I Have a Dog Named Gus

BBQ

dan@danielrobertmaurer.com (Dan) — Fri, 02 Jul 2010 12:41:00 +0000

Since I came home from the desert, I stopped caring for fireworks. The splashes of red fire like blood across the night sky and the distant explosions like unseen mortars striking schools convinced me these patriotic holidays are for chicken hawks, children, and dutiful citizens who have never seen their own things blown up. Have you seen a school or hospital after a mortar attack? First you find the living, then the dead, then the fragments.

The Fourth fell on the weekend after the big storms. Remember those? Tore off roofs in that small town not far from us? One of the branches had fallen on my car and cracked the windshield. The ground was still wet and the bugs were as ever-present as the Holy Ghost. It was hours before nightfall, before the fools around me would blow up whatever explosive devices made it across on the boats from China.

And they wonder why they have no jobs.

Outside, in the shared driveway with my neighbor, I was looking at that windshield. Since they "fixed" it, it made a noise like a bee. The gasket was loose, I could see that much. That was when I found it. The uhh, bird. Down on the vent, kind of nestled under the windshield wipers. It was more like a chick than a bird. More like a fetus than a chick. Still curved round like it was stuck in the egg. It, of course, wasn't moving. It was a dried out child. I've seen that before. What, don't you think bombs explode in zoos and kill other living things?

God has taken sides against us, and we can't possibly blame him. And I don't mean us like some kind of flat-footed fathead thinks; I mean everyone. He's against everything on this round rock and in this goddamned universe.

I just stood there and stared at the thing. And I thought to myself even then that I must have a prosthetic heart to not feel this. To not feel anything as I picked it up--not even gently--and threw it in the trash. When I told Diane about it she was horrified. She made me get the little fetal bird out of the blue trash can from in between the black trash bags and the white fast food wrappers from our cars.

She got on her knees and started to dig a small grave for it with a gardening shovel. This was near where she had buried the cats, the fishes, the gerbils, the tarantula, and the snake that the kids felt bad about feeding live mice to.

Do you know how long it takes a snake to starve to death? The question isn't rhetorical. It turns out the answer is, "A very long time."

It was getting late and the fireworks would start soon. I told Diane I needed to get inside soon as they usually went off over the house and I didn't want to start freaking out. Like last year. She glared at me standing there. She went back to digging this tiny grave.

Last time I saw a woman kneeling next to a grave, it was her own just before someone killed her "Honorably."

So when my wife was kneeling in front of this one for some stupid bird, and the fireworks started going off overhead, I barely made it into the house before I fell down and curled up.

And when my grandfather came wheeling himself into the living room to leave the house, he called me a coward. I wanted to ask him if, on the streets of Dresden, were there any fragments left?

But he wouldn't know. His flat feet kept him behind a desk.

He always loved the fireworks.

When You Are Less Than Average

dan@danielrobertmaurer.com (Dan) — Fri, 02 Jul 2010 03:25:00 +0000

It's partially because I've been feeling abysmal lately, but I actually have been thinking of this kind of thing a bit, lately.

I saw a link (via) to a post on some guy named Derek Sivers' blog called "I assume I'm below average." I quoth:

I listen more. I ask a lot of questions.

I've stopped thinking others are stupid. I assume most people are smarter than me.

To assume you're below average is to admit you're a beginner. It puts you in student mind.

It keeps your focus on present practice and future possibilities, and away from any past accomplishments.

I don't know. I've found it to be a reasonable assumption on my part. This fucks people up, because they want confidence. I don't care, I just want to be correct. Sometimes this isn't 100% possible.

It seems to me to be a sad place where people prefer vague guesses to accuracy and sound decisions. See also: politics, interpersonal interactions, determining a personal identity, etc.

That's Why We Have a Cat #fridayflash

dan@danielrobertmaurer.com (Dan) — Fri, 11 Jun 2010 04:34:00 +0000

My husband is skipping around the house, wearing dark green waders, and screaming "I am King of the Earwigs." In between reminders to the citizens of his monarchy, he's blowing bubbles with a giant bubble-kit. I am pretty sure he has lost it (if he ever had it). The neighbor, some tart named Lois Englebrecht, is peeking out between her blinds. I can't say I blame her. If her husband was running around screaming I would stare, too.

It started with his hair. Just two days ago, he was sleeping in his chair in the family room (he had fallen asleep during a failed attempt to finish "Fletch") when he woke suddenly and started yelling. He had two of the little gross bugs in his hair. One was threatening to go in his ear, but, ironically, his ear-hair got tangled around those pinching things they have. He woke-up with a start, like he realized he was late for work or something, and just started yelling and batting at his head. "Get it off! Get it off!" he yelled. I went to him with a bit of toilet paper and plucked the damn things off his head. He shuddered and ran upstairs and spent the next hour looking in the mirror, convinced that there were more.

The next day, he came home after work with a small army of small figurines that were able to blow bubbles.

"Got these at the toy store. Gene at work said that soap water dissolves their exo-skeleton. I'm going to kick all of their carapaces." He set up these bubble-blowing machines like sentry guns at each doorway and low window.

During the day, I had already bought some pesticide. I have no idea if the soap thing really works, but really, if we had decent gutters the water wouldn't be all next to the house creating a breeding ground...but that's boring, I'm sure.

When he first started these outbursts, I would cry for hours and eventually they would go away. I talked to his doctor in private and she said that his brain was sleeping but his body was not; he would run around and, with the input from his head and his senses, act out dreams. Since he's been unemployed, he just sleeps all the time anyway. What he needed was a restart and the best way to do that was to simply knock him out and let his brain "reboot."

This morning I woke up and saw him sitting on the corner of the bed, rocking. "Can't sleep, things'll eat me brains," he said.

"Paul, you're an English teacher; use proper grammar," I told him. He turned his head slowly to look at me. I thought it'd turn all the way like an owl or little girl posessed.

"You want them to win. You're with them. Well, you have no power. I control them, now. I AM KING OF THE EARWIGS! I shall teach them the proper grammar. They shall not overthrow!"

That was about the time I left. About an hour ago, I got home and I'm now here, surrounded by a platoon of bubble blowing machines. He said that I absolutely had to sit on my throne and remain unmolested by the revolution. A coup, he said. He gave me the remote. I just sat there and watched TV for a while. I noted one of the bubble blowing machines was not keeping up.

"PAUL!" I yell. "PAUL! GET IN HERE, WE HAVE A SABOTEUR!" He trudges in. Since I've last seen him, he's found and put on an old gas mask and is carrying a large yellow metal Tonka truck--old school. He's wearing mismatched gardening gloves.

"What!" he yells through the mask. I can barely hear him.

"We have a traitor," and I look over the platoon carefully, stopping on an older Winnie the Pooh that appears to not be blowing as many bubbles as the others.

"I'll kill the bastard," I think he says, reaching for the offending obese plastic bear. As he is bent over, I take my chance and sink the syringe I've been hiding since I got home into his butt. He lets out a roar that sounds more like a disappointed sigh through the gas mask.

I sit there and and wait for him to fall. It takes just a moment, but he falls right down in the middle of the living room floor.

Now that I think about it, this was by far the longest time. Usually, these didn't go on more than eight hours. If it's been days, that means he's been sleeping for days. And if he's been sleeping for days, what does that mean?

I look down at him. Something is happening. I get down and roll him onto his side. He's not a big guy, so he rolls easily. If he pukes, I don't want him to choke; what a horrible way to go. He's never even been a rock star.

When I get him on his side, his mouth lolls open. I think I can see something dark moving in there. I get up, go get a flashlight, then head back to him. I feel something in my hair, so I brush it away and turn on the flashlight.

I get on my knees and open his mouth and look inside. In there, something inhuman is writhing.

Pyrite, Part 7

dan@danielrobertmaurer.com (Dan) — Mon, 07 Jun 2010 15:00:00 +0000

They were all strapped down into chairs in what was the comm. Now everything was locked down. Sinead had a tablet on her lap, as did Sherry. The plan was to run the casks into the asteroid, hopefully hard enough to turn the asteroid so that when the reactor blew, it would head toward Luna rather than Earth. They could set the reactor off on purpose, if they wanted, or wait until it went on its own. The Leech could not re-enter an atmosphere directly, so they needed somewhere airless to land.

They decided to do it anyway, even if it wouldn't work. It wouldn't work because the ion drives were not going to push the tonnage fast enough. They normally didn't have to hurry.

"Better to have some attempt to control destiny," Sinead said. "Even if it isn't going to work. We ready?"

"Yeah," Sherry said. "Got no choice but to be ready."

Stanley and Opie looked at each other. They had tablets in affixed to the sides of their chairs, but they were un-powered now. They were passengers on this particular flight.

"Can we use some of our landing rockets to assist with the turn?" Opie suggested.

"No fuel to do both that and land. Used it all on approach and landing with about a minute of it to spare. It's already a rough landing. Fuel to leave towards our re-entry station was due in 2 resupply cycles." She then looked at King. "Drop one."

"Too late," Sherry said.

They could feel it. The Leech held fast, but on the other side of their apple core, the fusion reactor exploded.

"Well, that's not going to be good," Stanley said.

And they waited in silence for a moment.

"Hold on, everyone," Sinead said, "This might not be fun."

Sinead made some kind of motion on her tablet and three explosive bolts blew up and released The Leech from the docking apparatus embedded into the rock. Very little momentum was felt, but they were now drifting away from their rock. Sinead then tapped again, and they felt a slow push in one direction.

"This will give us a chance. We are going to try to let the asteroid go. Sherry, can we still communicate with the casks? We need them to help push us toward Luna or we burn up."

"I don't know. They may have been damaged. I don't know if the ion drives can catch them up to us, they're not made to..."

"Send whatever you can toward us en route to the moon. It's our new home. Sorry everyone, even if we're a skid-mark across the Sea of Tranquility it'll be better than living on Earth after..." and she drifted off. They all knew.

Sherry punched at her tablet again and again.

"Sinead?"

They all looked at Sherry and she shook her head "No."

Pyrite, Part 6

dan@danielrobertmaurer.com (Dan) — Sun, 06 Jun 2010 15:00:00 +0000

Sinead immediately tried to bring up direct communications to Earth, but there was nothing. Not a single delayed word. Then Luna. Nothing. But this was only the most obvious problem.

King went to check on the power station. If they were stranded, they might be here a while. A few minutes later, she came back. "You need to see this," she said to Sinead. "That bastard."

"You keep saying that word, Sherry. I do not think it means what you think it means," Sinead said.

"Oh, I know what it means," and she brought up the screen she had been looking at on Sinead's tablet. A diagram of the reactor appeared and the critical readings were crowded together, but even a fool could see the problem. Another window was half-hidden underneath the diagrams and it displayed the a definition of "bastard."

"How long until it blows?"

+++

"The numbers aren't moving in a predictable pattern. No more than an hour, but it could be 10 minutes for all we know."

"What will happen?"

"Well, the explosion will not kill us, which is fortunate. But what it will do is send us in the opposite direction of the explosion. In this case, because the process that put this asteroid in place mirrored the poles with the Earth so we could stay in constant contact, we'll end up in the approximate vicinity of Polaris in several thousand years."

Sinead thought about it. "Starting from this population, I would not want to deal with the inbreeding situation that far down the road."

"At least we'll have interstellar radiation mutating our descendants in new and interesting ways."

Sinead just half stood/floated there and thought. Then she said, "Seriously, though, can The Leech handle that?"

"The explosion is far enough away. We're still six klicks from the other end of this thing, and all the rock that remains is directly between us and it. I wouldn't want to do it on purpose, but we'll probably be fine. We wouldn't get into interstellar space, of course. What it'd do is it'd just kick us out of the Legrange point and we'd crash into Earth. We'd never even have a chance to get out of that gravity well."

"Great," Stanley said as he came in, "another trip on a rocket, right?"

"Close. Just a rocket with one solid push. Do you think Evans knew? About crashing a giant asteroid into the Earth?"

"Perhaps. Probably not," King said. "As much as I'd like to think him terribly evil right now, he probably didn't think it through. Who wants to land a giant rock on their home planet which could kill millions?"

Pause.

"Billions," King said. "Forget I asked."

Sinead asked, "How long to coordinate the trajectory for a safe landing of the cargo?"

"Not long under normal circumstances, perhaps a half-hour on the outside for all five," Sherry said. The programs went through various paths to determine the most economic path for the rocks for the given desired landing site. Weather on Earth was even accounted for. Normally, some of this processing was off-loaded to supercomputer clouds on the surface, but it would all have to be done here.

Sinead looked at the log files for the communications. There it was. In the middle of the last transmission from Evans was a new program update for their fusion reactor and the communications. Damn pushed updates. It'd take days to hunt down either problem and undo the damage if it was something stupidly simple. Sinead was sure that it wasn't stupid or simple. Evans wasn't a physicist, but he used to be a programmer of notoriety and skill.

"Well, let's get that started. At least the bastard won't get rich before the world ends."

Sherry smiled and then stopped. Her face slackened and her eyes looked out at nothing. Sinead stared and wondered what was wrong. Then Sherry brightened and said, "What if we crash one into us?"

Pyrite, Part 5

dan@danielrobertmaurer.com (Dan) — Sat, 05 Jun 2010 15:00:00 +0000

They spent an hour talking.

"So, where are we?" Sinead asked. "Recap."

"Destroy it, eject it from the solar system, put it in orbit somewhere hidden, or return it to Earth," Opie said.

"Well, good, see, we're getting somewhere. We thought there were two options. Now there are four. And if we multiply that by the number of rocks we got, that's twenty options."

Stanley, "Why are you doing this? Have you already decided? Is this just a ruse to make it feel like a group decision?"

"I do have an opinion, but I am open to compromise or changing my mind."

"And that opinion is what?" Sherry asked.

"Destroy the whole lot, as ordered."

A minute of silence.

Sherry said, "I think we drop it on Earth as we have been, but not all in one place, but scattered across the globe."

"Reasons?"

"To distribute the risk of one group monopolizing the whole lot for their own enrichment. The decent packages we attach can ensure it falls gently within a few hundred miles of a given point."

"Okay, why?"

"Because it would be useful. Gold has plenty of uses, only some of which can be tapped because of the rarity. We have more here than is available on earth, pretty much. Everything else is locked up in current applications, jewelry, and other junk."

They were all silent for a moment, except for the console emitting small beeps

"Why shouldn't we take it all?" Opie asked. They all look at him, "It's a purely hypothetical question. Someone has to ask it." He had in his hand a pad of paper and a pencil, the paper covered in numbers. Opie had used a not insignificant part of his mass allotment for this launch for paper and pencils. Everyone else used electronic tablets that the company provided and they weighed much less.

"Well, I don't really know how we'd get rid of that stuff," Stanley said. "A fence? Like in the movies?"

"I suppose Guido 'The Fence' Salerno or whatever at Alpha Beta Base on Luna would give us billions--" Sherry said.

A new small sound came from other speakers. It was a new incoming video transmission. The screen lit up, video of Evans made translucent, waiting for them to accept the transmission. He picked at his teeth, looked nervous.

Sinead, "Well, I suppose we have to decide soon." She then made her way to accept the transmission. After she hit the button, Evans faded into full color. A few seconds later, he started talking.

"The contract addendum is en route for your review and e-signatures."

Sherry said, "And?"

"That's it."

"You look a little shaken, Evans."

"No. Just tired. When the signatures are confirmed on this end, we want you to destroy the gold. Set it on a trajectory toward Venus."

"Them," Sinead corrected him.

"Set them on a trajectory toward Venus. Whatever. Listen. You can read it in the contract, but you'll be now part of a strict non-disclosure agreement with the company regarding this. Even in the company you'll only talk to me. Understood?"

Sinead furrowed her brow. "I don't like the sound of that."

"Well, we don't want it to leak that we destroyed a fortune on purpose."

Opie said, from behind Sinead, "Wouldn't the gold be worth more to the company than the futures could possibly be?" He held up the pad of paper he had been holding to the screen, as if it contained all answers in the known universe.

And everyone looked at Opie and his paper. And Evans was quiet. And suddenly they understood.

"You bastard, you've been buying the futures and the company doesn't even know." Sherry said to Evans. "You're just going to destroy the lot of it and after the news hits and the prices go crazy, you'll cash in it all." He smiled a few seconds later. They saw him push a button out of sight below the screen, and his face blurred for an instant.

"Good thing you all have excellent life insurance or I would feel much guiltier for this," he said. The transmission ended.

Pyrite, Part 4

dan@danielrobertmaurer.com (Dan) — Fri, 04 Jun 2010 15:00:00 +0000

A week later, Stanley and Sherry were outside of The Leech doing maintenance on the Colbert unit. Someone clogged the toilet. Badly. It was actually Stanley, but he was embarrassed and didn't want to admit it; so he blamed it on Opie.

"Shit," Sherry said.

"What?"

"Shit. Everywhere. Just look."

And it was. And it floated everywhere. Some of it landed on the rock they stood on. A bit of it flew off into space. Stanley laughed.

"What?" Trevaskevich asked.

"Oh, sorry. Just childish potty-mouthing."

"Quite."

A handful of the casks now orbited the Legrange point above them. These were sufficient to hold the mass of gold that had been found. Likely one of the casks would burn through and disintegrate in the atmosphere before the parachute and landing mechanisms could be deployed. The method had not been foolproofed, but it was profitable enough.

While they were returning to The Leech for break and lunch, Cohen called over the radio to them, "Trevaskevich, King, return to the comm. Evans is back with further instructions."

"On our way," Sherry said.

They made their way around to the airlock, entered, cycled, entered the main area, then undressed from their suits. They then made their way through the neck of the building. They were headed to the comm when they heard Opie shouting "No!" They started to hurry, but Stanley mis-judged the last turn and flew through the comm.

"Oh, crap!" he said just before Cohen plucked him out of the air while she held onto a hand-hold.

"No, not crap, shit!" Sherry yelled.

Evans laughed on screen. Even Opie smiled. Stanley re-oriented himself and went to a chair. As he sat down, he saw the gold price ticker King had installed on another screen showed steady downward progress.

"Everyone OK? Okay," Cohen said and looked at Stanley. He nodded. She turned back to the screen, "Sorry, Evans. You were telling us the company wants us to drop the gold into Venus."

"And I was yelling, 'No!'"

"And I was just about to say that the final decision had been reached. If there is some good science to be done by where you crash it on Venus, by all means, go for it, but the gold must be destroyed."

"It's an element. We can't destroy it, really," Stanley said.

"No," Opie said, like he didn't have an argument and just liked repeating himself.

They all looked at Cohen. She looked at one of the screens with Evans.

Cohen said, "As the material is yours, we will do what you ask. We just want some futures right now."

Evans smiled, teeth showing."

"Well, you're all already rich. The billions we've paid you and your families is--"

"Not relevant." She spoke over him, the time-delay quite annoying at this distance.

"--still not enough for--wait, what?"

"Not. Relevant," she said. "Futures for me and everyone aboard this ship. We haven't destroyed it yet. For all we know, someone won't be discovering an awesome use for all this metal tomorrow."

"I see."

"Anyway, we all have some maintenance on The Leech's Colbert unit to perform." She paused. "Unless you want us to send actual feces down with the next shipment."

"Nope. Not at all. We have enough of that down here."

"We look forward to an addendum to our contracts. Out."

She pushed a button and the screen went back to the photo of her family back on earth, icons scattered over smiling faces.

"They will be destroying this gold if we send it down or not," she said as she closed her eyes and rubbed them with her palms. "It's just a matter of timing and getting what we want out of it."

"How?" Opie asked.

"Claim it radioactive. Smelt it and make it a giant block on the bottom of the ocean. Ocean is filled with gold anyway." She turned toward her crew. "Stanley, you were right, we all know that. What we do today will set precedent--"

King interrupted "Then why did you ask for futures. You want to destroy it to get richer."

"No. Not at all. Well, not quite. If we destroy it, we win, but...by demanding that, I indicated that I...we are part of the deal. We have the same goal as them. We can take a little more time, then. If we do or not, we still can decide. If we take orders, we jump; if we act like we're still in possession of the thing, we still have leverage."

They were all quiet.

"Listen, the company owns this rock. We're here because if them."

"But," Opie said, "Do they, whoever they are, have a right to destroy it?"

Another moment. Something inconsequential beeped.

"Because that's what we agreed when we signed the contract. Now, we need to figure out if we uphold that. What are the options?"

Useful Idiot #fridayflash

dan@danielrobertmaurer.com (Dan) — Fri, 04 Jun 2010 06:08:00 +0000

"Blessed is he that has found his work! Let him ask no other blessedness."--Carlye

Name is Brett. Well, at least you think it is. You wouldn't know otherwise. Could be Clint, or Evan, or Napoleon. Well, probably not the last one. You're not stupid, just ignorant. Well, at least you think you aren't stupid.

I have been secretly working for the U.S. government anti-anti-anti-terrorist branch for 14 years. The AAATF. I could figure out what the As and the T stood for easily enough, but the F? Force? Probably, but again, maybe not. Never heard of it? Well, you're not supposed to. It's so secret I didn't even know I was working for it. In fact, I don't know if you're not working for any of the organizations I'm working against. Or for. Or whatever.

I learned this when I witnessed a car crash. Well, not the crash itself, but what happened after.

It was a minor variation to my routine, through some neighborhood, on the way home. I turned onto a different side street. When I got about 30 yards away, I heard two cars crash. They didn't slam together with a metal thunder like in the movies, but it sounded flat like a shitty snare drum. I ran to help. I opened his car door and reached across to unbuckle and check for injuries. He was still breathing. I looked on the other seat and saw a picture of me clipped to a manila file folder. My (real) name and my (supposed) workplace were on the tab on top. On the front of the folder, stamped in red ink were the words "Useful Idiot".

So, I did what any person would. I took it.

I shoved it under my shirt. I went to my car and just drove off. I hadn't hit anyone, so, no harm no foul. No witnesses other than me. The other driver looked knocked out, too.

I suddenly felt...debonaire.

Until I got home. Then my teenage son said to me, "What the hell are you swaggering for?"

I was angry, "You will bloody well use proper grammar when you're around me. No prepositions at the end of the sentence, boy."

"What's with the accent?" he asked. "You're not British. You sound like a tart from the West End." (See, fooled you with the male names up there. I'm clever like that. He could have called me a douche-bag. You don't even know what I have in my pants now!)

I sent the little bastard to his room.

I am important and no-one can know it.

I ran up to our home office with this envelope under my shirt. I got up there and closed and locked the door. I pulled the paper shredder out and turned it on and started reading. My whole life was in there. Well, the important bits anyway. Credit card histories. Shred. Academic histories. Shred. Notes on my wife. (Think that gives anything about me away, do you!? Hah! Or maybe not!) Shred. Well, maybe not that. Everything. Even Internet sites I had memberships on...even the ones I didn't tell anyone about. Shred!

Then something about my father. Mother. Siblings, if I have them. Not my adoptive parents, but my biological parents. That was not the weird thing. It was that they were the same people. They told me I was adopted. Well, they told us all (the possibly imaginary brother and/or sister) we were. They told us that one of was adopted and that they wouldn't tell which unless and until it became a medical emergency. It was like being part of a firing squad. Now I knew it wasn't me. Yahtzee!

I'm totally going to call and rub it in? Childish? Hell yeah! Do I care? Hell no!

Was that a good thing, though. Because they loved her more--I could just tell--and did they only keep me around because I was just genetic material?

Doesn't matter. I'm important to the government. I'm so important. They even gave me a title. They call me "Patsy." Like my favorite singer.

Just kidding. I know what that means. I just work and push the Inter-tubes around and around, looking for just the right data. It's just I just learned what I am really looking for.

Wouldn't they be surprised if I found it. Wouldn't you be surprised if I found it in your email and the boys with the flak jackets came knocking?

The Reality of a Corporation

dan@danielrobertmaurer.com (Dan) — Fri, 04 Jun 2010 02:37:00 +0000

Let us first put aside the concept that everything might not really exist. One thing that can be said, with certainty, to not really exist is a corporation. A corporation is a legal fiction. No-one can point and say, "Lo, I see Microsoft" in the way we say, "Hey, look at my accountant, Jim, over there." Without the State, the corporation does not exist. (Of course, the State exists in a similar quandry, but that's beyond the scope of this here.) The corporation's entire existance is owed to the government and the laws that government has enacted. A sole proprieter can still be pointed to and considered to exist.

In this State (the United States, not Illinois), those corporations are considered people. This is the result of a Supreme Court decision. I think this is in error, because it allows fictions to have certain legal rights as a person. In other States, the corporations may exist under other sets of rules. Or they might not exist at all. People, however, do. And, given that the corporation's sole purpose is to create profit for itself and its shareholders, that farce of a real person is more like a sociopath than a well-rounded person.

(This is the same line of thinking that makes certain cartoons illegal; not because Bart Simpson (for example) is a copyrighted character, but because of who that character is in the fictional universe.)

Anyway, so what does this mean?

It means that, as a fiction created by the State, the State has a right to define and change how those fictions are defined and what rules they must obey through its laws.

Recently, Dr. Rand Paul indicated that certain parts of a Civil Rights Act was infringing on the rights of a buisiness to do its buisiness as it sees fit. This is true of an individual, yes. But once a corporation is formed it becomes its own legal fiction, suseptible to all the machinations of the State because it lives in the "mind" of the State. It exists because the State says so, not because it lives with any independant existence beyond that fiction.

This is important now as ENDA winds its way through legislation. This is important now as BP fails to stop the spill in the Gulf of Mexico. This is especially important in light of recent decisions by that same Supreme Court giving corporations the ability to fully use their dollars to "speak." Because, really, they do not have mouths to do so. Or, even, a sentient mind.

"But," is an objection, "What about people. We could just define people as legal fictions, too." Yes, you could. But that would be incorrect, as they seem to exist. Corporations are not corporeal.

"Corporations have brought unforseen wealth to lots of people." "You wouldn't be able to write this without a corporation." True and true. Just because they are a legal fiction doesn't mean that fiction is bad; it means that it exists at the pleasure of the legal system that it is formed under. And the legal system exists (ideally) at the pleasure of the people who created it.

Pyrite, Part 3

dan@danielrobertmaurer.com (Dan) — Thu, 03 Jun 2010 15:00:00 +0000

At 0600 GMT, they woke and began their daily maintenance checks, then breakfast, then exercise. Around 0800, they were notified of an incoming transmission and moved toward the comm. Evans' face was translucent on the main screen, waiting for someone to acknowledge the message and start a return video feed. There were dark circles around his eyes, and the same tie from yesterday was still around his neck, loosened. The beard shadow was obvious even from millions of miles away.

The crew of The Leech all maneuvered into their chairs. Sinead waited until her crew were all in and settled before accepting the incoming feed. A little red light turned flashed on and off. The camera and mics were on.

"Evans," Sinead said, "Were all here. What have you got?"

"Package and prep, but don't send. As soon as you figure out how much there is, let me know as soon as possible. The market is going crazy. They didn't expect this. The price of gold has dropped drastically and is still falling. We're going to see how much of this stuff pans out." Evans showed a tired smile. "Pans out? Get it? Like panning for gold?"

"Get some sleep, Evans," Cohen said, "Your puns are showing."

"Good night, all."

+++

The Leech was situated on the north pole of the asteroid and a small fusion reactor was on the south. This was so if any micrometeorites that struck the reactor, even if it caused a massive explosion, no harm would come to the crew directly. Unfortunately, with as much mass as had been removed from the asteroid, such an explosion had been theorized as being able to knock the asteroid out of the Lagrange point and into some other point in the Earth/Moon System.

The power went through a massive cable and to The Leech. Additionally, there was another cable connected to a wireless power-transfer site near the mining operations proper, which was near what used to be the equator.

Trevaskevich looked at the robot's screen and lined it up against the gold and turned it on. The gold was cut with high-voltage sparks, collected a twenty kilos or so at a time and catapulted just above escape velocity into a waiting cask almost out of sight above. With a communications tablet, King kept an eye on the ion drive on the cask that counter-acted the energy of the thrown chunks of gold. One person could do both jobs, but there were two for safety's sake.

The first missions used drills and mechanical means to cut off the material. Lasers were used for one mission until some careless fool took out a communications satellite orbiting Luna with a misplaced cutting stroke.

Stanley invented this technique and patented the machine that performed this work. That was why he was hired in the first place. This was known reliable tech based on old-school electrical discharge machining. It was faster and fewer replacement parts were required. Sometimes an electrode blew, but those were able to be manufactured out of the asteroid itself, which cut down on the load on the monthly resupply cargo drops.

Stanley yawned big in his helmet. Sherry saw him and yawned, too. They laughed. Yawned again.

When nothing went wrong, it was boring. And nothing went wrong that day, or any other day of the extraction.

+++

When Sinead sent a secured message to Evans about how much gold there was, she wrote "approximately 100 tons."

Evans responded with, "LOL."

Pyrite, Part 2

dan@danielrobertmaurer.com (Dan) — Wed, 02 Jun 2010 15:00:00 +0000

The Leech's air dock doors irised open into the rather large prep area afforded to them. In addition to the equipment neatly put away, this area quadrupled as exercise, relaxation, and sleep area. Trevaskevich glided in. Opie was waiting for him.

"We got Evans on speaker," Opie said. "Video in a minute on account of Earth weather. Come to the comm when you get your suit off."

"Okay. I'll just take a second," Stanley said. Opie left, which was fortunate because Stanley had gas. Would be rude to fart in the face of second-in-command.

The suit was designed to be able to be removed by one person via a password tapped into a keypad. on the forearm. He typed the password and he felt the magnetic seal release. The suit pieces started drifting slowly to the ground. If he left now, he could get to the other end of The Leech and back before they touched the grated floor. He let the pieces drift and start their slow tumble. He would come back for them soon enough.

Trevaskevich pushed and glided toward the comm, which another large room on the opposite side of dumbbell shaped The Leech.

Sinead Cohen, Opie, and Sherry King were all already in the comm, sitting in seats facing a screen in the "front" of the ship/base with Evans' face on it. Stanley could hear Evans over some speakers. "Well, it's an interesting vote. We'll have to see what tack the president takes. He's facing a tough challenge from his former VP." Political talk. It never ended.

Cohen noticed Stanley come in and sit down. So did Evans. There were a few cameras around this room.

"Stanley? Great. Let's get started. So don't we begin with what you found, Stanley?"

"Gold."

A couple seconds later, time enough for light to go between the Earth and them twice plus a little for processing, Evans said, "Yes, I think we have all established that. Anything further? Quantities? Qualities? So on?"

"Tons of it. I've encountered an area at least twenty meters across of unknown depth."

"Tons? Seriously?"

"Seriously," Trevaskevich said. "As a cardiac arrest."

"Tons?"

"Yes, Evans, are you having technical trouble down there?" Trevaskevich asked.

"Tons? In your gravity?"

"Shut up. You know what I mean. Tons of mass."

Evans smiled. Opie floated off a little of his chair before grabbing and pulling himself down. He shook his big head and asked. "Well, what do we do with it?"

"I'm afraid that might be a little bit beyond my pay grade. I'll have to get back to you tomorrow. Okay?"

Sinead said, "Understood. We'll just wait until we hear from you."

"Yup, just sit on it, Leech. Take the rest of the day off. Out."

Evans cut out.

A console beeped. Three of them just sat and looked at each other. Opie floated around, pencil and paper in hand, scribbling. He had used a not insignificant portion of his mass allotment on pencils and paper. He only used the tablets when he needed information.

Trevaskevich looked around. Sherry shook her head. Cohen was looking at the blank screen. She swore.

"How much?" he asked. "How many tons of mass."

Stanley shrugged. "Pointless speculation. Could be a 2 inch thick plate or a cube of significant size. We're near the center, where the heavier elements would be...so...who knows?" He started to get up, but stopped half-way, which caused him to continue floating slowly up. "It's very strange. It's not embedded in the iron like we see on Earth. It's just there."

"I think this is a bigger problem," Stanley continued. "We have only mined a handful of asteroids. Five. It's still fantastically expensive, but worth its weight, pardon, in gold-plated gold. This trip cost a quarter of the first one. And that trip was still worth it. We only first touched down on an asteroid less than 50 years--"

"Are you getting anywhere, Stanley?" Cohen asked. "We know the history of the program."

"Yeah, sorry," Trevaskevich said, "This type of mining is getting cheaper. These situations will happen again. Of the 5 previous missions, none have found anything like this. How we respond could set a precedent. The odds are just there, even if tiny. Like World-Wide Lotto. Chances are 1 in a billion, but nearly every week there is a winner. Sometimes two."

"Point?"

Stanley was silent for a second. "I think that's it. The point is that we're not going to be the last."

"Okay," Cohen said. "It's not in our hands right now. Just relax for the day. Tomorrow we'll have our answer."

Pyrite, Part 1

dan@danielrobertmaurer.com (Dan) — Tue, 01 Jun 2010 15:00:00 +0000

Stanley Trevaskevich kicked the blue mining robot that should have been cutting away at the asteroid. It didn't move, but the force pushed him up off his feet until an orange safety rope pulled taut. Without the rope, he would have been another piece of space junk.

He pulled himself in toward the machine. He instructed it to move away and he looked down at what it was cutting. His helmet lights were feeble and earth-shine didn't help. The sun would help. He pulled himself down to look at the rock.

This asteroid, when they found it, was a chunk of plain iron ore a kilometers across at the major axis and a less than eleven at the minor. Now it was six by three, shaped like an apple core.

He put a spectrography machine to the ground and pulled the trigger. Big cartoonish letters lit up, "AU."

"What? Really? Really?!"

"What is it, Stanley?" the radio said into his ear. That was Sinead, back at the main base, named The Leech. Commander Cohen, but they dropped rank after the 3^rd day out here. They were civilians. But all managers were "Commanders" now. That was the fad after some hack published a management book about how awesome the military was and suggested taking on the trappings of it. Stanley had been working under "Commanders" since he started working at a local burger chain. Technically, through stock ownership and subsidiaries, he still worked for that same company.

"I'm not sure. I need more light. I don't think this is right," but he didn't really believe that. "Waiting for the sun," he said and clicked off outbound radio. The asteroid rotated every hour. He watched Earth set, South America entire visible under clouds.

It was a simple plan, really: move the asteroid to one of the moon-Earth Legrange points, L4 in this case; strip-mine it; use the rock and iron from the asteroid itself to manufacture a heat-resistant cask; attach some equipment; and drop the items to the Earth or the moon or wherever. Repeat several thousand times. Then go home.

The sun peaked over the short horizon. It was unusually bright until he put down the visor.

"How the hell did that get here?" he asked himself. "That can't be right. I mean. It can, but."

He turned back on the radio, "Cohen?"

"Trevaskevich?"

He took a second. "It's gold, Sinead."

For a moment, there was nothing. Then: "Come on in, Stanley. It's not going anywhere."

"One more thing."

"Yes?"

Stanley looked around. For at least a dozen meters all around him was shining and hard to look at.

"There's quite a bit."

Pyrite Meta-Post

dan@danielrobertmaurer.com (Dan) — Tue, 01 Jun 2010 02:59:00 +0000

Over the next few days, I intend to post a short story in segments over the course of seven days . It's too long to be putting it up all at once and expect anyone to read it. It's also an experiment to see what kind of effect it would have. When it's done, I'll post it on my personal site and hopefully that will coincide with the completion of an update of that site to something a little more, uhh, comprehensive. Right now, if you went there, most of the links wouldn't work. I figure that site is low traffic enough...

Throughout the week, I'll update this page with pointers to the various individual sections. As it stands now, there are 7, which, if you were paying attention, is what I said at the beginning of this post.

We'll be starting the experiment tomorrow.

"There is no control. Only different variables." Muah-hahaha...<cough cough>

Consider subscribing to the feed. You know, for the kids. Or lulz. Or the story. Whatever.

Yay!

dan@danielrobertmaurer.com (Dan) — Thu, 27 May 2010 12:30:00 +0000

First story I didn't publish myself in, what, almost 10 years? Yay! A little flash fiction at 365 Tomorrows. "Our Title was “Revivalist.” We Performed “The Process.” No. I couldn't figure out a better title at the time.

Of course, I read it now and I feel mixed about it.

A Terrible, Stupid Thursday #fridayflash

dan@danielrobertmaurer.com (Dan) — Fri, 21 May 2010 13:40:00 +0000

An alarm clock buzzed at 6:43 AM. A few seconds later, a hand reached out and pressed the "off" botton. The covers pulled back revealing an overweight white man approaching middle age. His hairline was whitened and receded in a way that could be called dignified. Aside from the weight, he could have been considered attractive. He got out of bed and put on slippers. He went to a dresser and picked up some clothes that were folded neatly and then left the room. He walked into a bedroom where a young girl slept. He shook her arm gently, "Time to get up, sleepy-head," he said.

"Dad...do I have to?"

"Yes, sorry. Only a day and a week and it's summer vacation."

He then left the room and went back through his bedroom to the bathroom. He picked out a washcloth and a plush towel from a rack of similarly plush towels. They were all white. He brushed his teeth, flossed, gargled with mouthwash. He saw a note taped to the mirror written in feminine script, "Don't forget dog food this time." The words "this time" were underlined 3 times. He then got in the shower.

After the shower, he dressed and went downstairs to eat breakfast. His daughter had already made waffles for herself; he prepared instant oatmeal.

"Any plans for the day?" he asked her.

"No," she said. "Might go over to Jen's after school. You and mom going out after she gets home from work?"

"I don't know."

They ate for a minute or two.

"I heard you fighting. She's right, you know."

"Of course I know."

"Why didn't you?"

"I just forgot."

She looked at her dad and tilted her head but said nothing.

He got up and picked up his half-eaten bowl, stood in front of her and asked, "You done?"

She handed her plate to him and he took the dishes the sink where he washed them and put them in the drying rack.

"Ready?"

She nodded and they left. She picked up her backpack from a small shelf and he picked up his briefcase from that same shelf. Everything was neat. Organized. Clean.

They got into the car, a reasonably new luxury sedan and pulled out of the driveway. She fiddled with the radio while he drove her to her school. They said nothing for the whole ride. She eventually ended up on the public radio talk station.

When they got to the school he hugged his daughter and, just for a second after she started to push him away, he held onto her. He said, "I love you, kid."

"Love you, too, dad."

"Bye."

She looked at him. "Bye," she said. She left. And he watched her run into the school as a bell rang.

He looked and carefully pulled into traffic, then, after he reached a red light, he pulled out his cell phone and held down the "4." The speed dial prompt came up with the contact name, "Bill Frier." The light turned and he started forward, making a left turn back towards his house.

He listened as it rang and smiled when the voicemail answered. "Hey, Bill, it's Nick. I don't think I'm coming in today. Jen's a little under the weather and I'm going to take her to the doctor. If her fever breaks, I'll come in this afternoon, or else I'll see you tomorrow. Thanks. Bye." He pressed the end button and kept driving to his house.

When Nick got home he parked his car and whistled as he walked into the house. He carried his briefcase to his office on the second floor where he opened it and took out a laptop computer and coil of rope in a plastic bag. These went on the desk. He opened the computer and turned it on, then closed the briefcase and set it next to his clean desk. He then waited for the computer.

While waiting for the computer, Nickopened the bag of rope. It was a hard rope, yellowish and as thick as his thumb. He put the coil of rope on the desk and threw the bag in a small black trash-can that was next to his desk. It said the rope was 30 feet long and could support hundreds of pounds.

The computer had finished booting to the log-in screen. Nick entered his name and password and waited some more. He took his cell phone out of his pants' front pocket and sent a text message to the contact named "Wife/Mom/Diane." The message said, "I love you." He then put the phone back in his pocket.

The computer was finished, and he started a web browser and went to a search engine and sat for a moment. He typed in "tying a noose" and pressed enter. A list of sites came up and Nick picked one at random. He pushed back the laptop on the clean desk and layed the rope out like the diagram showed on the screen. Nick tried a handful of times and, eventually, he looked satisfied at the result and nodded at his knot.

He picked up the noose, walked out of his office, and down the stairs. He saw the dog sitting by the back door, and so he let the dog outside into the fenced yard. The dog peed and immediately came back to the door to be let in. Nick obliged.

Then he walked down to the basement and into the utility/storage area. He closed the door behind him. He looked up at the ceiling at an heavy-duty eye-bolt that jutted out from one of floor joists. It was shiny and still had a small paper price tag on it.

Nick picked up a folding chair from a small stack that leaned against the foundation wall. He unfolded it, put it down, and stood on it. He tried to get the tail of the noose into the eye-bolt, and it barely fit. He carefully noted how far the noose dropped and tied a basic knot to make sure it would go no further. He could barely reach it in the high ceiling.

The cell phone in his pocket chirped. He pulled the phone out and it said there was a new "txt" from "Wife/Mom/Diane". The message was, "Did you get dog food?" He looked at the three 40-pound bags of dog food shoved in a corner.

He was still on the chair, and he put the noose over his head. He put the knot right behind his right ear, and then he fumbled and dropped the cell phone. Nick rolled his eyes, pulled the noose from around his neck, got down, picked up the phone, got back on the chair, put the phone in his pocket, put the nosose back over his head and placed it back behind his ear. Then he tightened the noose. He pulled it tight and it kind of hurt. He breathed slowly. He then pulled out the cell phone from his pocket and dialed "911."

"911, what is the nature of your emergency?"

"My name is Nicholas Wilson. I am at my home at 1643 West 22nd street. I am going to kill myself. Please send an officer or paramedic to dispose of the body; I do not want my family to find it. Thank you," and he hung up.

Nick then tilted his head again. A noise outside. He looked up through the window-well and saw a giant yellow slab-like thing in the sky. Something impossibly giant. Again, he took the noose off, stepped down off the chair and went to the window well and looked up into the sky at this thing of impossible yellowness. He opened the window a crack and heard a voice coming from the sky, "development of the outlying regions of the Galaxy require the building of a hyperspatial express route through your star system, and regrettably your planet is one of those scheduled for demolition. The process will take slightly less that two of your Earth minutes. Thank you."

The Customer is Wrong, This Time #fridayflash

dan@danielrobertmaurer.com (Dan) — Fri, 14 May 2010 14:04:00 +0000

And I was listening to some music while waiting for my wife to get out of the supermarket. She had ran in to get "Just One Thing." This was 15 minutes ago. Some young hooligan came up to the car. He was wearing an apron, which is the uniform of this particular store. He spun his hand around in a small circle like he wanted me to roll down the window. The kid probably never had crank windows in his life; I wonder how that bit of body language persisted.
"I'm sorry, you can't park here," he told me through the cracked window. He was uniformed, but I didn't trust just anyway.
"Well, I don't think you're sorry," I said.
He arched his eyebrows up, "Well, probably not," he said, "But I need to push these carts back in the building, and your car is in the way."
You see, at this point, I see my wife coming out of the store, obviously carrying more than just one thing.
"Well, I really am sorry, but I am not going to move," I told him. "Consider it a break."
The kid, to his credit, looked at me to see if I was joking for a few seconds.
"No, I'm not joking," I said. He then unclipped some walkie-talkie kind of thing from his belt and started talking into it. "Hey, are you talking about me?" I yelled at him. My wife was a few dozen yards away, still. "I'm not moving until my wife gets in the car and that's it."
He didn't look happy. "Sir, my manager is coming out right now. There is also a police officer inside dealing with a shoplifter. Do you want us to get him involved?"
Now it was a matter of principle.
"Listen, son," I told him, "You can't get the law involved in what is obviously a non-criminal incident." My wife was shifting all of her bags to one arm so she could get in the car. I unlocked the doors for her. She got in, and before she even put on her seatbelt, I had the car in drive.
"So you know what you can do, kid, you can just piss off. I don't care what you do." and then I hit the gas. My wife banged her head on her head-rest.
"Daryl watch out!" she said. Then I hit the concrete bollard in front of the store. Our airbags went off and my wife's bags flew into her face with the force of the blast.
I didn't quite put together what had happened when the boy showed up at my window again.
"Sir, I believe trespassing is a criminal offense," he said, smiling. He then pointed at the store exit, where a cop was running up to us. "You're going to have to leave the premises, sir."

How We Made Our Way Out of the Water #poem

dan@danielrobertmaurer.com (Dan) — Fri, 14 May 2010 03:20:00 +0000

I washed up bloody and torn but alive
on the coastline
of some unknown place and what I thought
was the inviting light of death
was just the low sun over the ocean.

When I could get to my knees, I coughed
up blood and seawater
onto the beach among the rocks
and broken shells.
The waves lapped up my blood and bile.
It all flowed under me towards the ocean.
The sea claimed my precious bodily
fluids like it could not claim me.

I crawled out of the tide's reach
and looked up at the forest, wet,
dark, quiet. As far down the coast
was that canopy, broken only by the
occasional taller tree, reaching toward
heaven like a new and fervent convert.

There were no signs of men or machine
anywhere in that forest. No road nor path
nor litter--imagine no detrius, just
the discarded homes of invertibrates!
This would be the solitary person's dream
if such light and free people existed.

I crawled to a tree and fell against it
and looked out at the sea. The sun
fell over it, dipping
into the western waters. I waited,
rested, and thought idly about
food. A small crab was dumped into the sand
by a wave. It ran to the ocean
like a child running to her mother
(it is its mother, our terrible
and awesome mother).

After the sun set, the glow of some town
in the south was a low moon to follow.
I stood slowly, and I steadied myself
every step or two against a tree.
On the forest floor, I saw a branch of
proper size on the ground. I almost fell
picking it up. When I was able I leaned
into it and made my way toward the light.

Holiday in Cambodia

dan@danielrobertmaurer.com (Dan) — Tue, 11 May 2010 01:42:00 +0000

Read this article called "Never Forget" by Michael Paterniti in GQ. This is heavy stuff.

I read stuff like this, and other stuff by other writers I admire (like William T. Vollmann), and I am strangely drawn to the brutality of the subjects they write about. Part of this means I am writing a giant thing (the Storming the Foothills of Mount Olympus story/poem, specifically) about war. I have also been reading/listening to histories and so forth. This isn't generally a pleasant thing, and I wonder why I do it.

This stuff is truly horrific.

The Incompetent #fridayflash

dan@danielrobertmaurer.com (Dan) — Fri, 07 May 2010 13:50:00 +0000

So he told me basically that I didn't know what I was doing and he was right. He was right and I just felt my bowels turn watery and a f...f...f...feeling of hopelessness, like when my dad would hit me upside the head and said I should take it just take it or fight him off and of course he was right, too. I should have known better. I do know better. I do. I should, damnit, and I just want to give up right now and I wa...wa...want to g...g...g...give up and go home and weep on a corner of my bed, taking up as little room as possible. I want to be small and insignificant and if I am small enough maybe I will just disappear; I want to just disappear and fold in and collapse under the weight of my own in...incompetence like a star that can't even burn. What kind of star can't even burn any more? No star. No star at all.

So I went back to my cube and sat in front of the screens...s...s...s...saver and just picked at my own fingernails until they were jagged. I even picked out that little extra bit under the side of my ring fingernail that bends back under and it hurts if I pick at it so I picked at the nuh...nuh...nail some more and ripped that little chunk out out with my teeth. And just that part of the nail came out with some cuticle and bled. I massaged the fingertip until more blood came out and I let the it pool in a small puddle on my laminate-wood de...e...desk. Eventually the blood stopped. Clotted under the nail. It kind of hurt to touch. There wasn't much blood but I had a hard time wiping the blood up with just one sleeve of my black wool suit and I had to use the other.

But he's right and no blood sacrifice is enough to really sate my failures' victims and make them better. No amends. No forgiveness. Nothing I can do to help myself.

I looked at the veins in my arms and at the staple remover that I keep next to the spring-loaded stapler and thought about my circulatory sys...sys...sys...system and how just under the surface some of those veins and arteries are, and so close to tendons. I can see them move in my arm as I move my fingers; my arms are so thin that I think I could have seen my veins pulse with the pressure.

The day was almost over, and so I cleaned my desk off and put things away and got my keys out and shut down the computer and then went to my car. My car was hot and it still smelled like the food my kids spilled in the back-seat that I never cleaned up and the pungent stench made me sick and the music came on too loud and all I wanted for just that minute was for it all to go away to leave me the hell alone and finally the hot air just left me alone finally and the hot air left the air scintillating like the funeral pyres for my murdered brother and mother in the desert before my father moved to this country with me.

And when I finally got home and talked to my wife and she asked me how my day had gone I did the only thing I could do so she wouldn't worry and so she wouldn't be sad and so she would be happier in this life. I lied.

Everyday Monsters #fridayflash

dan@danielrobertmaurer.com (Dan) — Fri, 30 Apr 2010 15:01:00 +0000

Diane walked into the opulent dining room and saw Mother dining with two hobos. These were not simple homeless men, but hard men with bulbous noses and faces more characture than person. They were dining with the finest china in the estate. They were laughing.

"Mother," she said, "What is this? Are you dining with human refuse?"

"Oh come on now, child," Mother said in between giggles. "Don't be surprised. You said bums eat better than last the dinner we ate last night. I figured we would help put you to the task to make that a real comparison."

Last night, Mother had had Chef Bruns prepare a succulent slow-roasted duck with a dipping sauce of some variety, some brocco-flower hybrid plant, artichoke hearts, and twice-baked potatoes topped with saffron. The dessert was a freshly made starfruit sorbet topped with dark chocolate. The wine was of some significant vintage. Bruns made the same thing tonight, too.

"I am not eating it. Not with you nor alone. Disgusting."

"Well, darling, I don't expect you to. This is for me and our friends. Oh Chef Bruns, Diane has arrived!"

Chef Bruns then entered the room carrying a small seat cushion on his hand. His eyes were dead on either side of his tiny nose. Diane was convinced he was addicted to crystal meth.

"At the Madam's pleasure, I present a delicacy from the alleys of our urban centers Seat Cushion and Cat Urine." The Chef then bowed until his tall hat might fall off, but it didn't. The hat never came off. When he stood back up, she saw why. The hat lifted up on its own. In the gap where a scalp should be were rows of needle-like teeth. The his hat folds moved and opened vertically to revealed small red eyes. What she thought of as his face lost all definition and was absorbed into the neck of this impossibly cylindrical head. The colors all changed until all the skin was a gunmetal gray.

"What the?" one of the hobos asked.

"Yes, quite," Bruns said and turned just a fraction. Diane watched a long tail loll out of the back of the chef's uniform and across the room toward the inquisitive hobo.

"Oh my!" a hobo said before his mouth was covered by the tail. The glass of wine had barely fallen from his hand before the hobo was half-way into the Chef's new mouth. Then down and down like a snake.

Diane's mom sat there wondering if the wine had gone bad. The other hobo ran out of the room. Diane stared, mouth open and eyes crinkled toward each other. "I knew it!"

The hobo's shoes were still out of Bruns' mouth, but somehow he said, "But you didn't do anything anyway." Then the tail was over her mouth.

Diane closed her eyes and shook her head, told herself, "It's just the drugs. Your body thinks they're poison and your mind agrees." And when she opened her eyes she only saw pointy teeth.

One-Sided #fridayflash

dan@danielrobertmaurer.com (Dan) — Fri, 23 Apr 2010 13:59:00 +0000

"Dickenson residence, this is Jennifer. Hi Mom. How are you? Good. No, you're not a bother. I was just going to wash some dishes. No, no, no. It's OK. What's wrong? No!? Really? I can't believe that. A divorce? From Uncle Albert? She's obviously not in the right here. Wait, what? He is? No!? Really? Well, I can't say that surprises me in the least. Well. I wouldn't stay with him neither. Sorry, Mom. I would not stay with him, either. Is that better? I know. Class of '77. Is that all you had to say, Mom? To tell me about Uncle Albert and Aunt Alice? No, that's interesting enough, but I can hear something else. Are you OK?

"I know I haven't seen you in a while. I've been busy. You could come and visit me. Well, I know. Vivian is sick, yes, but that doesn't mean you can't see me, and the kids would sure love to see you. She'll be fine alone for a few days. Maybe she would like to be alone. She's like that.

"Mom? What's wrong? I can hear it in your voice.

"No! Don't let her do that. Why would you? I know what the Doctor said, I was there, remember, but there are options. I know you love her, and I do, too, but she's not thinking rationally. You can't let her kill herself. You just can't.

"Mom? Mom. I'm so sorry. So sorry. Days left? Is she in pain? I'll be there as soon as I can. I insist.

"Oh. Oh...

"You think I care about the will? I want to see her. She's your wife but she's my mom, too. She raised me. She was there when you ran off. Mom? Hello? Don't cry, please. I thought you hung up. Sorry, I shouldn't have brought that up. I know you only did what you needed to. Sorry. And when you came back I accepted you. Hugged you. Met you at the airport. I even bought a ticket so I could meet you in the terminal.

"She's stopped the chemo? I can get a week off. I need to see her. What if her final wishes are wrong? Please don't shut me out. Mom? Mom...Hello? Mom!"

"She doesn't? But I need to talk to her. I need to tell her that I didn't mean it. It was an accident. What do you mean she doesn't care. She's mad? At me? Why doesn't she want to see me?

"They figured out the cause? At the doctor? During an x-ray? Oh, no. Oh, Mom. I never meant to hurt her. How was I to know it was radioactive? I told you. It must have been a powder in the paints I used. I was so proud of that piece and she seemed to love it. I know she did.

"The police are on the way? Not the police, the FBI? Questions? About college? Oh, mom, it was just a phase. And ten years ago.

"There's someone here, Mom, and they're knocking very hard on my door."

Not This Week

dan@danielrobertmaurer.com (Dan) — Fri, 16 Apr 2010 23:15:00 +0000

No posting this week. Everything's been shite. And now for something completely different:

A Cold Reading of the Future #fridayflash

dan@danielrobertmaurer.com (Dan) — Fri, 02 Apr 2010 19:26:00 +0000

If I'm not writing stories that make me uncomfortable, then why am I writing stories?

I recognized the young and quiet man from my future. I had been seeing him for a long time.

I told him what he needed to hear. He left, smiling. I almost closed the shop for the night when the next customer came in.

The couple. They would be married in 2 years, divorced two months later. Neither of them would be at fault, really, but they would blame each other. I told them this and they laughed and when they saw I was serious, they were insulted. They refused to pay me because I wouldn't tell them their future was happy. Their future was happy, it was just not together.

I tell people the bad so they can try to avoid it. Sometimes they can. Mostly, they cannot.

I am so tired.

Do you think psychics don't look into their future? We only divine the future for paying customers. Perhaps the frauds. Perhaps those who deal in vagaries. Use props. Chicken bones. Cards. Tea leaves. They may as well be cold reading on television and selling books.

Next was the skeptic. I would not convince her. She would attribute her own biases on what I do. That is her decision. I just begged her to keep going to her doctor. I didn't tell her cancer, because what would it have mattered? The world needs skeptics just like it needs believers.

No longer a coincidence. It was the evening I was going to end. Whenever I looked into my future, it was this and by my own hand. Do you think it freeing to not worry about death? It is, in a way. Dangers are muted because you know those are not your time.

Two more people tonight. The gay woman. Yes, her lover loved her. No, her parents would not accept her for a long time but yes, eventually, they would. Acceptance is all she wanted. It hurt to lie to her. Her mother would go to her grave damning her own daughter. Her father, however, didn't care as long as she was happy. He wasn't so different, after all.

When you are not private you cannot choose your audience, and you are never private.

The last customer was my mother. She threw money in my face and cursed me for my heresy and damned me for my devil-worshipping and sinful life. I don't believe in god. Why would I worship his adversary? I do not I believe in sin.

I've been expecting this so long.

The bath is warm. When I looked into my future I always have seen my death. Something vague comes to mind, like the...like the...like my arm is a viola, and the knife a bow. Something makes this seem like it means more than it does. I just used to play in grammar school.

If I wasn't already depressed...I've been seeing this over and over again for years. When the hurt stops I can live in the now, not mashed between the futures and the pasts.

The bifurcations are immaterial. The theoretical rivulets that anyone's life could have lived. The hormones in the womb that washed over you. A genetic switch that flipped inside you. A religion that you were born into.

When you see your own future, see the end of yourself and the hours leading to it, whenever you close your eyes, would you be scared or relieved to feel deja vu?

My worst pain is knowing my future, and knowing there is no chance to change this. My relief is it is finally at an end.

The ache in my gut abated. The crick in my neck soothed. The pain in my head faded. Then we will come to this. Completing the last entry in this diary.

There has never been any doubt, you only need read my previous entries to see.

I am not sorry, mother.

The End of Savings is Nigh! #fridayflash

dan@danielrobertmaurer.com (Dan) — Fri, 26 Mar 2010 14:17:00 +0000

Quite a few stores in my area have closed, leading to empty storefronts everywhere. The unemployment rate is approaching 20%. A note on credit: a few lines I read or heard in various stories elsewhere. Also, I had a hard time ending it.

I drink. Drink dranker drunkerest. I start when I wake up, even though the beer on the nightstand is flatter than the Earth and warmer than...whatever. I don't care. I don't have to work today. The last sales day at Electronics Metropolis was yesterday; next week I go to Bean Town Coffee and Coiffure. I wonder how some people think these places will stay in business. Then they hire me to shut down the store. Fine, you know. Whatever. It's money.

Electronics Metropolis. What a shithole. My name tag there was Bryce, which is not my real name. My real name is Phillip. I never put my real name on the tag as there have been incidents.

Don't blame me. I'm not shutting down the store. I'm just selling that vacuum as an employee was using it on the last day. Everything must go. Make an offer on fixtures. I can tell you the going rate for a magazine rack. A CD rack. Pegboards and associated hangers. Neon signs.

Whatever. I guess you wonder how I can live with myself. Drink dranker drunkerest? No, I started that a long time ago. You live with yourself, you hypocrite. Why shouldn't I?

Yesterday at the motherfucking' Electro Metro, fat guy walks in. Not a fat guy who just let himself go. Not a guy in a high stress job or going through a tough time. But a short and disgusting mass of a man. You can make a suit that big, you can even make a man that big look damn good, but even a Savile Row bespoke tailor isn't going to improve that stained t-shirt. I'm fat, too, but...damn. Whatever. A ragged cookie-duster of a mustache, too.

So this mass was looking through the CDs, of which we had a few, and he saw Anton--another big guy but at least he takes care of himself (funny as hell, too)--eating a candy bar. I went up to the customer.

"Can I help you?" I ask him.

"Yeah. I want that candy bar."

I've been doing this a long time. I have actually dealt with something like this before. Some guy wanted to buy the break room refrigerator with the lunches in it. "Whatever you want, sir," but I told him to come back at the end of the last day. He did.

"Sir, I am pretty sure that candy bar is not for sale. That employee purchased it with his own money and it is his property."

The customer dropped a CD by Nickelback--who I love--on the floor and headed for Anton. Because we've sold nearly all the fixtures in the place, it is a straight line.

Now, Anton, as funny as he was, he was having a really hard time with the store closing and all. He's kind of leaning on a pillar with the 1000 yard stare. Total PTSD. I saw my brother coming back from Iraq the same way. Not on the same level. Spectrum. You understand. Whatever.

This disgusting person went up to Anton "I want your candy bar.".

Anton didn't even register the guy's presence.

"Hey," he read Anton's name-tag, "An-ton," which he pronounced like the measurement, "I want your candy bar."

Anton shook out of the trance, "What?"

"An-ton, I want your candy."

Anton looked at this guy and the at the candy bar, then he folded it--some nugat and caramel poured out like toothpaste--and shoved it into his face. It's disgusting and awesome because this stupid customer wasn't going to get it now. I was a little sorry he was getting fired.

Behind me, somewhere, I heard an associate, who I couldn't identify, comment on the plague of "entitlement consumerism."

The customer breathed in and out. It was labored and painful to watch. Then he asked, "What size shirt are you wearing?"

Anton looks at me and I shrug.

"6x," Anton says.

"I want it," the customer says, "I will pay 15 dollars for it."

The shirt was, technically, company property. Issued to the Associate upon official employment and must be returned when said Associate quits or is fired. This means that, really, the shirt is for sale.

The voice behind me again talked about how "competent and good customer service reps are an anathema when the consumer thinks they know everything."

Now, I got to tell you, buddy, that people like me, well, we get paid a bonus if we our sales are such and such. Now, usually, I don't come close, but this time I was really close. Like, obscenely close. Like, 16 dollars away close. And how do I know that? Well, I rigged a little program that sends me a message to my phone every so often. Whatever. You don't care. You already know what I was going to do.

"Seventeen," I said to the customer.

"Fine."

"Anton. Take the customer's shirt off." Note how I did not say "your shirt." Whatever. Bullshit sales 101 shit.

The voice again: "That environment causes the company to not value decent salespeople anyway. The customers are just entitled asses who know everything, why hire someone with knowledge to educate them? Therefore: this."

There were no other customers in the store. It was 10 minutes to close. No-one was coming in.

"Bryce?" I heard from behind me.

I turned around and, that bitch Casey slapped me. I had been trying to hook up with her all week. She slapped me again and gave me 20 dollars. "Keep your shirt on, Anton," she said. "Get out of the store," she told the customer. She followed him out of the store and went to her car and drove off.

"Whatever," I said.

I turned around and saw the two car radio installers talking, "Ultimately, then, the entitled customer is to blame for their own shitty service."

We closed the doors. I deposited the last of the cash at some nationalized bank on the way home. Sometime today I have to go and pack up everything left to the former HQ. Lock the doors. Mail the key with the remaining merchandise.

On the way home, I stopped at the Bean Town place just to take a look at it first-hand. Last week, I talked to the manager on the phone and told him not to tell employees what was going on and that I had a speech. I decided, as I sat there with my nasty coffee, that my name would be Anton.

The Platitudes (1) #fridayflash

dan@danielrobertmaurer.com (Dan) — Fri, 19 Mar 2010 12:58:00 +0000

"It's bullshit," she told him.

"¿Que?" he asked, never looking away from the water. No one else was on the beach. The sun was risen, full and fat just over the horizon.

"The saying, 'you can't love someone unless you love yourself.'"

"Why do you say that?" He scratched absently at a long scar on his chest.

"You know why."

He laughed a little and pushed his toes into the still cool sand. "Yes, I know." He looked at her. "But you do not love yourself?"

"No," she said. "I am indifferent to myself. I am everywhere I am. If I loved myself, it would be narcissism. If I hated myself, it would be the same. It would be like hating the air." It was her turn to dig into the sand.

"I see," he said. He looked back out over the water. "How long have we been together?"

"A long time. We met 20 years ago, you know. Today."

"I know," he said. "But when we first met: did you hate yourself?"

"Yes."

"That was narcissism?"

"Of course."

"Why?"

She waited for a minute, just to be sure, "I took myself too seriously. I was bothered by who I was. Now I am not."

"Well," he said, "I am happy and glad to be with who you are today. And I was happy with you, then."

He moved closer to her. She put her arms around him. He was not much bigger than she was. They sat a while. The sand heated up. She adjusted her swimsuit. It was probably a bit smaller than it should have been; she hadn't worn it in some years. After a while, more people arrived.

"So," she said, "Do you think that it's bullshit, too?"

"Oh. Yeah. Totally."