The solution to this problem is to make more problems

And that concludes our fiction hour.

In other, un-cigarette related news, fuck this shit. Economic downturn isn't even a valid descriptor. My dad's getting laid off at the end of February, along with most of his team. He saw the writing on the wall back in November, so he's already got two possibilities lined up, but seriously. If an international engineering firm can't find work, what hope is there for the little guys?

Even my old paper has cut two of its oldest (and also most important) staff. Of course, given how the old company works, I'm not surprised that they'd start cutting the hearts out of their most productive papers before cutting the deadwood in their loss-producing ones. That's the way this idiocy goes.

On a related tangent, I had heard that Chrysler used some of their taxpayer-given bailout money to run a hundred-thousand dollar series of ads in some American newspapers, thanking the taxpayers for funding their bailout. The response, as you can well imagine, was more than vitriolic. One would hope that, if we're forced to fund your miserable excuse for an empire, the least you could do is build cars with that shit, rather than rub our faces in the fact.

My discomfiture is only further enhanced because I own a Jeep, and I know exactly how much thought and engineering they put into that particular vehicle.

On yet another completely unrelated tangent, this time of year is always lame for new video-games. It's always the last holdups from the Christmas rush, and it just never feels like anyone's got something worth buying.

ps. I never really thought I'd say it, but God damn do I hate some of the games on the Wii. The wiimote is a novel controller, but anyone who's ever tried to play Smash Bros. Brawl with it knows that that shit ain't good for anything. Give me an old Gamecube controller, kthxbye.

The Worst is Over (Perhaps) Pt. 3

Collections would have been a more appropriate term for it. Indeed, the room was a wine cellar, among other things. Along each of the low walls was a hand-made wooden wine racks, each loaded with a plethora of different wines, spirits, and other exotic alcohols. Harold imagined it as a kind of museum, with each piece catalogued, admired, but never used. He hated museums.

But what got his attention was the other collections. Bones, mostly. Bits of skin sewn together into books and rugs and all kinds of other things. It was stupid really, and Harold knew it. He was excited but at the same time, it was the work of a cockamamy kid who had way too much time on his hands, and obviously more than a little beat of meat available. Harold wanted a smoke, and so he lit up.

"Not in here," hissed Sean.

"Shut the fuck up kid," Harold flicked his lighter and inhaled. "Let an old man have his when you start showing this shit off."

The two girls were asleep in a corner. Sean had obviously wasted no time. Two empty, and slightly bloodied syringes were stuffed in an empty wine cove. Drugs, the refuge of the weak. Harold's eyes watered briefly, so he wiped he face. He hated cowards, and that's all Sean was. A coward preying on the stupid.

"How long?"

"Six months," replied Sean. "What do you think? Impressed?"

"Impressed?" Harold let the word hang like a guillotine. He walked stiffly to the nearest "display" and layed it out. It had been the tattoo of one unfortunate. A "tramp stamp," as Harold had heard them called. It was one of several. Sean had been stitching a kind of book out of them, a book of the most sordid and morbid stories imaginable. The hubris and idiocy of such a thing made Harold's teeth grind. He hated humanity, but the only thing he hated more was the notion of a predator thinking he was above humanity. He felt his blood boiling, pounding in his ears.

The kid had gusto. He had a collection of knives that defied logic. Sean explained he had a kind of Hot-Wheels logic to knives. He collected them as a hobby ("you mean, this isn't your hobby?" shot Harold. Sean had only glared). He had long ones, short ones, curved ones, and ones machined with a blade only a few atoms thick. Those were his favorite, said Sean. He slipped one, lovingly, from its sheath.

And so there it was. Rich asshole by day. Murderous dastard by night. As the smoke curled lazily up, Harold had reached his own decision. While Sean twirled and played with his long, thin knife, all the while eyeing the two girls in the corner, Harold had examined the knife collection and settled on one that was very familiar to him. A wide, heavy butcher's blade, used for carving cuts of meat from the bone. It wasn't a sharp, precision tool like the ones Sean preferred, but it was more than adequate for creating grievous injuries. The handle was a heavy wood, and the letters HMA had been stenciled on to it.

"Where'd you find this one?" asked Harold, twirling the knife.

"Friend found it. 'parently it's got a bit of history."

"I'd say. It's mine."

The look of surprise on Sean's face was forever etched on his face as Harold plunged the heavy blade through his torso. Ribs and tissue were shoved aside as Harold dug for his target, the aorta. Sean was dead before he even hit the floor. There was a bit of a crimson shower, but Harold managed to keep his cigarette dry. It was a gritty and painful way to die, but Harold understood the nature of predators. The small and gracile were often easy picking for the hoary old hunters. He hadn't killed in years, and after that single, vicious act, he pulled the cigarette and looked at it philosophically.

"Can't believe I just did that," he muttered. "60 years of work, all gone."

He nodded to himself. The girls were starting to wake. He pitied them, almost. A lack of conscience had almost gotten them killed. If not for him being a miserable murderous son-of-a-bitch himself, they would've been the latest addition to Sean's little book.

Strange though, he didn't feel like a hero. Probably be cause he wasn't. Not even in the slightest. He was a killer, and an old creaky fart too boot.

This wouldn't do at all.

An hour later, while the police were investigating a reported stabbing at a wealthy man's house, the were forced to respond to the sound of gunshots from the neighboring residence. When they arrived, they found an elderly man sitting in an tacky, 1970's recliner, a single gunshot wound right between his eyes. The culprit, a heavy, high-calibre revolver lay crooked in one hand, a lit cigarette drooped in the other. Police only had time to make an initial observation before realizing the whole house had been doused in gasoline. A moment after arriving, Harold's last cigarette descended from his stiff fingers to the floor, sparking a conflagration that made headlines for a week. The lifetime's supply of propane bottles he had kept in his basement probably helped a little.

It would be almost a week later before coroners identified Harolds body, or what was left of it. If Hell was a river of fire, Harold had swum it, bare-assed and crying. His bones would be buried in a matchbox by the riverside. The only one in attendance a priest who wasn't exactly sure why he was there, or to he was ministering to. Come to think of it, the whole affair had left him questioning his faith somewhat, as the aura of the whole thing had such a stench of wrongness about it that even the sun seemed to be made of Marlboroughs.

Sean had been autopsied and buried. His business associates were too busy counting their money to attend what passed for a rich fuck's funeral. There was a lot of eating and a lot of alcohol, but for the most part, all eyes were dry, and no speeches were sung.

Sean himself had the dubious distinction of being put in the ground by a lawyer. Some say he was also buried upside down, and in a grave that didn't have his name on it. Authorities were worried that once word had spread on what they'd found at his house, his resting place would be desecrated and his body exhumed.

Lets just say that most people had better things to do than be vindictive. Sean rested peacefully for around a hundred years before, believe it or not, a bookstore and tattoo shop were opened on the ground where he was buried.

Harold's knife was recovered and retained for several years. During a bout of government cutbacks and office relocations, it was lost in the shuffle, and found its way to a lovely family where it serves tasty meatloaf on a regular basis. One could say it was the only casualty of the whole affair that came out ahead.

The Worst is Over (Perhaps) Pt. 2

One thing that you, and everybody else for that matter, needs to know about Sean is the fact that he believes himself to be better than the common man. Or woman for that matter. He believes that his time spent in university, as well as the money in his coffers, has somehow elevated him above the common rabble, and that somehow, being elevated makes his motives and actions mysterious to those he believes as some kind of worthless primitives.

"Never a one."

The phrase rang in his ears like both an insult and a condemnation. Sean's face twisted between expressions, much like his brain twisted through thoughts of how to approach the sticky situation. He could try and fob the old man off, but he figured the old coot would just shoulder off any kind of weak explanation. He could club the old man and drag him inside. The thing about old people is that when they died in their own homes - usually to a house fire suspected to be caused by cheap, nasty cigarettes, nobody really bothered to ask any questions. But even that idea was risky. It was still a little bit light out, and Sean imagined that a lot of the neighbors would at least be glancing out every once in a while at this time of the evening.

Finally, his brain settled on an acceptable plan. His easy, hyena grin came back, and he took another puff on his cigar, trying hard to ignore the fact that he'd almost chewed right through it.

"Would you like to see?" said Sean.

"See what?" replied Harold, suddenly focused back on the raggy cigarette wedged between his teeth.

"My house," replied Sean. The plan was coming together neatly in his brain. It was genius. Or it was actually very plain, but to a narcissist, it was foolproof.

Harold took a quick puff and wiped his eyes. Despite smoking for decades, for some reason tonight, the smoke was bothering him.

"I'll think about it."

"Thursday, for dinner. I'll get the smokes too," said Sean. "And I promise... everyone comes out after."

"Never said I wouldn't," was the gruff reply.

Thursday rolled around. Harold seldom left his home. His regular attire was frayed wool pants, a greasy wife-beater, and a set of miscoloured suspenders. Today, he figured he should at least dress up a little. He found an old, tobacco-stained shirt he'd worn to church... once. He couldn't recall when. It still fit, though back in those days he had a barrel chest instead of a barrel gut, so the shirt didn't look as good as he recalled. To modern standards, he looked about as good as a cake with six years of mould on it, and smelled about as good as well. Harold only believed in showering once a week, citing that water shouldn't be wasted. As well. He couldn't smoke in the shower, so he seldom took more than five minutes in one.

When he arrived at Sean's front door, he was greeted by the titular gentleman himself, in fresh-pressed pants and a patterned dress shirt, likely made from silk from a thousand subjugated sydney funnel webs.

"Welcome," said Sean. His ever-present and painfully white (surgically white, some would say) grin beaming.

"Please come in. Make yourself at home. The rest of the company will be here soon. Here, let me get you a smoke."

Harold looked around in disgust. All of the furniture was new and stylish. Which meant it was all composed of an assortment of boxes, or boxes covered in other boxes. Sometimes there was a rounded edge, but it was always on the back of the seat, well away from any kind of sitting surface where it may have possibly contributed to a person's comfort. Grabbing the cigarette that Sean had provided him, he promptly lit up and took a drag, and then immediately began coughing.

The cigarette was... divine. Unlike the skunk ass he'd been smoking, it was like inhaling fresh air (though anyone who doesn't smoke would likely tell you it still smelled like shit). He took a puff, and then another. A half-cocked grin crossing his face. The doorbell rang moments later, and Sean opened the door to not one, but two lovely young ladies. They were dressed in revealing dresses and had their hair done in intricate hairstyles. Expensive perfume wafted from their every pore, and their most interesting feature was their ability to produce hot air instead of thoughtful speech.

Sean seated everyone at his table, a heavy hardwood slab that was illuminated by two candles. Harold didn't know why, but he got the feeling they were probably pilfered from a church, since no regular candles had business being that white. Dinner was served, and again Harold was disgusted. No plate was circular, instead being all square with a divot pressed in the middle where some pathetic portions of food waited to be consumed, usually in one bite.

Sean's two ladies each daintily picked through their tiny meals, commenting on its taste and texture, and congratulating each other for... well. Who knows. To Harold's mind, these two women were prostitutes, hired to provide a bit of class to what would otherwise be two men eating together. Which was only slightly less faggy than two men sleeping together. Harold inhaled his dinner and then sat back in his chair, thankful it was a proper dinner chair and not another box. By and large, the two ladies ignored him. And rightfully so. Youth these days tend to ignore greasy, smelly old farts who themselves further facilitate being ignored by being rude, gruff, and glaring all too much. Harold was alright with this. At least for now. He'd never been good with ladies anyway.

Sean finally polished off his plate, and then took the dirty dishes to his dishwasher. Harold noted it looked a lot like a hospital autoclade. On opening it, he spied two other plates, and a whole lot of gleaming knives. Sean closed it before he could get an accurate count, but he went back to focusing on the two ladies, and then another cigarette.

After enjoying another two cigarettes (the ladies smoked cherry flavoured cigars, something Harold couldn't abide by), Sean stretched languidly and yawned.

"How about we start winding this party down. Anyone want to come help me pick a bottle of wine?"

Something was playing in the back of Harolds mind when he noticed that both girls volunteered (well, one volunteered, but the other refused to be left behind).

Sean retreated to the back of his large house with the two girls in tow, opening a large door to what appeared to be a basement. An unfinished basement.

"Are you coming, Harold?" said Sean.

"I'm right behind you," he replied. Something about this was exciting him. Following the three down into the basement, he felt the hairs on his neck prickling.

It was dark, but ahead he saw Sean waving at him, holding a heavy-looking door open.

"Come and see my collection," he said, almost softly.

Harold knew the tone of voice. It was like a child coaxing another to see his hidden stash of playboys with the parents just outside the room.

"Come and see..."

The Worst is Over (Perhaps) Pt. 1

Harold was, by any measure of the imagination, a rather uninteresting person. He lived in a single story house that was filled with old, 1970's furniture, and he sat out on his porch every night smoking cigarettes until the sun went down. He was getting old, and this simple fact seemed to slip by everyone except him. Years of smoking had stained his teeth and fingernails, and some unspoken tragedy in his life left dark, brooding circles under his eyes. His hair was short and graying, the model of an ungracefully aged senior.

However, unlike most seniors, Harold refused to be warehoused until he died. He only wanted two things in his life. His house, full of paraphernalia that meant nothing to him anymore. And to be able to enjoy a few cigarettes every night while he watched the sun go down. He didn't much care for neighbors, and he didn't care much for politics. They could both kiss his ass (for once).

However, one of Harold's neighbors was different from the rest. Sean was a young and upwardly-mobile young gentleman. The kind that had a plan and the means to see it through. The kind that saw partnerships and romances as monumental wastes of time and effort, or even veiled banditry. So he took, but never gave. He was openly promiscuous, but never committed. He was a blatant capitalist. But never disclosed how much he made. Harold didn't much care for the young dandy, but Sean was never gruff or annoying, so he tolerated him on occassion to join him for a smoke, watching the sun go down.

"Evening, Harold," said Sean one night, walking lazily up the old man's steps, suit jacket slung haphazardly over his shoulder.

"Evening," replied Harold, drawing a long, rancid puff of cigarette smoke. He couldn't be bothered to waste money on expensive cigarettes. So he only smoked domestics. The kind made with all-American engine tar and cat piss.

A wayward puff wafted towards Sean, but without batting a lid, he produced his own cigar, a narrow tubular construct, likely hand rolled by Cuban virgins in holy water with only the highest quality tobacco ensconsed within.

Sean gestured for a light, which Harold willingly obliged. After drawing a long drag, Sean blew three circles of pure, blue smoke. Sweet and salty and all together sickening when mingled with Harold's miasma.

"How old are you, Harold?" asked Sean, savouring his cigar.

"Old enough," replied the codger gruffly, inhaling half of his cigarette in annoyance. He hated small talk.

"Never been married?

The glare was answer enough.

"Me either," replied Sean, nodding to himself and chuckling. "Me either."

"But you... get around," muttered Harold. Sean chuckled more and drew another puff of his cigar.

"You could say that. I hate being bored."

Harold grumbled something under his breath before finishing his cigarette. Coughing roughly, he began rummaging in his pocket for another. Frustrated, he stopped for a moment and looked straight out into the setting sun.

"Yeah, you've been around. Lot of girls you bring home."

Sean continued to nod, smiling.

"Lot of girls you bring home. Never seen one leave."

Sean's smile became a grimace, a silent snarl. Harold was still looking into the sun. Somehow, he'd found another cigarette, and lit it up, pulling a long, satisfying pull.

"Never a one."

Writing Be Hard

Writing fiction has become hard work. I guess after working the press and having everything ruthlessly ripped apart by editor and public, I'm pretty keen on how belief and disbelief work.

So, I've several times now come to points in a story where'd I'd like to write something, but on writing it, there's a voice that comes up and says "Why did that happen?"
And then I say "Magic."
And then it replies "No, you faggot, that's not good enough. Where's the science? Where's the reasoning? You weren't given a brain to fuck around like this, now get on it."

At which point, I cower, and rewrite paragraph after paragraph. So far, the results have been better, but the going is awfully slow. Any little inkling of something that can't be explained rationally within the system provided irritates me. Characters need to be developed, but developed gradually without the long-droning monologue-graphs that I've found myself writing.

The end result will likely be much better than anything I wrote a long time ago, but that said, damn, it's hard.

Ahura Mazda

Every once in a long while, I need to check some things.
I just did, and it was a pleasant reminder that, no, indeed, things are not alright.

I sometimes wonder if I'm ever going to be able to sit down and have a conversation with a person. A conversation about absolutely anything. Or, if instead, my life will forever be a constellation of silence, of knowing gestures, or of looking away.

I honestly can't lament being one way or the other. What I can lament is not being free to choose. I believe that is a fundamental crux of unhappiness for a lot of people. If a choice you desperately crave is not made available, ruin can only follow.

Ruin, and perhaps other things.

I'm blind now. It's time to stop typing.

Ami

The world is a small, small place.

Put a pinhole in it, and watch the singularity sink in. We'd be rubbing atoms with friends we'd never thought we'd meet. I'd call myself strange matter because everyone I rubbed with would become so strange.

And then we'd all be strange matter.

There's something vaguely sexual about that, but now that I think about it, it's less sexual and more like a kid mixing blue play-doh with yellow play-doh. In the end, you get green.

A lot of people think of genetics like that. A blonde mom plus a blue-eyed dad equals a blonde-haired, blue-eyed child. It's not quite so simple. It's never quite so simple. And any attempt by simpletons to explain things like genetics only leads to further confusion on their part. Which further leads only to more bullshit explanations for things people know nothing about.

And look now, there goes the singularity, and we along with it.

And so, here we are: 2009, Welcome

And so, here we are.
This is the first evening of 2009, and I've spent it in an greatly inebriated state. Somehow, my hands are still working, so I'll try my best to write something meaningful here. There's always a part of my brain that functions, no matter what, so here we go.

2008 was a year when there where a lot of rotten people from 2007 got their comeuppance, but given how things go, we all ended up paying for it. For that, I am saddened. But really, that's how the world works. Dipshits make a mess and then leave, and it's up to the rest of us to pick up after the fact.

I'm guessing 2009 will, in a lot of ways, be a continuation of 2008. Hopefully it will sport a more positive trend, but I'm fully prepared should it not. I'm not one for making New Years resolutions, as more often then not, they're completely trite and quickly forgotten. I would like to eat better, exercise more, and play more music in the new year, but I understand that time is finite and I will likely only meet one of those three goals. Or, like the idiot I am, I will struggle with all three and ultimately fail at all of them. Because... I'm just a winner like that.

2008 was a lot of things for me, personally. It was a reinforcement as well as a let-down. On what, I'm not going to share, because it's offensive, and I don't want people getting their knickers in a twist this early in the year. But needless to say, I'm going in to 2009 with a completely different outlook than what I went into 2008 with.

And. I just realized, I'm rambling, and nothing I've said thus far actually means a can of beans.
So I'm just going to stop now. Happy New Year, everyone. Take care.