Print

Please login or register.
1 Hour 1 Day 1 Week 1 Month Forever
Login with username, password and session length

[RoseHeart]

C A

In that order.

+1

[NUKE9.13]

Nah, it was B. It was all nonsense at the time. (With a dash of C, maybe.)

[Dustan Hache]

Mix of A and C.

[Cain12]

Nah, it was B. It was all nonsense at the time. (With a dash of C, maybe.)

+1

[Fniff]

The pen clicking sounded small, but my memory amplifies it into the slamming of a jailhouse door.

She moves me to the basement, a maze of wires and serverbanks. In the bounce of her flashlight motes of dust float peacefully, like plankton under the ocean. She types on a computer and I lean against a control panel, asking if I could smoke. She says no, so the pack in my shirt pocket stays right where it is.

I zone out listening for a distant droplet tapping on a drain somewhere in the depths of the building when she squeezes past me and presses some buttons on the panel. When she retracts, her hand brushes my arm. Her skin is rougher than I expected - I suppose a lifetime working in safety-compromised laboratories will cause that.

I'm lead to the orgone accelerator. Accumulators resemble phoneboxes, this one looks more like a coffin made from stainless steel. She pops it open and waits for me. I hesitate before I climb in. It's a tight fit and there's no padding, but cognito vult, right? ... Or would that be doctrina vult? I hate Latin.

Outside, the soft click of a tape recorder switching on. "Project Seaside Ghost, Patient Niner Romero Zero," she says. "Beginning phase one."

Patient?

Gears inside the accelerators turn, a high-pitched whine. Instantly a headache develops behind my eyes, and my heart slows down. Lights flash, stars and diamonds, shifting through my vision. The interior of the accelerator becomes coated with slick wet sweat, stinking of pine. I think back to my stoner friends, their advice on mushrooms, work through the trip, keep yourself grounded, have a friend.

But then I look at my hand and
watch my skin
shift and squirm
and percolate,
that's
when
I
start
screaming

Consciousness returns, like I'm a diver breaking through to the surface. I gasp, then bury my head facedown in the pillow, prostrate under the sheets. Then I catch the inconsistency and push myself out of bed.
I'm in a bedroom, the sunlight filtered through the thick curtains. I walk over (unsteady on my feet - the dream so intense I forget I'm a child-- taking a child's form) and pull open the curtains. I'm somewhere on the southern bluffs, with the San Veuster boardwalk due northeast. On the bay, sailboats calmly roll on the waves.

I dig my fingers under the window and try to push up, but that's when I notice the dozens of nails hammered into the sill. I tiptoe over to the door and try the handle.
Unlocked.

A. Smash the window, get the fuck out.
B. Head downstairs. Where's this going?

[ATHATH]

B.

[NUKE9.13]

Where indeed?

B

[Fniff]

The stairs creak as I tiptoe down. The walls are lined with landscapes, ranging from the pelagic to the coastal. A decade back, every town with a lake or sea got dozens of these identikit cottages for city yuppies. The quality didn't matter, it just had to be close to the beach and the bars. Like many of its sisters, the plaster is peeling and the ceiling is watermarked from previous deluges.

I land in the kitchen and my troubles begin. If it was just Spiderweb and Mohawk (where's Grinner?) sitting at the dinner table, that would have been enough. If it was just them sitting with the largest collection of firearms I have ever seen outside of Texas, that would have been enough. And you know what? I would have tolerated everyone staring in my direction just as I entered.

What I can't tolerate is the old man sitting at the table, staring me down like he knows me. His clothing fits but doesn't suit him, like someone's dressed him. And I don't like the way Spiderweb is glancing at him for affirmation and how Mohawk can't meet his eyes.

"Sit down," he tells me. "We're gonna eat stuff."

I do what he says. I clock my police radio and revolver at his side of the table, beside the machine guns and the rocket launcher. I feel for their supplier, this must have been a bitch to smuggle in. You don't stock this kind of shit unless you're planning a civil war.

"I'm gonna die now, right?" I say.

Spiderweb smirks and nods at the old man. "Not until she says so."

She? I ball my fists and lean forward, showing my teeth. "I appreciate your hospitality, old man, I haven't slept in a bed for a long time. But may I ask what the fuck is going on here?"

"You said a bad word," the old man says.

"What?" I say. "Oh, goddammit, can someone just tell me what's going on?"

"We owe you nothing," Spiderweb says.

"He's dead anyway, Jess," Mohawk says. Spiderweb glares at him, he shrugs. "It's just polite."

The old man laughs and looks at me. "Do you know how many little skinflakes come off your body in just an hour? Forty thousand. All the dust in this house, it's all just itty-bitty skinflakes. But it makes a big pile, doesn't it? A big huge pile of dust."

"That..." I sigh. "He's senile, then?"

"Right," Spiderweb passes the old man a revolver. He dangles it by the end of the grip and looks at it curiously. She sets it right in his hand. "Pull back the hammer, point at it at his head. Squeeze, don't push, the trigger."

He points the revolver at me. I shut my eyes. After a certain time, living just gets boring. I mean, I still want to live... But inevitably I'd get bored of it. So I might as well try to get into that mindset so I'm not so pantswettingly terrified.
idontwannadie
You think I do?
willithurt
Probably.
Don't worry.
This is where the pain stops.


For a moment, I hear the shot and find what Hell is. Darkness, alone with your thoughts. Then I open my eyes and the old man pokes at the kitchen knife embedded in the side of his skull. He smiles at her, as she rips the knife out of his head in a gush of blood and brains.

She approaches me, wiping the knife on her blouse, and breaks out in a grin.

“Wanna go home, sweetie?” she says.

Spiderweb grabs a sawn-off shotgun from the table and points it at mom. Mohawk is too busy throwing up his breakfast to help out.

She faces Spiderweb, holding the knife reverse-grip.

“You crazy fucking bitch,” Spiderweb gasps, eyes-wide.

“Fair point,” she says, testing the tip of her blade. “But here's the thing, little missy. That turkeyshooter might scare a normal person, but me... I'm not in my right mind. And I'm pretty sure you have no way to kill me before I gut you. You see where this is going?”

“You don't scare me,” Spiderweb says.

Mom smiles. “Darling, that's horseshit.”

The old man watches, bemused.

A. Sneak the radio under and switch it on. Maybe the cops will come to help... Maybe.
B. Grab a gun. Mohawk's easy prey, maybe Spiderweb... But the old man took the knife like a champ and I don't know what he's gonna do.
C. See what happens and get ready to hide. She can handle herself... can't she?

[Dustan Hache]

B,but watch mom's back. Don't let the old man get the jump on either of us.

[NUKE9.13]

Well that's ominous. I guess that means we're not the only ones who received some form of experimental orgone treatment.
Welp, time to fight back.

B

[Cain12]

B