepared every detail, tried to become the perfect host, but I’m still nervous. I can’t help asking:

Can I keep you distracted enough to fail to foil my scheme?

Robots

I sit in my study, by the fireplace, musing to myself.

Truly, I have built robots.

Giant Robots, the sort that destroy cities, and smaller, subtler Robots, undistinguishable from men, to replace world leaders.

When armies were called for, Robot armies. I needed companionship, and the most beautiful Robots were by my side.

And yet, in my autumn years I’m unfulfilled. It’s as though I have tired of building robots…

From the corner, my Robutlers eyes glow red as he remembers his first command, accidentally given so many years ago.

“If I ever get tired of building Robots, kill me.”

Scenes From an All-Night Resturaunt

I later learned you weren’t simply drunk.

Certainly, you were drunk. Slurring, staggering to your car, lurching into the parking lot, rear-ending the parked car across from you.

But more than just drunk.

You were also, it turned out, a paranoid-schizophrenic with a history of violence and a lengthy arrest record. Who’d recently gone off your meds.

It turns out when you leaned uncomfortably close and threatened to take my eyes, you’d probably meant it.

The police car left the parking lot, you in the backseat, I watched after, my world a little more claustrophobic.

Hope you enjoyed your omelette.

Canada Day

I was visited by three ghosts.

The first: a moderating influence between two great powers, struggling to make peace in the world. He taught me to see all sides of a conflict, and communicate honestly.

The second: an expansive, open spirit, welcoming all to her. She taught me to open my own heart to new people and new experiences.

The third spirit was vague and indistinct, a blur of possibility untapped. I asked it it’s nature.

“Whatever you make of me.” It replied.

I awoke, and knew the true spirit of the holiday.

Happy Canada Day, god bless us everyone!