dreadcrumbs

Friday Fives, Extended Edition

Here's something I don't understand. Occasionally, when I am comfortably seated in the bathroom stall at work and the single other stall is also occupied, a third person will enter the bathroom. That isn't the confusing part - lots of people seem to share my waste disposal schedule. The odd thing is that this third person will walk over to the door of my stall and stand there for several seconds, swaying. Sometimes they will try a few soft tugs at the door to see if it will open. All this is disturbing. If I was at home at night and someone was exhibiting identical behavior outside my front door, I would call the police. Or quickly open the door and scream in their face. As the lurker at the restroom could easily be someone with the power to fire me, however, I have to be more subtle. Sort of.

Five things I do to reward the psychopath for his patience in standing outside the bathroom stall

1. Make soft oinking noises
2. Whisper "Shhh! Someone is right outside the door!"
3. Sing three improvised verses of "I Love A Good Poo"
4. Whine "Not by the hair of my chinny-chin-chin" every time he tries the door
5. Complement the visitor on his fine taste in shoes and attempt to engage him in a dialogue on the deplorable state of cordwainery in the Americas

Morality 2.0

My target crumples to the ground and I lower my disruptor pistol.
Jed's words flash up on the screen.
u get him?
I look back at the image of the guy I just shot. Blood is pooling underneath the body. It's gross, and it's seems like it's there just to be gross. It sort of ruins the whole illusion of my packing some kind of next-gen laser weapon.
Jed messages again.
DID YOU GET HIM???
yeah, I type back.
kewl, the words come back. come to the lower level. im kicking some serious A$$ with the nailgun.
I move past the body, and glance around to make sure no one is lurking.
Im not comfortable with this, I type.
!?? comes back, and I assume he must be too steeped in combat to actually type words.
too much pointless death, I type.
I move to the stairway that leads down to where Jed is currently "kicking A$$."
ITS A GAME DUDE, comes back.
there's no story, I type, and as I go down the stairs I can hear the erratic patter of Jed's nail gun hammering away.
A single WUSS flashes up on my screen as I enter the room where Jed is causing most of his mayhem. His current target is trying to crawl away with several nails sprouting from his legs at awkward angles.
Jed himself is somewhat impressively managing to thumb-type on his Blackberry with his left hand while still taking pot-shots with the pneumatic nailer in his right.
My cell beeps and go home and play ZORK then grampa appears on the screen.
"I don't even know what that is," I say, and hearing me, Jed glances my way.
"I'm gonna bail, okay?" I say.
There is a long hiss from his gun, and it clicks uselessly several times as he pulls the trigger to no avail, jerking it at the man on the floor.
"Gah!" he shouts. "Out of ammo."
Jed lets the nailer clatter to the floor and looks at me. "Fine," he says, irritated. "I'm almost done here, anyway. I think there's a chain-saw in the back room there."
The nail-ridden man wriggling on the floor lets out a strange pig-noise and redoubles his efforts to get away.
"Don't bother," I say, and toss Jed the pistol I'd been using. "Use this. I'm done with it."

Five non-chemical ways to keep yourself awake after a sleep-free night

1. Participate in a mugging (either side is fine)
2. Affix razor blades or needles to four or more of your fingertips (it makes rubbing your tired eyes a task requiring much more concentration)
3. "Borrow" a hearing aid, put it in, and turn it all the way up (this is a handy follow-up to #1 if you chose to mug an elderly person)
4. Scream at everyone and everything. It gets the blood running and often catalyzes an invigorating struggle with authorities
5. Wear only one shoe (or smear your feet with lard). The increased stumbling rate should lace your bloodstream with adrenalin until you collapse in a twitching heap sometime in the evening

Themed Microstory

My Brother-in-Law Jeff requested a microstory to commemorate his wedding on Saturday, so here it is. Saves me from having to buy him a toaster.

"The Wedding Night"

Jeff laid on the hotel bed, waiting for his new bride to come out of the bathroom.
He was thinking, and he wished he wasn't, about his father. His father had come to him during the reception and offered him $2000 if he didn't consummate his marriage tonight. His Dad didn't have any reason to do this. Nothing moral, ethical, or symbolic. He just wanted Jeff to squirm. Because he, they, could really use the money.
He could lie, he thought to himself. They could do whatever they wanted and then just tell his father they had been too tired.
Except his Dad wouldn't buy it. He wouldn't believe him, and Jeff had never been able to keep a secret very long.
He groaned and decided he would bite the bullet. Rolling over on his side, he figured if only he could fall asleep before Jessie came out of the bathroom, he might...
"I've got a surprise for you," she said suddenly, and his eyes jerked open. He hadn't even heard her leave the bathroom. She was standing in the shadows at the foot of the bed cradling something in her arms. He thought it might be a puppy, the way she was holding it, but it wasn't making any noise.
"What is it?" he asked.
She smiled and walked slowly into the light, revealing a mottled pink and brown sculpted mass. It appeared to be shaped like a little man.
"Our baby!" she cried, jubilant, and flounced over to the edge of the bed where he was now sitting.
Bending over, she gave him a closer look at it, whispering, more to the sculpture than to him, "Our Meat Baby..."
It did, indeed, appear to be made of meat, he noticed, looking at it. Probably eight pounds of ground beef.
There were no clothes except for baby shoes, mashed onto the ends of the legs.
"I think she should probably sleep with us for the first month or so," she said, setting the mass on the middle of the bed next to Jeff. He stared at it from the corner of his eye.
"We should get some sleep," she said, yawning. "It's been a long day, and it's already late."
There was a click, and the room went dark.
He felt her slip into bed on the other side of the Baby, and the disturbance caused the meat to shift position. He felt the Meat Baby, wet and cold, roll against his bare upper arm.
"Aw," she said, cooing. "She likes you, sweetheart!"
He let out a sound that he hoped sounded like a laugh and shuddered.
It looked as if he would be getting that money from his father after all.

Five reasons I am not yet a cannibal

1. Ham is plentiful
2. De-boning grosses me out
3. Short supply at the supermarket
4. I don't trust the voices about the "delightfully woody pork flavor"
5. Refrigerator is too small for leftovers

"The Sound of One Hand Flapping"

I look down at Greg's body, arms and legs bent in places they shouldn't be, angry purple bruises rotting at their hinge points. He clears his throat and smiles at me.
"So why the speedo?" I ask.
"You don't understand," Greg says.
"Um...No," I say. "No, I'm pretty sure I don't."
Greg lets out a ragged sigh and winces. It's clear this hasn't been a completely painless process for him.
"I'm trying to become something new, Bill," he says. I'm suddenly struck by how much he looks like my 9th grade algebra teacher when he was trying to explain the quadratic formula to me. I didn't get it.
"I don't get it," I tell Greg.
"It's a journey I'm on," he says. "To broaden my mind and gain control of my body."
"Right," I say. "It's some kind of twisted Zen thing, then."
He looks disappointed, and for several seconds he says nothing.
"So..." I start, uncomfortable with many things, but mostly the silence.
"Does your skin crawl?" He suddenly asks.
"What?" I ask.
"Does your skin crawl?" He asks again.
"Well, I have to admit," I say, "seeing you like this is pretty creepy."
"No!" he shouts, and from the way his face twitches, it hurt.
"Okay, okay," I say, and crouch down next to him. "Calm down."
"I know you've felt it," he says, a little desperately. "When you sense danger, evil, a passing spirit, something. We've all felt it."
"Skin crawling?" I ask.
"Yes," he hisses. "Your skin moves. It reacts, on a primal level."
"Okay," I say again, my eyes darting around the room to avoid looking him in the eye. There is a large blunt hammer in the corner of the room that I suspect was the primary agent of his "journey."
"Cilia," he says, and waits.
"Who?" I ask, looking back at him.
"Cilia," he says again. "The most basic form of movement. The protozoan tentacle mass. It lies within us. Within all life."
"Cilia," I say, standing. "You're saying that shivers down our spine are caused by protozoan tentacles."
"I'm forcing them out," he whispers. "Like the man who loses sight and gains exceptional hearing. My body will find a way."
"Hmph," I grunt, noticing a wet stain grow underneath his body.
"Don't you see?" he asks. "I'm not losing four limbs! I'm gaining hundreds!"
Satisfied the stain isn't blood from an actively bleeding wound, I point at it. "Did you just pee?" I ask.
He looks embarrassed. "Sorry," he says. "I can't writhe to the bathroom yet."
"Hey, I'm not the one who has to lay in it," I say, walking to the door.
"Should I come by next week then?" I ask.
"Sure," he says. "My Path will be more convincing when you can see me shambling about for real. It'll be cool."
"All right," I say, opening the door and stepping out.
Turning around, I point at the door. "Should I shut this?" I ask.
"Please do," he says.

Five incomprehensibilities I'm pondering this week in an attempt to create logic faults in the nanites trying to reprogram my brain

1. Why men who aren't gestapo (or tap-dancers, but hey, same thing) wear shoes that "clack" on tile floors.
2. Why I can't find gloves that fit me in ANY home improvement store. It's like looking for size 14 shoes in 1988 all over again.
3. Why people who live east of Colorado tend to pronounce the name of the state just south of Washington like a spray-on paddle solvent ("Oar-o-Gone!")
4. Why the term "Wi-Fi" caught on. It wasn't the hip youth, I know that. I'm old, and I barely know what "Hi-Fi" meant.
5. Why certain flavors of cardboard remind me of my childhood.

"An Awkward Lunch"

"So how is it," I ask. "Really?"
Mike puts the remains of his sandwich on the table and sighs.
"Oh, I love it," he says, shrugging. "I do."
"Very convincing," I say.
"I'm not saying it isn't hard," he says, massaging his temples.
"So I gather," I say. "What is it that.."
"It cries," he interrupts. "No. It screams. All the time."
"So the noise is a problem?" I ask.
"That's hard, no question," he says. "But the real issue is seeing it happen. It's too much."
"Seeing it happen?" I ask. "The crying?"
"Yes," he says, looking at me like a drowning man. "The mouth is...is like an open wound. A clotted toothless wound." From the look on his face, I'm afraid he might actually start crying.
Trying to defuse what could turn into an uncomfortable situation, I do my best to turn it onto myself. "So," I laugh, "I guess Anna and I shouldn't have kids."
He looks up at me, confused. "What?"
"Sorry," I say. "Dumb joke."
"Wait," he says. "Are you talking about my new baby?"
"Um," I say. "What are you talking about?"
"The...uh..." he says, looking around the room, "the baby. No, I was talking about the baby."
I stare at him. "Okay..." I say.
He stares back.
"You tell anybody about this and you're dead," he says.

Five more things I've done at work that have, strangely, not led to my dismissal

1. While plugged in to the conference room projector during a particularly boring portion of a meeting, browsing to Ask.com and submitting "Are there ants living in my eyeballs?" as my question
2. Writing the word "WINDOW" on a window pane near my cubicle with a whiteboard marker (it wipes off, don't worry. I'm changing it to "DOOR" next week)
3. Expressing my disapproval of ideas in meetings by hissing
4. Writing "i love you, johnny" on the whiteboard in an empty conference room, then writing "DO NOT ERASE" above it
5. Start every meeting I run by identifying the most vociferously opinionated person in the room and having everyone agree beforehand that the person in question is always right and need not try to convince us of the fact