*Thanks, Clicky… /lights up… We should probably mention… /drags… ‘Christmas Death Wish’ and… /streams smoke… ‘Walk I, With You’ as well…*
*Already done? Excellent…*
*S’okay, Clicky, I did it… /flicks ash… I made sure after reading Leggy’s story…*
Death was feeling anxious. Until a year ago the Grim Reaper was incapable of feeling anything, but that was before Halloween 2020 when the Devil had given him a front seat to the start of the attempted apocalypse. Since then, Death had developed, if not exactly feelings and emotions, then certainly intuitions. Right now he was intuiting anxiety and he didn’t like it.
“Where is she?” He demanded, pulling his PsiPad from the folds in his robe. He held it out so that Brian, the haughty goose overseeing the God Lobby, could see the on-screen flashing message. “See that? It’s an emergency audience request from God.”
Death squared his shoulders and gave Brian his most menacing death-stare, but to no avail; Brian was not easily intimidated, least not by a homunculus grim reaper, no taller than himself.
Honk!
“You said that ten minutes ago,” Death fumed, “And ten minutes before that.” He casually extended the retractable scythe from his sleeve so that the feathered receptionist could get a good look at the blade and the sparks of electricity that buzzed along its keen edge. “Some of us have work to do.”
Brian hissed and reluctantly pulled the PA microphone on his desk closer to his beak and switched it on.
HONK!!!…ONK!!…Onk!…
The sound reverberated around the vast God Lobby, bouncing off the walls and ricocheting into silence. The swelling sea of souls beneath the elevated position of the reception area seemed to collectively hold its breath for a moment before continuing its low moan.
“There,” Death said, retracting his scythe, “that wasn’t difficult now, was it?”
Brian gave Death a withering look and flapped his wing, indicating that Death should take a seat.
Honk Honk.
“No thank you. Liquids go straight through me,” Death replied drily and sat down. He placed the PsiPad on the seat next to him and drummed his bony digits against the cover. From his island vantage point at the centre of the vast cavern that stretched far beyond the horizon, he watched the tides of souls ebb and flow with hypnotic sway. All was rhythmic movement and soft murmur, dampened by the rolling Mists of Time.
Death attempted to meditate while he waited, inviting calm to flush out his anxiety, but still the phalanges of his skeletal hand beat out a steady tempo. It wasn’t God’s emergency request or even Brian’s truculence that caused Death such disquiet, although neither were particularly helpful. He suddenly had a flashback to the previous year when he’d sat impotently in the front of a London taxi cab, driven by the Devil, listening to the destruction of Famine and Pestilence as War savaged them in the backseat. He’d experienced his first bout of anxiety then and knew the cause of his anxiety now – it was the date; Death was haunted by Halloween.
A deep shadow loomed over him…
***
“I’m sorry, but times have changed and we have to change with them,” Jocasta Darling’s manager informed her from the safe distancing of a computer screen. “If you don’t agree to get vaccinated, you will not be able to work for us any more.”
Although it had been universally accepted that everybody’s lives had significantly changed with the advent of the Rona, the rogue virus that in less than two years had shuttered businesses, relationships and minds worldwide, Jocasta was precisely aware of when change had come to her. It had been back at the beginning of spring, on a cold, bright morning in April, when a chance encounter with her repugnant Member of Parliament had afforded the usually placid Jocasta the opportunity to serve up a piece of her mind. It turned out to be a generous slice, as a cold fury took possession of her. She had let rip, and the recipient had promptly dropped down dead. The experience had changed Jocasta alright.
“But I had the Rona last year, Suzie, you know I did.”
“Yes-”
“I caught it at work.”
“We know-”
“As a consequence, my natural immunity is far superior to anything a vaccine can provide.”
“It’s company policy-”
There was no stopping Jocasta; she was on a roll. “Then do what you have to do, because I refuse to consent. I don’t agree to having my immune system dumbed down by an experimental drug that’s still being tested. And I’m certainly not going to take it just so you can keep your fat salary job.”
“Now, that’s unfair,” the image of Suzie wailed.
“Well, so’s my backside. Deal with it.” Jocasta terminated the zoom call and snapped the lid down on her laptop. Her hands were shaking but her voice was steady. “For God’s sake!”
Tiny fingers plucked at Jocasta’s sleeve, demanding attention. Molly, her daughter, stood next to her in silence, but her eyes were full of questions.
‘Everything is fine. Do not worry,’ Jocasta signed. She got up from the kitchen table and walked over to the sink.
‘Are you sure?’ Molly signed back. ‘You look angry.’
Jocasta sighed as she let the icy flow from the cold water tap beat down upon her wrists. She was angry and she needed to calm down and cool off. She did not relish having to find a new job, not if vaccination against the Rona was to be a prerequisite for future employment, but right now she felt far worse for the residents of Frampton Lodge, the retirement home where she worked.
Jocasta had gotten to know the old folks there as she cleaned their rooms, listening to them tell their stories of past glories, complain about the food or simply wonder when their families would visit. On weekend shifts, she used to take Molly along and the residents simply adored her, especially Mrs Roundtree. In fact Molly and Mrs Roundtree had struck a deal in which lessons in signing were exchanged for reading aloud. Both thrived in the attention given to each other, but especially Molly, who’s speech had developed to such a level that her profound deafness wasn’t so readily apparent when she spoke.
But that was before the Rona and lockdowns had arrived. Now the residents were more like inmates. Where they were previously starved of visitors at the best of times, now no visitors were allowed at all, and on top of that, a shortage of staff meant basic needs at the home were barely being met. Jocasta shuddered when she thought about what lay in store for the old dears, and all because a stupid virus had managed to scare half of the world batshit crazy.
She turned off the tap and dried her hands on a tea-towel before turning to Molly. ‘A little bit but I am mostly sad. Do not worry, it will pass soon enough. Now, should you not be getting ready? It is getting late.’
Molly didn’t move but continued to stare at her mother. ‘We do not have to go.’
‘Of course we do; it is Halloween. We never miss trick or treating.’
Molly didn’t look convinced. ‘I do not want you to get into any trouble.’
‘Me, get into trouble? Never. Besides, it is all arranged. We are going to have a lovely time tonight.’ Jocasta playfully shooed Molly from the kitchen with a flick of the tea-towel, before following her into the hallway. “And we won’t let the bastards grind us down either,” she said over her daughter’s head.
Jocasta flopped down on the front room sofa and switched on the TV whilst she waited for Molly to change into her Halloween outfit. She immediately regretted it when the jowly, grim faced Prime Minister filled the screen. He had all the appearance and gravitas of an obese Wurzel Gummidge.
“Not another bloody press conference,” Jocasta moaned and stabbed the off button on the TV remote. “Begone, you bloviating baboon. And brush your bloody hair.”
She remembered that day in the park and the stricken look on her ex-MP’s face as she berated him, just before he died. Oh yes, if I ever get the Prime Minister alone, Jocasta thought, I won’t hesitate to tell him a thing or two.
***
“Ey up, Chuck, is this seat taken?”
Death glanced around at the rest of the empty chairs in the deserted reception before looking up at the source of the shadow. “Hello, Marge. Be my guest.” he said, picking up his PsiPad.
Humans once believed that babies were delivered by stork, although Death doubted they had anything quite like Marge Gerana in mind. To be certain, she had the long legs, slender neck and stiletto-sharp beak of the order Ciconiiformes, but the stripy stockings, chiffon scarf and pince-nez she wore are not generally found on specimens in the wild. Neither do they carry oversized carpet bags like the one Marge clutched in front of her body, accessorization not making the list of priorities for storks.
“Did you get the emergency alert too?” Marge asked, sitting down and carefully placing the bag by her partially webbed feet. A muffled wail came from within. “Shush now,” she crooned at the bag. “I was – am – in the middle of a delivery. Have you been waiting long?”
“Yes, I’ve been here for 25…No, 26 minutes,” Death replied tersely. Tardiness is not tolerated in the Grim Reaper Service, he thought to himself.
“Oh well, we in Newborn Deliveries can be a tad more flexible than your lot,” Marge said, reading his mind. “Do you know if we’re waiting for anybody else to turn up?”
“I wasn’t aware that I was waiting for you.”
Marge lifted her beak disdainfully. “I am surprised. Didn’t you read the She-mail that came with the alert?”
Death hadn’t; he rarely ventured into his inbox after the first foray, when he had balked at the sheer quantity of spectral spam he was expected to wade through. He switched on his PsiPad and tapped the winged envelope icon. He scrolled down the list until he found a She-mail entitled ‘DEATHCON ONE’, opened it, and read:
Would you be so kind as to make your way to the God Lobby immediately. The situation with humanity has significantly worsened and a high-level conflab is in order.
Regards
God
p.s. Additionally I will also send an alert direct to all of your PsiPads as I am aware that some – Big D – do not keep up to date on She-mails. G
“She’s got you sussed,” Marge smirked.
Death scrolled back up to the addressee line but the names of the other invitees were missing. “There’s no indication of who else has been summoned,” he sighed. “I hope they turn up soon whoever they are; I have a schedule to maintain.”
Marge adjusted her pince-nez and coquettishly crossed her long, stockinged legs. “Do you think he’ll know?” she asked Death, raising a plucked eye brow as she directed his attention with an obvious glance in a specific direction.
Death followed Marge’s eye-line to the reception desk where Brian stared back, preening himself. “Possibly.”
“Shall I go ask?” she whispered conspiratorially, without taking her eyes off Brian who was now slicking back the feathers on his head.
“Perhaps you will have more duck, I mean luck, than I,” Death replied. “Brian has been less than forth-”
“Okay I will,” Marge cut him off. She stood up and slid her carpet bag in Death’s direction. “Watch this for me.” She puffed out her plumage and sashayed seductively toward the reception desk.
Death was impressed. Mardi Gras Passistas have nothing on you, Marge, he thought.
The carpet bag wailed again. At first Death ignored the cries that came from within, but as he watched Marge and Brian flirt with each other, he grew more and more irritated at the length of time Marge was taking to illicit any pertinent information. Eventually Death had had enough.
“There, there,” Death cooed as he extracted a crying baby from the bag. “I agree – waiting around and being ignored can be very, very annoying.”
Death cradled the babe in the crook of his bony arm and gently rocked the fleshy bundle. Gradually the baby’s cries transformed into whimpers and then a gurgle.
My goodness, Big D, you’re a natural.
Still holding the now yawning baby, Death slid down from his chair and bowed his head. “Ma’am.”
God had finally arrived and she wasn’t alone.
“Well, fuck me. That’s not something you see everyday.” War mocked from behind God. She was dressed in tight, lycra shorts and an even tighter tee-shirt. The name of her earthly side-business ‘Fighting Fit’ was emblazoned across her ample bosom. “That’s a proper Kodak moment, that is.”
Pass the child to me, Big D.
Death handed the now mostly silent baby over to God.
You’re a cutie, aren’t you? Yesh you are, oh yesh you are.
“Hello War,” Death greeted his long-time teammate. “Still doing the keep fit? I thought you would be leading several armies by now.”
Death had last seen War in the spring when he transitioned one of her conscripts, who’d suffered a fatal heart-attack following a punishing workout.
“I do, short-arse. I have a franchise now,” War sneered. “Who knew a politician’s death would prove so popular? Fighting Fit now has a presence across the UK and I have plans to take it global at the start of next year. It’s gonna be brutal.”
Indeed. That’s why I’ve invited War along to this meeting. I apologise for being late, Big D; I know how much you value punctuality, but for some reason War isn’t on the CCNN network, so I had to go and collect her.
“Yeah, I was in the middle of a mega-high intensity workout class and I couldn’t just bail half-way.”
War made me run, Big D.
“But you feel so much better for it, Ma’am,” War said, as she clucked at the baby in God’s arms.
God remained silent.
“Ma’am, are we expecting many more to join us?” Death asked.
No. I take it from the presence of this little one that Marge Gerana has also arrived. Ah, I see she’s somewhat engaged with Brian. Shall we head for the Situation Room?
Death and War exchanged glances. “I didn’t know we had a Situation Room,” Death said slowly.
We didn’t. I created one this morning specifically for this meeting. Come along.
Death collected the carpet bag and PsiPad from the seating area and followed in the wake of God – with babe in arms – and War to the reception desk.
Good to see you Marge.
“Ma’am,” Marge whispered hoarsely and curtsied.
I believe this is one of yours?
“Yes. How ever did you escape, little one?” she asked the baby jovially, whilst shooting Death, who was still lugging the empty carpet bag behind him, an evil stare. “I’d be happy to relieve you of the child now, Ma’am.”
That’s quite alright. I’m enjoying the cuddle.
Death dropped the bag at Marge’s feet. “You’re welcome.”
Could you buzz us through please, Brian?
Brian reached under his desk and pressed a button.
The air behind reception began to coruscate and a set of glowing gates appeared. The gates, inlaid with iridescent nacre, shimmered with a rainbow lustre that only mother of pearl can provide. Brian hit the button again, and the gates slowly opened.
This way.
The baby blinked as if in agreement and blew a spit bubble as it cooed.
One by one, God, War, Death and the Great Birthing Stork Marge Gerana walked into the luminous cloud of aether that lay beyond, and disappeared.
***
The rain was starting to come down harder by the time Jocasta and Molly arrived at their destination. The evening was already dark, and although there was plenty of traffic on the journey over, the pavements were completely deserted. No groups of trick or treaters this year, lockdown having put paid to any of that, and the poor weather was lending an assist in keeping any brave or rebellious souls in their homes. People are still afraid or have simply forgotten, Jocasta thought sadly as she parked up at the rear of Frampton Lodge.
She looked over at her daughter sat in the front passenger seat, who had a look of nervous excitement on her face. She was dressed all in black, with a pointy hat and cape. Jocasta crossed her fingers and held them up for Molly to see. “Ready?”
Molly nodded vigorously, so that the witch’s hat shifted backwards and forwards on her head.
Jocasta couldn’t help but smile. “Go,” she said, punching both index fingers forward.
Molly exited the car, unknowingly slamming the door, then ran towards the back of the building, dodging the raindrops as she went; her mother remained in the car and looking on, smiling ever wider as her daughter progressed. Once Molly had made it to the staff entrance, Jocasta reached over to the back seat and grabbed the straw broom and Halloween goodie bag that were laying there. She drew a deep breath and opened the car door, plunging herself into the downpour. She reached the entrance in a far soggier state than Molly had. Jocasta pressed the intercom button.
“Hello?” a tinny voice replied from the speaker.
“It’s Jocasta and Molly.”
The door made a long buzzing sound before opening. They pushed against it to get inside and out of the rain.
Jocasta’s colleague, Mary, was waiting for them. “Oh my god, look at you two.” She waved at Molly. “How long do you have left, Jo?”
Jocasta flung an arm around Mary’s neck and kissed her cheek. “A month.”
Mary placed her hand on Jocasta’s swollen belly. “I must say, you’re looking very well.”
“I’m doing okay, thanks. Getting the odd twinge now and then but other than that… Is the coast clear?”
“Oh yes,” Mary replied, helping Jocasta out of her wet coat. “It’s Sunday. Skeleton staffing, you know, and management have already pissed off for the night.”
Jocasta was relieved. She positioned herself so that she could speak directly to Mary without Molly being able to read her lips. “Suzie zoom called me today. I’m not going to be allowed back after my maternity leave, not unless I get jabbed.”
Mary frowned. “I’m so sorry. That’s totally fucked up.”
“It’s the way the world is right now,” Jocasta replied.
“But will you get it?”
“No, I’ll still be breastfeeding.”
“I’m thinking of jacking it all in,” Mary confided. “I know I’m double jabbed but it’s all just getting too much.”
Jocasta’s face fell. “That bad?”
“It’s only the residents that keep me going.”
Abrupt silence fell between the two women. Molly looked up from one to the other, before tugging on her mother’s sleeve.
“Oh my goodness, we have some trick or treating to do,” Mary cried. “Molly, your outfit looks fantastic. Very witchy.”
Molly beamed a gap-tooth smile and took the bag from her mother. She held it open for Mary to look inside; it was full of chocolates and sweets and paperback books.
“Thank you,” Mary said, pulling out a chocolate bar. “That’s my favourite. I will have that with a cup of tea later,”she said, placing it in her pocket. “Now, we had better get moving before the residents go to bed.”
Molly gave the bag back to Jocasta and took the straw broom. She slipped her free hand inside Mary’s outstretched hand and the three of them took the stairs to go trick or treating.
***
It is a fact that the vast majority of humanity never have, nor ever will, step foot inside a Situation Room. If asked, a person might describe such a room as having a huge table dominating the space, dozens of chairs around it for generals and other important types to sit in. Moreover, there will be wall to wall computers, all manner of communications equipment, and a large viewing screen at one end, of the highest definition of course. This has been learned from countless films and TV shows that this is exactly what a Situation Rooms looks like. Or perhaps even that this is exactly what a Situation room is supposed to look like.
That was not the kind of Situation Room God had envisioned at all. Hers was a perfect cube six foot by six foot by six, with slate grey walls, ceiling and floor, inside and out. It looked like a block of stone from the outside and a bare prison cell from within. The only fixture in the cube was a light bulb set in the centre of the ceiling, with white pull cord hanging down from it.
“I’ve been in some tight spots but this ain’t like any Situation Room I’ve ever been in before,” War said dubiously, inclining her head to one side so as not to bump it on the ceiling.
“It’s certainly cozy,” Marge agreed, feathers ruffling.
For once Death’s diminutive size proved to be a distinct advantage, so he remained quiet, preferring to keep his own counsel.
God stood at the centre of the compact room, still holding the baby.
I thought the most productive way to discuss a situation would be if we could first see it for ourselves.
She reached up and pulled the cord on the light bulb and the room immediately pitched into solid blackness.
And then it wasn’t.
“Where are we?” War asked. “It looks like some old lady’s bedroom.”
Correct.
The slate grey walls, floor and ceiling of the Situation Room had dissolved into transparency, giving the occupants a 360 degree view of their surroundings.
War spotted an elderly woman sitting in an armchair with a tartan blanket over her legs. She looked contented as she listened to classical music from a transistor radio beside her. The overhead light was switched off so that the room’s shadows were lit from the soft glow of the lamp on the night-stand next to a bed.
War was intrigued. “Can she see us?”
No.
“Hear us?”
No.
“Can we leave the box?”
You mean the Situation Room? Yes, but you definitely shouldn’t.
“Me specifically? Why?”
Because you will be seen and heard.
War thought for a moment. “Because I have an earthly body?”
Correct.
“So the Situation Room is completely invisible? I like it. I mean, it could do with a bit more headroom, but invisibility is a cool feature.”
Thank you.
“Actually, why do I have an earthly body?” War asked. “I’m still confused about that.”
“Because,” Death answered gravely, “you died last Halloween. Pesto poisoned you.”
War’s jaw dropped. “What?!”
Death knew this time would eventually come. “To be fair, you did eat Pestilence first. And Famine. You should have seen the mess…”
War’s jaw took on a sardonic twist.
“Of course, you don’t remember.”
“Whoa there, short-arse.” War stared down at Death, mouth agape. “How?”
Death hesitated. How much of that particular ghost story should I tell? he wondered.
He felt the light touch of God’s hand squeeze his scapula. “The Devil tricked us all, War. All of us.”
There was a sharp knock on the bedroom door. The old lady turned the volume down on the radio and removed the blanket from her legs. She made a couple of attempts to stand up, finally managing to push-pull herself out of the armchair. “I’m coming,” she called out.
Inside the Situation Room, Death could feel his PsiPad gently vibrate. He pulled it from his robes and checked the PsiCalendar – there were two alerts, one of which read ‘Molly’. “Ma’am. I do believe the situation is about to occur.”
***
“Trick o’ trea’!”
“Molly!” Aida Roundtree cried as she opened her bedroom door. “Come in, come in.”
“Trick or treat, Mrs Roundtree,” Jocasta said, grinning.
“Oh, Jocasta. Come in. Quickly. Don’t let the Gestapo catch you in the corridor. You too, Mary.”
Aida ushered her visitors into her room and shut the door. “It’s so lovely to see you both.”
Jocasta and Mary moved further into the room, whilst Molly grabbed Aida’s hand and guided her to her chair.
“Well, don’t you look lovely, Molly? Give me a twirl,” Aida said sitting down. Molly duly obliged.
“And how are you keeping, Jocasta? You look ready to pop.”
“Another month to go.”
“Do you know the sex yet?” Aida beckoned Jocasta closer.
“No, we want a surprise,” Jocasta laughed but allowed Aida to feel her belly.
“Low and heavy. Ripe. Feels like a boy,” Aida pronounced. “Molly, you’re going to be a big sister soon.”
Molly raised her arms in a silent cheer before wrapping them around Aida’s neck and kissing her cheek.
“I’ve missed you too, darling.” Aida hugged Molly back. “Terrible times we live in,” she addressed Jocasta and Mary with solemnity over Molly’s shoulder. “It reminds me of the war.”
“Aida, you were born in 1945,” Mary chided. “How could you remember what the war was like?”
“I grew up in the aftermath, bombed out buildings and rationing. I remember those and I also remember what my parents told me about what went on during the war. Terrible times,” Aida said and hugged Molly tighter.
***
“Great times,” War sighed wistfully, breaking the silence within the cube. “World War Two was brilliant, so much innovation. In fact the whole of the twentieth century was a fucking blast.”
“It was a boom time for us after the war,” Marge reminisced. “There were so many deliveries to make, we were pulling double shifts left, right and centre. So many babies.”
“See? It wasn’t all bad.” War sounded vindicated. “Humans had a fucking good time, too.”
“Hmm.”
What is it Big D?
Death was thinking. “She mentioned rationing, Ma’am. I believe there are reports of food shortages currently in the press.”
Famine?
“Possibly…”
***
Mary moved toward the bedroom window. It was slightly ajar and the net curtain inside was getting soaked from the lashing rain. “Aida, have you been smoking in here again?” she asked accusingly, closing the window.
“So what if I have? What are they going to do? Put me in prison? Ha! I’ve been in one for nearly two years.”
Mary shook her head. “If they find your cigarettes, they will confiscate them.”
“Then I’ll get some more,” Aida replied defiantly.
“Ah, that reminds me…” Jocasta tapped Molly on her back and motioned her to offer the bag to Aida. “Now, Mrs Roundtree, dig deep. I put your treat in at the bottom.”
Aida rummaged inside the goodie bag Molly held out. She pulled out an olive green box with a grotesque image on the outside. “Lovely. Benson and Hedges kingsize. I’d offer you one, but apparently it’ll harm your baby,” she said, holding up the pack for Jocasta to see the image of a sick, intubated baby.
“Aida!” Mary snapped.
“That’s alright, Mary. I saw the picture when I bought the pack. Aida and I know it’s just propaganda.” Jocasta was keen to the calm the situation; Mrs Roundtree was something of a smoking militant and could rant for hours on the subject if given free rein.
“That right, it’s propaganda. Goebbels would be proud.” Aida grabbed at Jocasta’s wrist. “You haven’t had the vaxx, have you? Please don’t get it.”
Jocasta gently removed Aida’s hand and held it in her own. “No, Mrs Roundtree. I will not have the vaxx.”
Molly had been watching the conversation silently. She pulled on Jocasta’s sleeve. ‘Mummy, what is ‘go bells’?’
***
“She’s got a point,” Marge said, stretching her neck. “We’ve never delivered a smoke damaged child. Now Thalidomide, DDT, the Rona vax…”
You are seeing damage from the Rona vax, then?
“Yes, Ma’am, some. Mostly miscarriages though.”
God stroked the soft brow of the sleeping baby in her arms.
Babies poisoned in the womb.
“Pesto,” Death whispered.
***
Mary had had enough of the conversation. She was tired and her head was starting to ache, plus she still had another three hours of her shift to work. At least three hours, and she was beginning to regret agreeing to Jocasta’s request for the secret visit. She tolerated Aida’s smoking rants but she didn’t want to hear her opinion of the Rona vaxx. Not again. And was it really worth getting caught for a chocolate bar, even for a Kit-Kat Chunky?
“Okay, I think that’s enough for tonight.”
“Oh no, Mary, can’t they stay a little longer?” Aida appealed.
“No, it’s okay, Mrs Roundtree. Mary has rounds to do and Molly has school tomorrow.” Jocasta lent down and gave Aida a kiss on both cheeks. “It has been lovely to see you.”
There was a rapid knocking on the room door. “Mary, are you in there?” a voice beyond it asked urgently.
Mary motioned for the others to stay quiet and walked rapidly to the door. She opened the it a crack. “What is it?”
The person outside sounded flustered. “Mr Perkins has collapsed in the lounge. Oh Mary, I think he’s dead.”
“Okay, I’ll be right there.” Mary turned away from the door. “I have to go. It was lovely to see you Jo, Molly. Can you see yourselves out?”
“Of course, you go. Thank you,” Jocasta called as Mary left the room. “Oh no, poor Mr Perkins.”
“Double vaxxed,” Aida said smugly. “Had his booster shot two days ago.”
“Mrs Roundtree…”
***
Death checked the alert on his PsiCalendar. “I hate being late. Excuse me.”
***
“Well, he did get his booster shot two days ago.” Aida was adamant. “They’re finally doing it; they’re trying to kill us all off.”
“Who are they?” Jocasta regretted asking as soon as the words left her mouth.
“The new world order, same as the old world order.”
Jocasta looked blank.
“Nazis,”Aida hissed.
***
Molly could tell something serious had happened and that it had happened to Mr Perkins. Her eyes widened when the little man she sometimes saw appeared out of thin air from the corner of the room. He was always dressed in black and he sometimes carried a big stick with a knife on the end. She watched as the little man glided across the room.
He paused as he reached her. ‘Hello,’ he signed.
Molly smiled, signing ‘hello’ back.
The little man nodded and made the stick-knife suddenly appear before continuing to glide out of the room, through the door.
Molly looked around nervously, but her mum and Mrs Roundtree were still talking. She didn’t think they’d seen the little man in black. No one ever sees him, except me, Molly thought.
***
“We really should be going.” The last thing Jocasta wanted was to get into a conversation about Nazis. If Mr Perkins had died, then management would be called and it was best that she and Molly weren’t here when they arrived. Plus she really needed to pee. “Mrs Roundtree, can I use your bathroom?”
“Of course, Jocasta, you know where it is. It’s clean but the new girl isn’t nearly as thorough as you.”
“Thank y-OwwW!” Jocasta clutched her stomach. “Ow. Oh no, I hope to god I just peed myself.”
Mrs Roundtree looked at the puddle of fluid forming on the carpet between Jocasta’s legs. “No, dear. Your waters have broken.”
“Oh my god, it’s too soon.”
Aida turned to Molly and looked at her squarely, hands either side of Molly’s face. She spoke slowly and clearly. “Molly, go into my bathroom and fetch the big towel on the rack.”
Molly was scared; her mum was in pain and had wet herself. “Wha’s happnin’?”
“Don’t worry. Mummy is going to have a lay down on my bed.”
“Is it the beby?”
Mrs Roundtree nodded. “Yes, dear. Now, after you get the towel, go and fill my kettle over there,” she said, pointing to the far corner of the room, “and fill it with cold water from the tap in the bathroom. Then switch it on.”
Molly nodded and sprung away like a gazelle.
Jocasta leaned back against the bed panting. “Not again.”
Aida got out of her chair at the first attempt and rushed over to the bed. “Not again? Did Molly arrive early?” she asked as she helped Jocasta onto the bed and plumped up the pillows behind her.
“You could say that.”
“At home?” Aida started to remove Jocasta’s boots.
“In a taxi.”
Aida paused mid-pull. “Oh my.”
“The taxi… oh, oh,” Jocasta noisily breathed out,”…crashed.”
“Awkward.” Aida dropped the boot on the floor and lifted the hem of Jocasta’s dress. “This should be a doddle for you then.”
***
God was gazing down at the baby in her arms and softly crooning.
“Ma’am.” Marge Gerana held the open carpet bag between her wings. “It’s time.”
I know.
War was pressed up against the side of the cube watching the two women in the room. “She gave birth during a car crash? That’s brave.”
She is.
“And the old girl seems to know what’s she’s doing.”
“She should,” Marge snorted. “Aida Roundtree is one of the best midwives I’ve ever worked with.”
War pointed at Aida. “She’s a midwife? That’s convenient.”
Isn’t it.
The walls of the cube suddenly rippled and a small witch, wearing a large hat rushed through. Molly stood stock still, with eyes like saucers. God stepped aside, allowing the child to collect the kettle.
‘Thank you,’ Molly signed.
You’re welcome.
The walls of the cube rippled once more as Molly left.
We had better leave before the child comes back.
God placed the baby into the carpet bag.
Be yourself, little boy and good luck.
“Ma’am.” Marge bowed her slender neck and left.
God grasped the cord to the light bulb.
Ready, War?
“Aren’t we waiting for Death?”
No. Big D is on duty. He’ll find his own way back.
“What’s the dealio with Death and those two anyway. They were there that day in the park when my rich politician kicked the bucket. I miss Jimbo; he always paid over the odds.”
God cocked her head to one side as if contemplating what to say. She smiled.
The mother sat on him.
“On who?”
On Big D.
War’s eyes fluttered as she tried to comprehend what God had just said. “Wait…” She counted on her fingers. “Did Death give her a boner?”
God tugged the cord and it all went black.
And then it wasn’t.
*I’m glad you enjoyed it, Clicky… /final drag… It was a lot of fun to write… /stubs butt…*
*Wrong book, Clicky, although finking about it… /lights up and smokes… I did write my anthology story over the Easter weekend…*
https://twitter.com/RooBeeDoo1/status/1340317178294353920
*/flicks ash… And on mum’s birthday too…*
It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking umpteen…
God paused at the end of the first sentence on the first page of the battered book in her hand.
Umpteen?
Disconcerted yet curious, God checked the cover of the book to make sure that the title and author’s name were correct before continuing to read on.
The Grim Reaper, skull nuzzled deep within the cowl of his robe, silently glided up to the bench closest to the duck pond in Victory Park. The ‘Do Not Use’ warning tape adorning it had deterred everyone from sitting there, but not Death. The Grim Reaper climbed up onto the bench and waited.
On a tree nearby, a coloured poster, too large for the display, had been tacked up. It simply depicted an enormous face, more than a metre wide: the face of a middle-aged man, with tousled, blond hair, baggy eyes and jowly jawline. It was one of those pictures which are designed so that the eyes follow you about when you move. BIG BRO IS WATCHING YOU, the caption beneath it ran.
God snapped the book shut and sighed.
I knew it! Somebody is monkeying about with Nineteen-Eighty-Four. Again!
She called for the fat, smug goose who administered the comings and going in the vast area known as the God Lobby.
Come with me, Brian. We need to make a site visit.
***
Spring was in the air and Victory Park was packed with people exercising in the pale April sunshine. Despite the brightness, the air remained frosty cool from both the transition of the seasons and the earliness of the hour. Death sat on a bench close to the duck pond and watched the hordes walking, running and star jumping in socially distanced formation. All their faces were dutifully masked.
Why are they torturing themselves? Death wondered as he watched a stream of hot breath pour through the sweaty face-mask of a passing jogger. They may as well be carrying a bundle of posies in front of their faces for all the protection those things give. Ah, the Black Death. Now that was a proper pandemic.
Death pulled a slim, black rectangle from the depths of his robe and flipped open the cover to reveal a bright, smooth screen decorated with coloured icons. Following the disastrous crash of the Cosmic Consciousness Neural Net (CCNN) that occurred on Halloween in 2020, God had resolved that an upgrade in tech was very much required, and the PsiPad was born. The Psion organiser, which had been gainfully employed by the Grim Reaper Service up until that point, was finally relegated to the Scrapheap of Obsolescence. There it languished alone; the hourglass having escaped the same fate by presciently forging a long-standing relationship with eggs.
Tapping the screen of the PsiPad with a bony digit, Death opened the PsiCalendar and studied his schedule for the day. He had arrived a little early for his next appointment but didn’t mind waiting. Having existed throughout all of time, Death was not opposed to occasionally killing the bastard.
Bing!
A message flashed up on the screen which simply read ‘Molly’, and although the Grim Reaper shouldn’t be able to feel anything, Death experienced a sense of apprehension and anticipation prickle his bones.
Molly Darling was the pure soul child, whose poorly spelled letter to Santa had inadvertently instigated Armageddon and had caused Death nothing but trouble. Her letter, and her sincere Christmas wish contained within it, to end war, famine and pollution for the benefit of mankind, had fallen into the hands of Satan, and Old Scratch never wasted an opportunity for some devilment. Whether or not he’d had a hand in the CCNN crash that occurred at the same time was as yet unknown. Investigations into the matter were said to be ongoing.
On the whole, Death was against the making and granting of wishes of any kind; however, he’d been manoeuvred into making a wish of his own, with Molly as the beneficiary. He’d been presented with a choice; God always provides a choice: the removal of Molly Darling from life before she could send her letter, thus averting the end of the world, or rectify the matter in some other way. Death’s ethics forbade him from taking the first course of action, so he had plumped for some other way. Death’s wish had been granted by Father Christmas and subsequently Molly Darling had been born with the innate ability to correctly spell.
And that should have been the end of the matter, but for the unintended consequence rider that accompanies every wish granted, one that practically no one considers when making one. In this case, the very act of wishing had inextricably linked Molly to Death and attracted deaths to Molly.
Death scrolled back through the years on the PsiCalendar, counting the number of ‘Molly alerts’ that littered them. By definition, Death was only concerned with the dead, paying scant attention to the living around them. Now, courtesy of the newly issued bit of tremendous tech under his distal phalanges, Death was aware of just how many times his path and Molly’s had crossed during her short life so far. It was sporadic but not inconsiderable.
He found the date of the first Molly alert: 1st January 2013; the day Molly Darling was born. She had arrived in the early hours of the morning as Death was transitioning the soul of one Barry Munroe, a poor unfortunate struck by a speeding taxi, following a night of heavy drinking in celebration of the birth of the new year. The speeding taxi had been delivering a screaming woman to hospital, who was making a rapid delivery of her own on the back seat of the cab.
Death had given no consideration to the wailing bundle of new life at the time – why should he? – but in hindsight, the significance of Molly’s place of birth was not lost on Death, as it was in the back of a taxi on Halloween in 2020 that the savage deletion from existence of his good friends, War, Famine and Pestilence had occurred and Armageddon began. Death had changed Molly’s past to affect mankind’s future, yet he still retained the memory of that terrible night. For Death, Halloween 2020, both with and without that fateful taxi ride, existed at the same time, and within the same space.
It’s like Schrödinger’s Cab, Death mused deeply.
The PsiPad had also revealed to Death what lay behind a strange incident that coincided with one of the Molly Alerts, an incident that had baffled him until now. On 16th July 2016, Death had sat on this same bench, watching swaths of people roam across Victory Park. The insufferably hot weather had done little to deter the excited crowd from hunting virtual monsters augmented with their reality; it was the latest fashion. Instead of face-masks, mobile phones and electronic devices of all kinds covered peoples’ faces, which now caused Death to ponder upon the origin of the phrase ‘Track and Trace’.
On that day, Death had been awaiting the arrival of one Davy Keith, an otherwise healthy lad of 14, except for the undiagnosed hole in his heart and an all-consuming passion for collecting simulated Japanese monsters. Death watched passively as a pudgy toddler rushed along the path toward the bench upon which he sat, a tired looking woman pushing a stroller followed in the child’s wake. The little girl had all the grace of a drunken sailor and Death had assumed her wide milk-tooth grin and incoherent babble was aimed at the sun blazing high in the sky above Death’s head. That was until she tried to hug him.
A thought which had occurred to Death in that moment, on that day had haunted him ever since. Am I a monster?
Now Death knew that child had been Molly Darling and she had seen him. Following the aborted hug, and before her mother had whisked her away, Molly’s hand gestures had been her attempt to communicate with him: ‘Hello. My name is M-O-L-L-Y. I am deaf.’
It’s augmented reality, alright, Death decided with a sigh. He closed the cover on the PsiPad and returned it to the folds of his robe. Not long to wait now.
***
“Keep it up squad. Pump those arms,” the long-legged woman barked, as she strode purposefully among the regimented lines of exercisers performing push-ups beneath her gaze. She was a colossus of female physical perfection: full, round breasts, a washboard stomach and thighs so muscular they looked capable of pulverizing anyone’s head fortunate enough to be caught between them.
Lockdown had been very good for Wanda Warren. Before the arrival of the Rona and the restrictions that ensued, she’d struggled to attract many clients to her fledgling business: Fighting Fit. Whilst it was true that the small number of clients she did have were dedicated to not only her tough methods but also to Wanda herself, she was only a one woman band and the indoor gym in town, with its flashy machines, coffee shop and showers, had attracted many more members.
Now the gym was closed due to the Rona and the only place to exercise was outside. Competitive advantage had shifted firmly in Wanda’s favour, and Fighting Fit scooped up a substantial amount of new devotees. All males desperate to retain their fitness, blow off the excess energy built up from their now enforced sedentary lifestyle, and the outside possibility of being crushed between Wanda Warren’s dangerous thighs.
She caught sight of a familiar figure across the park. “And once you reach a hundred, give me one full circuit of the park. Now move it!” she ordered, before sprinting off in the direction of the duck pond.
“Death?”
“War,” the Grim Reaper replied.
Wanda pulled down her face-mask and sprawled on the bench next to Death. The difference in stature between the two cardinal colleagues was stark: whereas War was long and rangy, the diminutive Grim Reaper was small enough to reach into all the nooks and crannies.
War smiled radiantly. “I thought it was you.”
“I see you’re building up quite an army, dear lady.”
“Pfft. Early days yet.” War punched Death on the arm. “What are you doing here? I haven’t seen you since…” Her brow furrowed as she tried to recall the last time they’d met.
Death turned to his beautiful colleague: in ancient Troy her face had launched a thousand ships; today it could launch a thousand more, all armed to the teeth with nuclear weapons. The last time he’d seen War, however, she’d been ripping Famine and Pestilence apart with carnal ferocity in the back of a London black taxi being driven by Old Scratch. “I am here waiting.”
“Oh, right. Not for any of my lot, I hope,” War inquired hesitantly.
“Possibly.” Death produced the PsiPad from his robes.
“Ooh nice kit. You got an upgrade?” War snatched the PsiPad from Death, opened the PsiCalendar and read the name of Death’s next appointment. “Really? No way!”
Death pulled the PsiPad from War’s grasp. “Yes and very much way.”
War stretched her arms out along the back of the bench and flicked at a stray end of warning tape. “Pesto’s played a fucking blinder with this Rona business, eh? It’s done my little enterprise no end of good.”
Death remained silent; he was far from convinced that Pestilence had any involvement in the disease that had swept the world in the last year. He’d certainly had to deal with a rise in suicidees and murder victims, but pretty much all the usual causes of death had remained relatively stable. Certainly all the deaths solely attributed to the Rona were vanishingly small. “Have you seen Pesto recently?”
“Not since…” Once again War’s furrowed her brow.
“How about Famine?” Death asked.
“AWOL,” War snorted. “Fuck knows where he is. Have you seen how fat these cunts are?”
“Good for business.”
“Indeed, business is booming.”
War stood up and pulled her face-mask back up over the cruel smirk that marred her lips; the first of the Fighting Fit squad would be coming through soon, and as their leader, it was imperative that Wanda uphold standards for the group. “I tell ya, the buggers love being told what to do. And the harsher you are, the more they fucking love it.”
“Until pushed too far.”
“I know! Brilliant, isn’t it? A win-win,” War laughed, briefly lowering her mask to suck air noisily up her quivering nostrils. “Can you smell the resentment and aggression simmering, Death? Itsa gonna be a spicy meat ball!”
“Lacking an olfactory system, War, I am unable to concur with your assessment,” Death replied drily. “But I’ll take your word for it.”
“Ha ha. You do that, short arse,” she smirked, affixing her mask back into place.
Wanda turned her attention to the first of her squad to appear, smacking his backside as he ran by. “Attaboy, Malc. Only a mile to go.” As each member passed they received the same backside slap from Wanda, but her words of encouragement changed with her assessment of their individual performance.
The last straggler stopped and stooped over with hands on knees, gasping for breath.
“What’s up, Jimbo? Don’t you have the heart for it today?” Wanda stood over the bent back of James ‘Jimbo’ Collins and gave Death a double thumbs up sign. “Here, have a sit down, old fella. Take five and then catch up with us once you get your breath back.”
She steered Jimbo toward the bench. Despite his apparent distress, he still managed to give her righteous backside a firm squeeze. Wanda rolled her eyes at Death and saluted before sprinting away to catch up with the rest of her Fighting Fit squad and finish the circuit of Victory Park.
Death ignored Jimbo’s ragged breathing and continued to wait.
***
Jocasta Darling luxuriated in the bright spring sunshine that came as a welcome relief after the unmitigated gloom of winter and lockdown. Not that Jocasta thought lockdown would be ending any time soon, not if the government’s broken promises over the past year were anything to go by. Still it was nice to get out for a walk, and despite the cold, the sunshine was glorious and lifted Jocasta’s spirits for the first time since the start of the year.
Her daughter Molly skipped alongside, occasionally pausing to smell the newly budding flowers or point out the birds traversing the powder blue sky. The pair made their way toward the pond at the heart of Victory Park, where Molly liked to serve breakfast to the ducks each morning. Jocasta just liked to see her daughter happy. Molly had been in and out of hospital since birth with one thing or another, and it broke Jocasta’s heart at what Molly had had to endure. And now her schooling had been disrupted, all because of the Rona, which appeared to ignore kids like a bad parent. Jocasta often wondered just exactly where the blessed government’s priorities actually lay.
Although the park was busy with exercisers, the pond area looked to be empty to Jocasta, except for a jogger sitting slumped over on a bench. As they drew closer, Molly eagerly grabbed the plastic bag from her mother’s hands and pulled out a crust of bread.
“Okay be careful. Don’t fall in,” Jocasta instructed her daughter.
Molly beamed at her mother, flashing an ‘OK’ sign, and made her way to the shady side of the pond where the ducks and swans were congregated, all the while ripping the crust into smaller, bite-sized pieces.
Jocasta wasn’t sure what the government’s guidelines were this week on the usefulness of benches, but this one was still clearly marked as out of bounds. She wondered if she should go and say something to the jogger: it really didn’t pay to attract the attentions of the Rona marshals that now patrolled the park. Even the slightest infraction was pounced upon, and she herself had been lectured several times on the essential need to wear a face-mask, despite both she and Molly holding medical exemptions due to her daughter’s deafness. At her age, Jocasta was finding it hard enough to master a new language, without being hampered by half of it being obscured by face coverings; sign language was so much more than just hand signs. But try telling that to the oiks in uniforms with quotas to fill. At least Jocasta assumed the marshals had quotas to fill; everything today appeared to be run on targets, quotas and guidelines.
Jocasta approached the bench. “Excuse me. Do you know if it’s okay to sit here?”
The jogger looked up at her, giving Jocasta a fixed stare whilst the fabric of his face-mask ballooned in and out with every whooping breath. “What?”
He thinks I’m a Karen, Jocasta thought, shocked at the aggression in his eyes. “No, I’m asking if you know whether we’re permitted to sit on the bench yet. It’s still taped off,” Jocasta explained. “I’d love a sit down too if it’s allowed.”
“Oh… I see,” the jogger replied, as he attempted to control his breathing. “Yes… yes, I think so… since the start of the week… I’m sure of it.”
Jocasta smiled at the jogger; her smile was as bright as the morning but much warmer. “That is good news. I wonder why the council haven’t removed the tape yet.”
“They’ll get… around to it… eventually.”
Still, the forbidding tape unnerved Jocasta and she hesitated to sit down. “I’m with my daughter Molly. She’s over there feeding the ducks.”
The jogger nodded without removing his gaze from the floor, as he focused on this laboured breathing.
“Are you feeling alright?” Jocasta asked anxiously.
“Fine… thank you,” the jogger replied. “Over-exertion… I’ll be okay…”
Jocasta didn’t think the man looked okay at all. Apart from his breathing, he was sweating profusely and massaging his left arm. From what she could see of his face and neck, the jogger was coloured puce, and Jocasta was certain that wasn’t a good sign for a man his age. “You know it might help if you remove your mask,” she tentatively suggested.
The jogger gave Jocasta another fixed stare, but the aggression had gone from his eyes. He reached up with his right hand and unhooked the mask from his ears. “Yes, you’re probably right,” he said, sucking in a great gulp of air.
Jocasta recognised her local MP immediately but didn’t acknowledge that she knew who James Collins was. Although she had never once voted for him, he’d been her representative in Parliament for what seemed like forever. He’d also been very vocal on the importance of lockdowns, mask-wearing and, now, mandatory vaccinations. That was something else Jocasta disagreed with him over, but if James Collins was using the bench, then she felt sure it was okay for her to use it too.
Jocasta felt an icy blast at her back as she lowered herself onto the bench seat, at the farthest end from where her Member of Parliament sat. “Gosh, that feels very cold,” she said with a shiver. She felt the cold settle into her but, strangely, it did not feel unpleasant.
Fishing into her handbag, she pulled out a covered ashtray, which she placed on the arm rest of the bench, before lighting a cigarette. She dragged deeply and let out a satisfying whoosh of smoke, blowing it in the direction away from the bench. Jocasta had really missed not being able to sit down and smoke outside, and felt particularly aggrieved at the ban on sitting in public. For the longest time, outside had been the only place the public were allowed to smoke, and now she was expected to stand up to do it.
“I say… Could you put that out?” James Collins asked gruffly and gripped his left arm tighter. “Having trouble breathing… here.”
The sudden icy blast Jocasta had felt at sitting down now migrated to her eyes. She turned both barrels on her MP.
“No,” she stated, flatly.
“That’s… not very courteous…”
Jocasta took another puff of her cigarette and tapped the loose ash into the the ashtray. Again, she blew the smoke away from the bench. “We are appropriately socially distanced, are we not? I am not blowing smoke in your direction and there is no law against smoking outside.”
James Collins started coughing and waving his hand limply in front of his nose. Fat droplets of sweat poured from his grimacing face. “Can’t you see I’m… in trouble?”
“Yes you are.” Jocasta wasn’t sure what had come over her, but she felt very certain that the words coming out of her mouth were being said with the confidence of another’s voice. “You, James Collins MP, are a sell out. Not only are you a liar, a lecher and a rubber-stamp for oppression, but you’ve caused dis-ease, and I am sorry to tell you, but you will be going to hell.”
Jocasta looked over at Molly busily feeding the noisy ducks and waved. Molly waved back, tilting her head to one side with a curious look on her face. ‘Having fun?’ Jocasta signed to her daughter.
Molly nodded vigorously and signed back, ‘There’s a goose and he’s eating all the bread. Come and see.’
Jocasta chipped the end of her cigarette off in the ashtray and returned both to her handbag. She stood up, squared her shoulders, giving her MP a final withering stare. “Good-bye.”
She walked away, back along to the path to join Molly, leaving James Collins with a look of abject terror on this face.
Bing!
“Hello, Jimbo,” Death said, pulling the PsiPad from the folds of his robe.
***
“So this is Hell?” Jimbo Collins asked, as Death guided him into the vaulted expanse of the God Lobby and placed him at the end of a queue of souls. Like Jimbo, they were all dressed in white and wore face-masks. “Looks like Heaven to me.”
“For some it is both,” Death replied. “Just follow the white line. You’ll get there eventually.”
The queue shuffled forwards, taking Jimbo along with it.
Death took the express elevator up to the Office. From there he could look across the vastness of the God Lobby, and see just how long the queue he’d placed Jimbo Collins in was. It snaked back and forth, up and down and crossed itself in numerous places.
Looks like a commercial for toilet paper, does it not, Big D? All that’s missing is a great, big, playful puppy.
Death turned to the voice of God whispering over his shoulder and bowed. “It’s certainly the most appropriate place to deposit little shits, Ma’am.”
God tittered; she did appreciate Death’s sense of humour.
“I take it you were there,” Death said.
How did you know?
“Molly’s ‘Come and see’ was a dead giveaway. That and Brian’s disguise. He put no effort into it at all.”
On the reception desk Brian, who was forever eavesdropping, ruffled his feathers and hissed.
Yes, we were there. The situation looks grim.
“Indeed it does.”
God moved away from the balcony overlooking the God Lobby. Death glided along behind at a respectful distance.
“Ma’am, I’m worried about the disappearance of Famine and Pestilence. I can’t find any trace of them since…”
Halloween? Yes, it is concerning.
“War’s nose is never wrong. Without Famine and Pesto to provide balance, I fear for the future of humanity.”
Then you must find them, Big D.
“Me?” Death felt a sense of déjà vu; he’d been in this position before.
Of course. You find everyone. Eventually.
God smiled at Death and her smile was a bright as an April morning.
*You fink I should feature Famine in the next one, Clicky? …/stubs butt… Maybe…*
*Something like that, Clicky…*
*Yeah, I used an image from the story for that tweet…*
Captain….CAPTAIN, Jack Sparrow.
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E-STIR E-STIR E-STIR
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Did you know that, according to Google Translate, “tur” is German for “door”?
Did you know that “TUR” is the NASDAQ ticker for some fund based on Turkish equities?
Welp...now you know.
Open some doors.
Be free.
Mingle.
A holy crusade should be started. A holy crusade to eliminate all evildoers on the entire planet. That way, when all evildoers are dead, only the good will remain. So, if I survive these purges, that means I too, am good.
Right?
Well, there will still be murderers left because the good who killed all the bad are still alive. And I guess there will still be thieves because the murderers took something that did not belong to them. And there will be liars because all of this murder and theft was predicated upon there being no more evildoers left in the world.
We're right back to where we started.
Hrm… maybe it would be best to skip all those shenanigans and just leave things more or less as they are?
This time a year ago (April 2020/when the lockdown started) oil dropped to $11.26 per bbl and gasoline prices fell through the floor. Now, it’s back up to over $60 per bbl, and it’s being projected that by summer/fall of 2021, oil will be up to around $80 per bbl. Oil hasn’t been over $80 per bbl since October of 2014.
Hrm…relying on nCoV-2019 vaccinations, to rally demand for oil. I wonder what other types of things those in the market are relying upon nCoV-2019 vaccinations to rally. Further have to wonder if people aren’t getting vaccinated, does that mean the rallies aren’t gonna happen? I wonder if rich people/powerful people get rowdy when they want they want a rally to happen, but it doesn’t. Do they riot, and if so, how and where do they riot/tear shit up?
The concept of teaching Synchronicity is an interesting one. Teach people how to recognize and observe the phenomena. My experience has been that Synchronicity cannot be taught. If you start pointing weird shit out, people are initially going to query you as to how you saw such a small and insignificant event. Over time, they will start to look at you really fucking strangely.
Even suspiciously.
They may go so far as to accuse you of being the engine that is driving this phenomenon because it only seems to happen when you are around. Or at least, you are the only one that seems to be able to see this stuff, no one else seems to catch it, although yes, once you point it out, they see it too. Maybe at this point it’s important to point out that “seeing” (to me anyway) is one of the more overrated parts of the experience. It may sometimes be a smell, or a sound, or a feeling, or even an aggregate of sensory input that generates a deja vu type of vibe, except with synchronicities the feeling is more like you’re experiencing something that has already happened in the future rather than re-experiencing a something that has happened in the past.
I’m getting off-track…lemme get back on topic. It is likely possible to teach one to recognize Synchronicity, but I’d think an interest on the part of the learner is gonna be necessary.
Seriously…who in the hell wants to be an observer?
A: Fucking no one.
You don’t wanna be in the stands, you wanna be on the field, be in the game. You wanna be making things happen, not be at the whims of chance and just standing their helpless as events unfold because of those who are actually participating and driving things.
You want it. You want them.
This is really just me vocalizing my ineptitude at figuring out how one teaches another to be a good observer. How to develop your communication skills so as to be able to be accurate in expressing yourself and relating events to 3rd parties. But to be honest, when it comes to synchronicity, anyone who seeks you out for help is likely to already be either a novice or perhaps even intermediate due to the nature of synchronicity. You were just minding your business one day, and suddenly, the Universe grabbed you by the nape of the neck and chunked your sorry ass into the deep end, and that was the first and last time you could ever be qualified as a “beginner”. Its all uphill from there, and chances are you possess tools you didn’t even know you had before this journey even started.
It is with all that in mind that I reiterate…the concept of teaching Synchronicity is an interesting one. Maybe its not about teaching as much as it is about learning. Maybe even sharing. Maybe there’s an equality type of trait nested within where the teacher and student hats are always and forever interchangeable. There are no masters, there is only mastery.
Some people are probably gonna REALLY dislike such a concept.
No room for advancement.
No way to become a name.
No way to become a face.
What does your face look like anyway?
Hey…you’ve always wanted to get to know people. That must also mean you want people to get to know you. Welp, they are. Problem is, there may not be a whole lotta reciprocation going on.
They, know you. You, are not them.
You may have to suspend disbelief if you listen to this next song.
Just hang in there...you will reach the “wtf?!?” part soon enough.
SO! For those who journeyed into that video, and stuck with it long enough to reach the “wtf?!?” moment, lets us see some of the more or less boring mechanics of how some sweet little soft-spoken pixie learns to summon and master the dark vocal forces of hell.
Is that misogynist of me? Sexist? Referring to a person who I do not know nor have any sort of relationship with as “a sweet little soft-spoken pixie”? To be fair, she was/is singing to me. Or at me.
/shrug
Prolly not that much different than anything else. You want to learn to do something, you see how others do it, then you practice, practice, practice.
I admit that when I watched that Jinjer/Pisces video, I did not believe what I was hearing. The video is supposedly live, but if you are as old as I am and have been around the musical block a few times, you learn that a “live” recording is…well, not necessarily as “live” as they say it is. Most of the time a “live” recording has been sent back to the engineers for cleanup, and many of the nuances of a live performance have been removed. Also need to point out that electronic vocal processing has reached the point to where there is virtually nothing that one cannot do digitally. So I had to ask myself…
”Wait, let’s say that they are heaping a shitload of vocal processing on her voice in order to make her sound like a man. Is that really any different than some pop diva using autotune, so that she never hits any sour notes? Or even putting a reverb or delay or EQ or compression or some other effect on a more or less clean voice?”
I used to sometimes run my own voice straight into a distortion pedal to get my voice to sound like I wanted. Yep, plugged the microphone directly into a distortion pedal made for guitar. Lolz (true story) Screaming is hard on the voice. Talk to any USMC drill instructor, and chances are their voice sounds like rocks in a woodchipper from all of that screaming.
With all this in mind, I went back and watched the Jinjer/Pisces video again, and I watched nothing but her lips and her throat, and tried to keep her posture in my periphery so I could see what her diaphragm was doing. I also tried to listen for any hints of more or less “female” sounding tones embedded within the signal I was hearing. I heard some. Also, the video angles and cuts are as such that it is damn rough to look for those tiny accentuations in the face and neck which reveal connections to certain tones. I still doubt as to whether she is actually producing these sounds.
So let’s do this…lets see if we can find a something where they are live live…like on-stage live at a concert, and see if it still looks disconnected.
FUCK!!! She’s now got a goddamn huge neck tattoo obscuring everything!!!
Hrm.
That certainly doesn’t help seeing whether or not veins are popping out in her neck, nor does it make it easy to see what the larynx is doing. So now I have to go back and listen to both the studio live and concert live versions, bounce back and forth and see just how similar the screamed/growled parts are. They do sound similar, but not in a Milli Vanilli/lipsyncing kind of way as much of a “how does the vocal tones of the live studio version sound so damn close to the on-stage live version?” kind of way. Are we learning to learn how to learn about strange coincidences yet?
Fuck this…let,s get the straight dope right out of the growler’s mouth.
Formed a new band last week.
Avant Garde Fart Cracklings
Our first album “Crispy Burnt Leftovers In The Bottom Of The Pan” should drop soon. Which reminds me…
if Sulfur smelled like apple blossoms, would farts be more popular?
Do you prefer to know the secret behind the magician’s tricks, or are you just here for the magic? Or both?
It is nice to be able to control others. Especially to control the magician.
The fog days of summer are rapidly approaching.
Frog days of summer...that is.
Ever since this “Q” or “QAnon” stuff has fallen on its face and its followers have gotten all grumpy and discombobulated, it has been quite amazing to see just how quickly the “Disclosure” peeps have also turned on their own masters.
Which reminds me, I watched a documentary the other day called “Alien Reptilian Legacy”.
I’m not exactly big on pointing out certain physical features nor making derogatory type comparisons, but holy FUCK! As soon as David Icke appeared, I was like…”damn, that dude appears to be physically turning into the very thing that he hates…a Reptilian.” Besides that, the documentary was pretty fucking boring tho. Not to mention that the whole Reptilian thing is muddy as fuck since some seem to think that the Reptilians are the good guys, Greys are the bad guys, and others think the opposite. (Greys = Good, Reptilians = Bad) Um…I’ve never seen a Reptilian. Nor a Grey. Nor any other fucking extraterrestrial as far as that goes. Seen some goddamn freaky-assed human weirdos come out of the Ufology community, but never seen an alien. Cept via the wizardry of books, film and television. Which reminds me, its been a while since I checked to see how many alien species are now said to reside on Earth/Terra. I think last time I checked, there was around 78 different aliens visiting from 78 different planets. Lets see if any new aliens have landed.
Fucking hell…that list sucks balls.
That’s from over three years ago, and it don’t help me much.
That’s more along the lines of what I’m looking for in that it’s timely, but that’s just projections from a more or less legit entity in the scientific community (SETI). I need an updated list of the honest-to-God extraterrestrial beings that are currently hanging their space hats on Earth.
GAH!!! That’s more capitalist wet market bullshit. I need aliens with space ships and phasers and warp drives and cloaking devices and chicks with three tits and other assorted technological advances.
More markets? Blacks and Greys?
WTFuckingholyfuckingfuckballsmotherfucker!!!!
If anything, that list is missing aliens.
I cannot read much of that article because it is behind a paywall. Which, hey…remember at carnivals where a certain amount of money would get you inside of the tent, but if you wanted to keep going to the various shows inside, you had to pay additional? They tempt you with all those banners, but the truth is that the fee to get in the door is only one fee of many. You then get shown the exit, your funds are depleted, and you’re not exactly sure what in the fuck just happened nor what you actually got for your cash.
I got yet another question for you to chew on…
A: ?? ( o ) ( o ) ??
They’ve rebelled, gone their own way, found their own path…but are they welcomed back and nestled into the bosom of mamma’s embrace when everything collapses? Make no mistake, “they” want you as part of their team. They’ll split, divide and set you assunder via any and all means in order to get you into the fold. Build a something up, and tear it right the fuck back down so you have nowhere else to go. Has an air of demonstrating and reinforcing who the rightful owners are…eh? Have any idea what I’m talking about here?
A: ? ó¿ó ?
You’re on your own in answering this one. Maybe if you weren’t fighting like hell to get these fuckers on a pedestal, you wouldn’t find yourself fighting like hell to get them off.
Get them off…the pedestal. Not like get them off get them off. Although…you are getting off getting them on, and, getting off getting them off.
Sounds like you are getting the better end of the deal.
Lets us take a spin around The Synchrosphere, yeah? Been a long time since I’ve done that, so lets see if we can see what the synchromystics/synchronauts are up to.
NOTE: Just because you aren’t one of the popular kids in the popular cliques doesn’t make what you do any less important. There are likely metric-mega-fucktons of people out there doing their thing who have no idea that “The Synchrosphere” is even a thing. They just keep on chugging, keep digging, keep learning, irrespective of what the cool kids are doing. Many of them prolly aren’t trying to carve out their own niche either. Just slogging through the craziness and trying to figure out what they are doing right and what they are doing wrong.
Lemme break out of that “note” and give a coupla examples of what I mean.
Now, I’ve seen a lot of stuff like that over time. They seem to be under the impression that they are completely alone, the only source of “truth”, and all this stuff they are seeing is driving them bonkers because they are shouting into the void and no one seems to be heeding their warnings. But at the same time, this individual does appear to be trying prove something, as well as trying to carve out their own niche because they seem to think that getting “Twitter Verified” will make everything they say and do OK. Validation by the very system(s) they seem to be at odds with, will, I guess, make their predictions more mostest trueerist of all because the message is getting out to millions instead of just a few hundred and people are actually listening! Or something. Maybe its a matter of money. Getting paid to do what you do is a helluva validation in our world and times.
/shrug
The Moose, or BuckoTheMoose. I cannot speak for them, but I would imagine they would almost assuredly NOT consider themselves a Synchronaut. It’s probable he doesn’t even know what in the hell Synchromysticism even is (not that anyone else does either…heh). Hell, they could be the high priest of synchronicity for all I know.
I do kinda know “The Moose”, however. He’s a cool cat, but also very outspoken/pulls no punches. I’ve never really spoken with him about anything “spiritual”, nor have I seen him mention anything along the lines of more mainstream types of spiritual stuff. He appears to like cars, good beer, good cigars, is laid back, astute, has a great sense of humor, so yeah I guess he’s all about spiritual stuff. Just maybe not the same spiritual virtue signaling type bullshit that the herd considers to be spiritual. You know, spiritual virtue signaling…
you know, virtue signaling.
Digress.
The Moose may not be your typical Synchronaut, but they’re a cog in the wheel. Not only that, they are their own wheel. A voice. Their voice. To exclude them would be tragic.
OK!!! So, enough of trying to figure out the synchronistic forces and dynamics at work on our planet, and lets off to see what the big guns are up to.
Up first is…
Yes, that’s right…the Synchromysticism Forums are BACK!!!
Cept not.
I admit that I’ve known for some time that these forums were there, but I further admit I’ve not given it much of a look. It appears that only one person posts there (Peg from the old whatchacallit forums), and a lot of it appears to be only reposts of news stories…all of which are separated by the same ad over and over where someone is plugging “astrological mini-readings” for $50 via cellphone text message. The forums layout is confusing, the giant pictures in the Table of Contents make no sense, and the whole place seems to be more about “Q” and “Truthers” than they seem to be about Synchronicity and/or Synchromysticism.
Now, is it possible that the one person who is making all the posts over there is actually a community account shared by several people? Sure. Maybe they’ve decided to take a 4Chan type approach to administration in order to bundle everything under a single moniker, so that the reader has no idea who is posting what. But even if that is so, as of the time of this writing, the forums only has 1046 posts in 575 topics, and there are only 11 registered members.
11.
Not gonna be much discussion going on with only 11 registered members when only one of those registered users appears to speak. The forum layout also seems to be structured in such a way to discourage discourse. Topics are WAY to detailed and specific, there’s no readily apparent and coherent parent-child type of inheritance, and I assume the thought process here was to make moderation easier by putting all of the burden of staying on-topic on the posters.
Don't stay on topic? BANNED!!! Simple.
Very authoritarian, hopelessly rigid and completely counter-intuitive to the erratic and unpredictable nature of Synchronicity. I can only assume that the goal is to amass useful and usable information. Actionable lists of worthwhile data.
Oh well, it’s their forums, they can do whatever they please with them. As to the Evergreen Consulting/Jen Psaki thing, controlling the shipping lanes and intercepting freight is how you make money in the datastreams. Just gotta add your own node to the existing infrastructure(s).
Let’s move on to…
Spirals are syncy in my own sphere(s) as of late. This post is kinda interesting because only yesterday I crossed paths with that image above, and there’s been lots of holes and sinkhole types of things appearing on my radar. But what I’ve been mainly thinking about is a particular axis/view that is usually required to identify a spiral. Take for example the rifling within a barrel of a firearm/gun. You really need to be able to look up/down the barrel in order to best see the twist of the rifling. From the side you get more of a sine wave type of impression. But in the case of say a spiral galaxy, a side view will give the impression that there is no spiral at all. Just a cloudy more or less flat blob of a murky mess with maybe some wedge-shaped properties.
Kinda weird how the up/down of the z-axis changes based upon observer perspective in those two instances. Whatever this weird “edge” is I keep seeing tho? I can’t quite put my finger on it. I cannot tell if it’s a reset type thing where the reset somehow carries conditional types of properties over in order to exist in two places at the same time, or if there is simply a dimension that I’m missing. Perhaps there is always an inverse to the more forward types of dimensions so as to preserve information when one reaches the edge where dimensions cease to exist.
EX: The edge of the Universe.
Maybe I’m thinking too much in the micro scale and thinking too much about shrinkage instead of expansion and/or macro scale(s). Maybe the dimensions do not shrink when one reaches the edge. Maybe they expand. Maybe they both expand and shrink. Whatever it is, the typical 3/4/5/8+ types of dimensions that create our reality seem to become incoherent as a specific and succinct set. Perhaps the existence of an inverse carries an accurate enough stack of data in such a way that matter which becomes corrupt in our Universe/reality can and will remanifest itself elsewhere, all while giving the appearance of existing in two places simultaneously. Spooky action kinds of stuff that is not easily identified as such. We are, afterall, talking about more or less zero-times between extraordinarily remote/distant objects.
I can't quite put my finger on it.
Let us off to downunderland where their fall is just getting cranked up in anticipation of winter…
Brizdaz can always be counted on for having some interesting shiz, and today is no different. Looks like there’s some Synchronistic learnin’ going on there, and even tho I wrote the top bits of this post several days ago, its still kinda weird to see the connections. But hell, who am kidding. Synchronicity is nothing new, and the concept itself has likely been around since long before Jung got his hands on it. So…
A: Right here.
Me, you, him, her, it, they, them, us…all of this shit may be as old as dirt, but it’s new as fuck to us.
Looks like Rune Soup has a new podcast series type thingie or something…
And a new website. And new merch. New, new, new Rune Soup Stew…from 2021 to 2022.
Those vids are about an hour each so I’ll prolly forgo for the time being. Prolly won’t watch them later either because I’m lazy af.
Which reminds me…a certain someone who I shall not name (RooBeeDoo) noticed recently that a someone who hasn’t posted a blog post in a very long time had a new post up. Let’s saunter over there.
SynchoMiss has posted on her blog for the first time in like 4 years…
I have no idea where she’s been. Actually, that’s not true because I bumped into her on Twitter several years ago and I guess she’s kinda more active there.
I have no idea who she is.
Actually, that’s true. I have no idea who any of these fucking weirdos are. Just a buncha freaks being weird and doing strange stuff. Like…writing. And like I guess…reading. And then like…writing some more (all of which are pretty damn strange).
Aight…enough of that shit. It’s not that I don’t like cruising around and checking out people’s blogs, because I do. I almost never view any blogs anymore. Not UnderdogBitesUpwards, nor Frank Davis, nor Merovee Frank and not even Miss Ivannah The Topless Psychic.
Anyway, yeah I like reading people’s blogs, just have completely lost the heart to do it. I don’t drop in with an encouraging hi, nor howdy, nor keep going, nor kiss my ass, nor fuck off and die…nothing. Nada. My heart just ain’t in it currently.
/queue sad music
Yeah, this post is already 9 pages long and I should likely get it over to Roob before Doomsday gets here.
We’ve got 800 fucking billion forms of communication available to us on this planet, and not a single motherfucker on this entire rock seems to be able to figure out how to communicate with one another.
Am currently suffering from a wicked case of flabbergastritis.
Perhaps I should go.
(no pun intended)
*Good idea, Clicky…*
*LoL, Clicky… /rolls eyes… It’s a dream come true…*
*/lights up… Loosely based… /drags… on a collaborative group of satirists in the past… /plumes smoke…*
*Exactly, Clicky. Satire’s booming…*
*It’s a sign of the times…*
*You do know that if Dear Reader takes your advice, Clicky… /flicks ash… they might not come back for the rest of the post…*
*Indeed, Clicky… /drags… Shit happens… /streams smoke… Poor Mel…*
*Yeah, I had to stop at that point to mop up the tears and blow my nose…*
*Lashy reckons the ancient Gnostics described the Aeon Sophia as a plasma entity… /final drag… Before she turned herself into the Earth that is…*
*Whoa, that U Tuba’s avatar is Spider-man? What’s the name? …/stubs butt… Sounds familiar…*
*Leggy wrote a post on nanobots, Clicky? /lights up and smokes… I heard mention of those in a new vid from Lashy just last night…*
*True – Leggy does live in the Scottish Highlands… /thinks… And he’s got swords…*
Nigel sat at the remains of his desk, idly twirling the paper-knife in the fingers of his left hand. With a swift motion he grasped it and thrust it through the palm of his right hand. His head pressed the high back of the chair as his body stiffened against the pain, his teeth clamped shut to avoid biting the end of his tongue. With a gasp, he forced his body to relax and looked at his shaking right hand.
Bright red life oozed from both sides, running along the blade and handle of the knife and forming crimson lines along his wrist. His face set into a grimace as he quickly pulled the blade free, then he sat sobbing as he watched the wound close, the flow trickle to a stop. As the last traces of his self-inflicted injury faded, he roughly wiped the blood from his hands onto his trousers. Standing, he walked to the shattered window, wiping the tears from his eyes with a wrinkled, filthy sleeve.
It had been his invention, his own work. Why should he share it? If he had told his supervisors they would simply have taken his idea and left him behind, alone and forgotten. He couldn’t let that happen. He had decided to keep his success secret until he could announce his invention himself. He would wait until the time was right.
He had tested his invention on himself, of course. Nigel recalled that day, months ago, when he had injected his microscopic robots into his veins. He remembered that first thrill as they set to work. His chest pains had vanished as his heart was healed. He had discarded his spectacles as his vision was restored. The arthritic ache in his shoulder simply disappeared. What an invention! He would be famous, or would have been.
Nigel felt tears returning to his eyes as he surveyed the desolation of the city. Four days ago – maybe more, Nigel wasn’t sure – nuclear Armageddon had arrived and everyone had left in a flash of radiation. Nigel could recall the pain as the wave of gamma-rays had followed the edge of the blast through his beautiful suburban house. His carefully tended garden had turned into a desert of brown, twisted stalks, although still in their perfectly ordered rows in the sterile soil.
He watched as the bulging wall of a distant building suddenly gave way, showering bricks and mortar onto the dust-obscured street below. The sound traversed the distance easily, unhindered in the silence of this dead world.
The flash had killed him, but it hadn’t killed his robots. He had no idea how long it had taken them, but they had repaired him. They had brought him back to life. He had invented more than just a medical dream. He had invented immortality.
If only he had told someone else.
*Fantastic book, Clicky… /stubs butt… So’s ‘is uvver one…*
*Hello, Clicky… /pats snout… Gonna post my Underdog Anthology Christmas story. Wanna help?*
*Whoa there, easy tiger… /lights up and smokes… Just chill out and put your fins up. I’ll do it…*
Death grimaced at the receptionist, who paid scant attention to the Grim Reaper sitting patiently in the God Lobby. The cavernous reception area was named the God Lobby as that was where those that wished to lobby God congregated in the hopes of an audience. The enormous space tended to be packed out with petitioners from either of the beseecher categories – the ‘Please God’ and ‘Dear God No’ – but at that precise moment, and apart from the goose manning the reception desk, Death was the God Lobby’s only occupant.
“Quiet here today… today… oday… ay…” Death’s voice echoed across the vast expanse between himself and the reception desk. The only response was a faint sound of scritch-scratching from the nib of the receptionist’s quill pen.
How long he had been waiting, Death knew not; it could have been any amount of time between a second and eternity. The God Lobby contained no clocks or shadows to mark the passage of time, only the oblique Mists of Time and even they appeared to have gone AWOL. At best, the most anyone could rely on in this place was their own body clock, but as Death had no body to speak off, he was already at a distinct disadvantage.
Hello, Big D.
Death didn’t need to turn in the direction of the friendly voice to know that God was filling the seat next to him. “Ma’am. I was just saying, it’s very quiet in here today.”
Quite. You wanted to see me?
Death shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “No, you wanted to see me.” Death turned to look God in the face; she was wearing a serene countenance, covered by a floral print face mask.
The scratching of the receptionist’s quill ceased and was replaced by the sound of chair legs scraping against the highly polished floor, followed by slaps of webbed feet as the goose receptionist approached, clutching a piece of parchment.
Thank you, Brian.
God took the proffered page and scanned it.
Ah. Apparently there was an unauthorised Armageddon occurrence on 31st October 2020. Do you know anything about that, Death?
The pause that followed could have been pregnant with octuplets, as Death felt the weight of God’s silence and Brian’s suspicious gaze fall upon him. Death was indeed intimately acquainted with the events that transpired on the Halloween in question. He shuddered at the memory of the brutal slaying of his occasional companions Famine, Pestilence and War in the back of a London black cab, driven by Old Scratch, the Devil himself. It was an abomination, an aberration, a fluke or trick, although Death had not as yet settled on which.
“Um, yes… some,” Death replied slowly. “My understanding is that the whole event was triggered by a misaddressed Christmas wish made by a pure soul. One Molly Darling, aged 6.”
A letter to Santa?
God swung her attention towards the receptionist. Death watched in amazement as Brian’s plumage turned from snow white to an embarrassed shade of pink. A big glob of goose fat trickled down one of his legs.
Brian, I thought we’d patched the Santa/Satan glitch.
The God Lobby’s haughty receptionist replied with a mournful honk.
Oh dear. It seems we have a bit of a boo-boo on our hands.
Death jumped down from his chair and bowed deeply before God. “Surely the situation can be remedied, Ma’am?”
God waited until Death straightened from obeisance to his full height of three foot three, before gently patting him on the the shoulder.
But of course. I have every faith in you, Big D.
“Me? …Me? …me? … e?” Death waited for the reverberation of his outburst to disappear before continuing in a more measured tone. “You would like me to, um, remedy the situation?”
You are the ideal candidate.
“But I only have one method at my disposal.” With a flick of his bony wrist, Death produced a retractable scythe from the armhole of his robe. He struck the ground with its shaft causing a death knell boom to thunder around the God Lobby.
God waved her hand over the scythe blade, allowing the lightning sparks that careened from it to latch on to her fingertips. She directed their chaotic dance along its keen edge.
Don’t underestimate yourself, Big D. Short of stature you may be, but in terms of resourcefulness, you are a giant.
Death had been around; he knew flannel when he heard it. “Ma’am, there would be dire consequences for moving a soul along before its time.”
Indeed, so it would be best if that were to not happen.
God stood up and Death bowed again; his audience was over. God started moving toward the reception desk but then paused.
You might speak with dear Soda Pops. He’s jolly resourceful too and, as the intended recipient of Molly’s wish, he may care to have a say in the matter.
“An excellent suggestion, Ma’am. I shall seek out Father Christmas immediately.”
Just keep it on the down low, Big D. Things can get very tricky when one’s fallibility is called into question.
By the time Death had straightened from his bow, God had disappeared. He was alone in the cavernous reception room, save for a now somewhat chagrined Brian, who was once again safely ensconced behind his desk, furiously scratching away with a quill pen and doing his utmost to avoid unnecessary eye contact.
Death sighed; he would have to go to Lapland; he hated visiting Lapland. Not for the first time, it occurred to Death that the ‘God Lobby’ had been extremely well named.
*******
The entrance to Lapland wasn’t obvious at first glance, set as it was in a shady alcove, next to a garishly lit 24-hour Kwiki Mart on a less than salubrious back street of London. The muted thump of drum and bass music playing loudly somewhere vibrated in the air.
Death rapped smartly on the bland and undistinguished door and waited. The flap of the letterbox, set high up the door, opened and quickly closed.
Death knocked again, this time standing back from the door to afford the lookout a better view of his personage. Again, the letterbox flap opened and a pair of beady eyes appeared to scan the street before alighting on Death.
“No children allowed,” the gruff voice behind the door barked, as the letterbox flap once more clattered shut.
Death flourished his retractable scythe and lifted the flap to the letterbox open with the tip of its crackling blade. “I am not a child. Let me in.”
The eyes, now wide with fear, reappeared through the gap. “What’s the password?”
“Ho. Ho. Ho.”
There was a clunk and a click before the door quickly opened, allowing Death admittance to Father Christmas’s main residence. Once inside, Death made his way up a short flight of stairs to what appeared to be the source of the residual music thumping in the street outside: Lapland lap dancing club – adulterating Christmas 364 days of the year.
“Hi, I’m Sally. May I take your cloak?” The beautiful elf that greeted Death was dressed in only a few strands of tinsel, strategically placed to leave everything and yet nothing to the imagination.
“No thank you, Sally. I need to speak with Soda Pops.”
“Sure, come this way.”
Sally led Death through a throng of tables that were laden with drinks, ashtrays and Christmas poinsettia, and banks of couches hosting drunken patrons enjoying all manner of attentions and gyrations from Lapland’s scantily clad hostesses. The air was so thick with smoke, sweat and noise that Death’s route through the crowd could be seen clearly, carved into the fug by the blade of his scythe. They crossed the dance floor and passed a stage set with a shiny North Pole, from which a simply stockinged elf clung, spun and straddled, throwing revealing shapes for the audience.
“He’s through here,” Sally simpered, pulling a beaded tree light curtain aside, and ushered Death into a large side room. The room was ambiently lit, and filled with a mass of sparsely clothed elven bodies, both writhing and languishing synchronously in what sounded like an ecstasy of delight. In the corner sat Soda Pops, a.k.a. Father Christmas, his face buried deep into the backside of a gently bleating reindeer, whose nose pulsed and glowed.
Death cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Soda Pops, may I have a word?”
“Bugger off!” Soda Pops bellowed, without looking up.
The reindeer appeared to catch a sudden glance of Death’s scythe and backed away nervously, hooves skittering.
“Fuck me, you’re keen!” Soda Pops pushed at the animal’s quivering hindquarters as they squashed further against his sweaty face. He caught sight of Death standing impassively in the doorway. “You! So, this is how I am to end?! Suffocated whilst pleasuring a reindeer!”
Death shook his head. “No, this is a strictly informal visit, I assure you. I need to speak with you. Alone.”
“Okay.” Soda Pops nodded and slapped the backside of the reindeer, sending the clearly terrified creature careering past Death and out through the door. “Listen up people. I need you all to get the fuck out of here. Now!”
The mangle of bodies rose up, slowly untangling itself. Death held the door’s beaded tree light curtain side, allowing the disappointed and sullen elves to troop out, until only he and Soda Pops remained.
Soda Pops pulled his vest out from his trousers and used it to wipe his face and dry his beard. “So, what can I do for you, Big D?” He patted the couch seat beside him.
Death eyed the stained couch cushion and decided to decline. “That’s okay, I’ll stand.”
“A short visit, is it?”Soda Pops gibed with a mean chuckle.
Death moved his head from side to side, taking in the whole room before replying. “One can hope.”
“Heh. What is it you want?”
“A child.”
Quick as a flash, Soda Pops’ massive bulk shot from his seat, grabbed Death by his cloak, and slammed his small form up against the wall. His face, barely inches from the impenetrable void of Death’s cowl, was contorted with rage. “Now let’s get something straight between us, mush. I don’t deal in kids.”
Death gulped. “I-”
“I don’t care whatever smear the bastard tabloids have cooked up. My only interaction with children is the occasional Santa mall gig if I’m short on readies. That’s it. As far as kids are concerned, I don’t fucking exist.”
“If you… could… put me… down,” Death croaked and pawed at Soda Pops’ clenched hands with his free arm. “Have… scythe… not afraid… to use… it.”
The razor-sharp point of Death’s scythe slowly hove into view of Soda Pops’ angry eyes, lighting his face with fizzing, electric blue. He blinked and slowly slid Death back down the wall, his eyes never leaving sight of the blade hovering in front of his face. “Talk.”
Death straightened out his robe and indicated to Soda Pops to take a seat. “I’m not looking for a child. I’m looking for a specific child. A pure soul. She wrote a letter to you, but you didn’t receive it.”
Soda Pops rummaged through the detritus on the table in front of him until he found the butt of a cigar. He wiped it clean and lit it. “Don’t tell me. Santa/Satan?”
Death answered with an expressive shrug.
“I thought they’d fixed that!” Soda Pops settled back into his seat and puffed on his cigar. “For fuck’s sake. What a fucking joke! What happened?”
Death ran through the events that had occurred on the night of 31st October 2020. How the Devil had connived to enact a false flag Armageddon that had resulted in the savage expulsion from existence of Famine, Pestilence and War.
Soda Pops was aghast. “What the fuck! War’s gone?”
“I’m afraid so,” Death advised solemnly. “I took the liberty of googling ‘middle east peace treaties’ and found a number of them have recently been signed. Shortly after Halloween in fact. It’s strange though that there’s not been much of a hullabaloo about them in the press.”
“Fuck!”
“And Pestilence, poor sod.” Death shuddered in horror at his memories of that evening. Poor, sweet Pesto who never had a nasty UGH! to say about anybody. “With Pesto gone, you can bet your life Covid has too. Yet they’re still locking people down. It doesn’t make sense.”
“It does if there’s no more Famine.” Soda Pops banged on the arm of the couch and it lifted up to reveal a refrigerated opening filled with beaded cans of liquid sugar. “Red Bull?” he offered.
“No thank you. How do lockdowns make sense if Famine is gone?”
Soda Pops cracked open a can and chugged the entire contents before answering. “People are stuck in their homes with nothing to do but watch telly, eat and get fat.”
Soda Pops belched loudly. “All people have to look forward to is a weekly food delivery from their supermarket of choice. I tell you, kids aren’t excited for a delivery from Father Christmas this year. Now it’s Amazon. As far as kids are concerned, I don’t exist.” Soda Pops suddenly wailed and broke out into noisy, wet sobs. He wiped the snot and tears that streamed from his face along the headrest of the couch.
Death waited for Soda Pops to calm down. “Can you help me find the child?”
Soda Pops wiped his face again with the front of his grimy vest. “Do you have a name?”
“Molly Darling. Old Scratch told me he received the letter from her last year, but the letter wasn’t dated; I saw it. All I know is that Molly was six when she wrote it.”
“Wait.” Soda Pops sat forward, frowning. “You know Molly’s name, her age and that she’s a pure soul. Why can’t you find her? You’re Death, you find everyone.”
“Eventually,” Death sighed and risked perching on a corner of the couch, “and that’s the problem. The Grim Reaper Service is very much run on a just in time delivery model these days. Only a handful of us are needed to service the entire world. It’s really quite efficient until a major spanner, like 2020, is thrown in the works. It’s been chaos. We’ve been inundated with lonely deaths this year and we just don’t have the resources to transition these souls properly.” Death paused and leaned in closer. “And I’ll tell you something else, the God Lobby is completely empty. I’ve just come from there.”
“No?!”
Death stood up primly. “Yep. Not a soul there. Something isn’t right.”
“Still, that doesn’t answer my question to you: why don’t you find Molly yourself.”
It was a good question, one that Death had thought deeply on. “Because I don’t want to.”
“Ah.” Soda Pops thumped the arm of couch once more and retrieved two cans of chilled nectar. “Ethics?”
“Ethics.” Death accepted a can from Soda Pops and tucked it into the folds of his robe. “I can only interact with souls the one time. Thank you. I’ll save this for later.”
“Good man!” Soda Pops drew in an almighty breath and released it with great gusto. “Well, there’s only one thing for it.” He reached behind him and pulled on a silver cord. The tinkle of sleigh bells had hardly stopped before a reindeer stepped through the doorway. “Don’t worry, Big D, we’ll sort you out.”
“Er, thank you no, that isn’t necessary.” Death had not had much dealings with reindeer; the only one before had just charged past him in a state of shock at the length of his scythe.
“Vixi darling, can you get me some paper and a pen?” Soda Pops asked the reindeer as it nuzzled his neck. “And tell Rudy she can come back once our guest has gone, okay?” he whispered, as he nuzzled the reindeer back. “There’s a good girl.”
After Vixen left, Soda Pops turned his attention back to Death. “You need to make a Christmas wish. Write it down. Pass it to me, which I will accept and grant. Guaranteed.”
“Now wait a moment.” Death bristled. “Wishes are dangerous. We’re in this disastrous situation precisely because of a wish.”
“True!” Soda Pops laughed. “There’s always an unintended consequence with wishes, but I don’t see that you have much of a choice, chum. Look, make it simple and on point. In English if you must, but be warned, that language has built-in wiggle room, so be careful. Also, your wish can’t be about you; it has to be for Molly.”
Death sat stock still and recalled the childish scrawl of Molly’s handwritten note. She too had made a wish not for herself. “I know.”
When Vixen returned, Death wrote down his wish for Molly on a sheet of paper, folded it and passed it over to Soda Pops. “Please Father Christmas, grant my Christmas wish,” he intoned.
“Yeah, the speech was unnecessary.” Soda Pops opened the folded page and read what Death had written. “Heh. I can see all kinds of potential, but for your purpose, that should do nicely. Wish granted.”
Rudolph re-appeared, shyly edging forward, giving Death a wide berth. “Come here my little Rudy red nose,” Soda Pops cooed. “There’s no need to be scared. Let Pop-Pop kiss it all better.”
Death decided it was high time he left Lapland; he’d had quite enough hind sight in 2020.
*******
The Mists of Time were back and so were the beseechers. A queue of souls snaked endlessly throughout the God Lobby. Death watched its progress, inching from one side of the great expanse to the other; backwards and forwards, guided only by the barrier ropes that directed the queue’s path.
Death approached the reception desk. It was empty, which was unusual. Probably a shift change, Death thought.
No, no. I’m here. Working. Doing my bit.
The empty chair behind the reception desk suddenly spun round of its own volition.
Hello Big D. Have you come to see me?
“I have indeed, Ma’am.”
Oh goody, I’m now one for two, although, I’m afraid I’m having to go incognito. One glimpse of me could cause a stampede.
Death approved. He had seen the aftermath of many a stampede; they were to be avoided. “And you’re not wearing your mask.”
No. Well, I can hardly go unnoticed wearing one of those, dressed like this. Very uncomfortable things, but that’s fashion for you.
Death gazed once more across the great expanse of queuing souls. “I believe the Halloween 2020 situation has been suitably remedied, Ma’am.”
Excellent. What did you wish for?
Death whirled back toward the empty reception desk. “You knew I would make a wish?”
No, but I hoped.
“Yes, well the alternative was too unpalatable. I wished that Molly Darling, aged 6, had been born with the innate ability to spell correctly.” If Death had lips, they would have been tuned in to smug-mode.
So you foresee a career in witchcraft for young Molly? I see.
“Ah…” Death hadn’t thought of that.
Or maybe she’ll be an actress or a singer then. Or writer. They also cast spells. Innate ability, you say?
“Yes.”
Well, whatever passion path you’ve cut for young Molly Darling, she’ll probably be jolly good at it. Well done, Big D. I can always rely on you.
Death felt his rib cage expand with joy at the compliment, and watched in amazement has his pinky phalanx turned from bone ivory to a delicate shade of blush.
“Oh, I almost forgot.” Death delved into the depths of his robe and pulled out a still dewy can of Red Bull. He held it aloft. “Merry Christmas, Ma’am.”
The can of soda levitated out of Death’s grasp, flying smoothly through the air until landing perfectly on the surface of the the reception desk, all seemingly unaided.
Wings! No one has ever given me wings before. Thank you, Big D.
Death felt the warm blush explode out of his pulsating pinky and course throughout the rest of his being.
Merry Christmas 😀
*Oh you’re back are ya? I hope you’re in a better mood now, Clicky…*
*People seem to like Harry, Clicky… /shrugs and stubs butt…*
*Woo Hoo! …/punches air… Finally…*
*No, that’s a coronal mass ejection, Clicky… /lights up and smokes… Sure is pretty looking though…*
*Wait. What?*
*Oh. Butt that wasn’t caused by a coronal mass ejection, Clicky…*
*Agreed… /flicks ash…*
*So, you’re tell me that within hours of Coronamas being published, all that ‘appened, Clicky?*
*Blimey. Well, it is number 13, I suppose… /stubs butt…*
*Ah, blocking the space for a later link… /pats snout… Good thinking, Clicky…*
*That’s called a pomander, Clicky… /lights up and smokes…*
————————–
Longing For The Past
We do it.
(rawr)
No seriously, we do it.
We long for long gone things. We long for long gone times. We long for long gone places. Maybe its when we long for long gone things AND long gone times AND long gone places, all at the same time…history repeats (or, repeats-ish).
Yeesh.
What a nightmare. Not only that, but what a waste of energy. You spend all that time fighting tooth and nail to get away from where you are and what you are, only to do a 180° turn, and scramble to become what you were. I guess maybe things didn’t turn out as you’d hoped. You do not like what you have become. What you were is somehow better than what you are, and of the two, you choose…were. I guess you think that “were” will make “are” go away.
Bad logic.
If “were” still is, then I think its safe to say that “are” will still exist when you get back to “were”. You can never go home again.
Or something.
Pine...Mountain.
Pine…long. Kinda funny that the monolith in California didn’t last long. I sometimes have that problem with my own monolith not lasting very long.
ZING!
Pining a mountain. Pining for a mountain. Sounds challenging. Pining for two mountains? Whew! Sounds exhausting. I love mountains, and love climbing them, but I’m a valleyman too. Ain’t no mountains without the valleys.
Heisenloes.
Kinda weird that during the writing of the previous whatever, I was thinking about that pot plant fire in Los Angeles (heh…pot plant fire), the Notre Dame fire, that giant explosion in Beruit, the Oregon fire(s), that passenger plane getting shot down in Iran. Then yesterday, I sat for an hour or so and watched a live stream of various banks (and other stuff) getting torn up and parts of them burned in Paris (France) as I guess some people there are upset about something.
Now this fire in New York City, and it has me to thinking about…reinsurers. During my brief times in working as an underwriter for a general agency/auto insurance, and then later as an underwriter for commercial insurance, I was somewhat baffled by this need that insurance companies have to pay out on claims. Even dodgy claims. Does this keep the outgoing cashflows/payouts within a certain margin? Keep a reasonable percentage of the customers happy? Justify the premiums? Keep the reinsurers happy? All of that?
/shrug
Whatever the higher-ups methods and formulas are, they aren’t going to tell a lowly underwriter. So what I’m thinking about now, is all these lockdowns here in 2020AD/CE, and how they are affecting the margins for both insurers and reinsurers. SURELY rates have been affected since we don’t have the usual calamity and mayhem working together to create the same aggregate(s). Everything is shut down. There HAS to be changes, right? At home accidents skyrocketing, auto-related accidents through the floor, outdoorsy stuff doing the same. Insurance companies would almost have to be scrambling to figure out how to deal with these changes.
Lets us dig.
(that one there is a real gem...it's from 1997...23 years ago reporting on what 2020 will look like..heh)
(that page says it was last reviewed on 13 Nov 2020, but all the data looks fairly old)
That last link may not work. I found it via a Google search on Oregon wildfires, top result, but I can’t get the page to load. Keep getting an error that says…
The http://www.statesmanjournal.com page isn’t working
http://www.statesmanjournal.com redirected you too many times.
ERR_TOO_MANY_REDIRECTS
No matter, Google has a “snippet” that pulled this from the article…
Oregon’s 2020 wildfire season brought a new level of destruction. … Severe drought, extreme winds and multiple ignitions fueled the most destructive wildfires in state history. Roughly 1.07 million acres burned during the 2020 season, the second-most on record. The cost to fight the fires was also high — $354 million. Oct 30, 2020
Source = Google 06 Dec 2020
You didn't click on a single one of those links above, did you?
Heh, I don’t blame you. This is my path, not yours. Unless of course it’s our path…in which case, welcome aboard, sailor.
Yesterday, saw George Soros referred to as “Uncle George”, and it got me to thinking about shady practices that keep money people positioned where they are or where they are comfortable. Nobody likes to be uncomfortable, and in order to maintain that comfort level you’ve become accustomed to, you may just have to skin a few sables or mink.
Me, as an underwriter, would sometimes be instructed to accept a premium payment, even tho the insured was only making a payment because A) their policy had lapsed, and B) they’d been involved in an accident during that period of non-coverage. More than that, I was instructed to accept the payment with no lapse in coverage. Meaning, we were willing to accept the claim that was sure to be coming. It could be said that the long-term benefits of doing as much was going to give us a customer for life. The company is being generous, understanding, and helping out someone in need. But then I started to learn more about the insurance processes, reinsurance, and I became a tad more skeptical as to the reason(s) for bending the rules or making exceptions. You bend the rules for this person, but not that one?
Hrm...what is going on here? I must know.
There are intricacies at work here with which I am unfamiliar. Why, would the powers, want elements of chaos in their rigid systems?
/me scratches chin whiskers and thinks.
If one remains master of the option, one does not become slave to their own creations. You create these rigid systems, whilst reserving the option to change them. That means these rules really do not apply to you. Others? Sure. These rules absolutely apply to others, but you have the option when and when not to apply them. Those whom you delegate your authority to? Yes, they better fucking follow the rules to the letter. Or at least ask when there is a question. All this means that not only do you create the black and white, this also means you control the grey. Now all you have to do is safely navigate all those agreements you’ve made.
Sounds stormy. I'm in.
What is the feminine for sailor? Is there one?
Sailorette?
Sounds like a product. Not that sex isn’t a product.
Speaking of products, ya know…this “cancel culture” bullshit has me to thinking. All you high and mighty social media powerhouses block the living shit out of people. Someone calls you out? Or says something you don’t like? Or maybe you wish to distance yourself from someone who is currently on the outs because of something they’ve said or done? Maybe even some in your own organization lobby you to close the social media door on a someone because it’ll be good for business?
You unfollow. You mute. You block.
You’re a bandwagon jumper as much as anyone else, a high-powered bandwagon jumper at that, so I really don’t see how you have the right to piss and moan about “cancel culture”. You’re the one setting the fucking trend(s) in the first place by making a big show of distancing yourself from things that hurt your own bottom line. You’re steering the ship, driving the bus and all the while you’re complaining about your own driving.
lolz
Thinking about this because two nights ago I made a suggestion for the upcoming Underdog Anthology 13 book name…
Can Sell Culture
I guess I coulda went with “Can’t Sell Culture”, but history has more than aptly demonstrated that, yes, you can sell culture.
(playing on “you can tune a piano, but you can't tune a fish”)
Trying to stay within the “2020 = A Fucking Nightmare” motif, and thinking about UK fishing rights/EU, the way(s) these new vaccines work with respect to cells, all the throes social media has gone through this year because of lockdown, all the culture wars bullshit, all the trade wars bullshit, we’re told that this year has been a fucking nightmare. But with respect to the book title, I keep thinking that a break from the obvious might be the most shocking and horrifying title one could come up with.
It's The Most Wonderful Time Of The Fear
“2020/MMXX – The Year Of The Fear” (and the Year Of The Rat) will be ending soon. 2021 is right around the corner. Year Of The Ox. Bulls and bears and wolves…oh my!
❤ XOXO ❤
John Lamb Lash announced the other day that he will not be doing any more talks. Not for YouTube anyway. No more freebies. No more sample products. No more Gnostic Intel, no more Sophia’s Correction, no more Charlotte Working, no more data on how to navigate these turbid and tempest-tossed waters. The drug has either hooked you and you now need to pony up to get your fix, or join the kebosh or zenosh or whatever in the fuck it is and suffer the consequences of destruction and eternal damnation. Which, that reminds me of something I saw yesterday…
I tried to better simplify his simplification…
I guess I outsimpletoned him…
I’ve heard this argument before. Right vs Privilege, and “taxes are a right”. Meaning, it’s a loopy way of creating a right that demands recompense. We have the right to demand services from our government, which means that paying for this/these service(s) is also a right. The government has a right to demand taxes, and we have a right to pay them because it gives us the right to demand service. You do not have the right to not pay, and they do not have the right to refuse service.
Afterall, we paid, right?
This eventually boils down to the seed of discontent, and an argument to do away with free and open elections, and/or, abolish the party system(s). No telling who is gonna get elected, not telling who they will appoint, and no telling if all of these partisan peeps are gonna give me what I need/want. Even in the professional/more permanent government employees, they are citizens too, they are going to have political affiliations, so its possible that their political views will clash with my own and they will not give me what I need/want. Abolish the parties, and all this polarized and partisan nonsense goes away. No one is left out or punished for their political views, because there are no political views. Just one big happy family living in harmony. Pay your dues, get your booze…simple.
FYI, you need more than one sound to make a harmony. Not to mention that single unwavering frequencies can be damn destructive.
It would appear that there is something built-in/embedded into our Universe that says…I just flat do not want to exist. Or at least, I don’t want to exist for long. Not here, not now, and not like this…I, do not want to exist under these conditions. Hrm…now, where have I heard this tune before?
You belong to the state. You were born into it. Ain’t no escaping it. Unless of course you renounce your current state in order to pledge allegiance to another state. You still belong to the state. A state.
A: ???
Yeah, this. All this nonsense currently talked about with respect to two Presidents and the country splitting and civil war and all that. Republics don’t have the best of track records. Our forefathers (and mothers) had to know that divisions were going to form at some point and this nation would face endless trials. Question is, did they see it coming, and did they leave us any clues as to how we might proceed? Can we continue to follow your rules, and play your game, your way, and still enjoy a life of our own? Did you protect us with your Constitution? Leave pearly pearls of wisdom in there to guide us? Or did you enslave us, doom us to be fodder for the machine?
Tough questions for sure. Lots to think about.
Perhaps I’m a soppy idealist, but it never really bothered me who was in the White House. They’re an American, and that’s good enough for me irrespective of their politics. The US President is just one of many thousands of politicians in this country, and top to bottom, there ain’t a one of them who could not make my life a living hell if they really wanted to. Some jerkweed on the city council, to a piece of shit state judge, to some dickhead senior senator in the US Congress…lotta power and powers in this country.
Not all of them are elected either. Lots of professionals in the system, and they too can be sand in the engine block if they so choose. Thing is, all these elected folk they’re all sure to be…Americans. Same with the professional folks. They are either citizens, or on their way to being one. They have to have some interest in this country, otherwise, they wouldn’t be here. Could people come to this country, become citizens, and try and work their way into places in order to fuck things up? Of course. Nothing new about that. Moles of all types in all places and foreign influences of all types have been around forever, and it appears they will be around forever, so why not just accept it and deal with it. Let the processes work, and don’t tear down the whole fucking infrastructure just because shit isn’t moving along at a pace that better fits your own personal desires. A little patience might serve you. Afterall, you don’t want someone coming along and picking you up in the morning, then throwing your broken remains into a shallow hole later the same day…do ya?
Nah...I didn't think so.
So…you’re telling me that the US Postal Service handles somewhere in the neighborhood of half a billion pieces of mail each and every day, and yet once every four years we somehow cannot count about 150 million ballots for a single checkmark?
Something doesn't add up here.
There have to be literally thousands of people running for various offices all over the country, and yet you cannot zero in on a single checkmark in a single column for a single race that is the only goddamn nationwide race in the whole fucking country?
Something doesn't add up here.
Most states are likely to only have two candidates on the ballot who are running for US President, so you are telling me that you have a 50/50 shot at getting it right, and you still cannot fucking get it right?
Something doesn't add up here.
BTW, how in the FUCK did a single company get a majority nationwide franchise (30 states I read) on providing voting machines?
Something doesn't add up here.
Are you really telling me that each and every state doesn’t have at least one fucking state-based service provider who could provide that state with voting machines?
Something doesn't add up here.
What’s the matter? You don’t trust the states and their people to do the right thing? Worried about franchising? Can’t you rotate the shit? Are the big companies too worried about getting dealt a small state?
Something doesn't add up here.
And what the fuck is this nonsense about voting data being sent out of the country then coming back in? Why in the bloody hell would voting data ever need to leave the country, its states, or its territories?
Something doesn't add up here.
Gonna leave this space more or less blank because I need to run have a quick fap.
brb
Oh yeah, I feel much better. How about you?
So very naughty. So very, very naughty.
A prank like that might gain you a sock to the jaw, but it just may be worth it…lolz…the song that just came up in my playlist is called…Windwalker.
Fucking rofl.
I’ve watched more politics in the past 1 or 2 months than in the previous 10 – 15 years.
Nothing appears to have changed.
I now have three friends on Facebook.
Ironically, it’s the same three friends I have on Twitter.
lol
I am popularity.
Have made a decision to rip the rest of this post out, and put it in the next one. That way, I’m not sending a 15+ page post to Roob, and she doesn’t have a seizure when she sees it. Nor will she be as likely to develop PTSD after having to edit/format it.
That ok with you/ya'll?
Cool…THX…you’re very sweet. Oh, and the colors theme, will continue.
Assuming you even noticed.
*Indeed, that very idea was mooted at this morning’s team meeting, Clicky… /stubs butt…*
Library of Libraries 