by J. Loseth | Nov 26, 2005 | Story |
This is it, lads. We’ve done it. The future of dating is now.
Forget all those phony hookup services, the holodates, the matchmakers. We’ve discovered what your problem was all along. You don’t need to find the right girl, mate. Not anymore. That’s a thing of the past. You need to find the right you.
It’s taken decades of surveys and analyses and precision research, but we have finally figured out that mystical ideal: what girls like. Brace yourselves, gents. This one’s a doozy.
Girls like assholes.
I know you’ve heard this one before, and it didn’t work, did it mate? Well, that’s because you didn’t understand it the right way. Sure, we all know nice guys finish last, but assholes tend to get left in the end, too—unless they’re just the right kind of assholes.
Now, I won’t deceive you blokes. This ain’t easy. You can’t be an all-out fucker and expect a girl to like you. There is a certain type, a certain formula: the thing all women secretly want. They want just enough asshole to keep their lives exciting, to make ‘em think they’ve got work to do, but not enough douchebag to bugger off with some other chick in a shorter skirt.
Being an asshole takes care and talent. You need just enough cruelty to make ‘em hurt, and just enough kindness to make ‘em simper at you afterwards. You need to play the game, boys. It’s all in the game.
So how do you do it? Ay, there’s the rub. Let me tell it to you straight: if you don’t already know it on your own, you’re never gonna. It’s just that simple. What you need, my friends, is some way to know when enough is enough and when it’s not. What you need is this little miracle.
See it? Barely visible to the naked eye, but with more computing power than your entire cubicle. This little guy takes information directly from your brainwaves and figures out just how you should react. It’s like having that proverbial angel on your shoulder—or devil, boys, take your pick—to tell you just what to do. Doesn’t even need surgery.
You’ll have just the right formula, just the right mix: enough asshole to make a girl feel needed and enough humanity to convince her she’s done her job. And if you’ve got the unfortunate habit of being a nice guy at heart? All the better. You can go back to your goody-two-shoes ways once the prize is won. All you have to do is take the miracle bug out of your ear and hide it away. It’s that simple.
But you’ve got to start somewhere, gents. You’ve got to start somewhere. Now, I know the trick. I can show you the way.
But it’s gonna cost you.
by J. Loseth | Nov 19, 2005 | Story |
It’s very hard to describe the sound of a wooden baseball bat hitting the base of a stop sign, especially when the metal has been wrapped in a pillow to muffle the noise. It isn’t a clang. There’s no resonance, and I firmly believe that the word “clang” applies only to sounds that can echo. It isn’t a thud, either; there’s a more metallic flavor to it, and thuds feel, to me, entirely wooden.
Positioning the bat for the final stroke, I decided it really didn’t matter.
“Got it!” my partner grinned, wrenching the last of the twisted green metal off of the tiny stump that remained. George was a big guy and probably could’ve broken the signs off in fewer strokes than me, but he was also tall and couldn’t hit far enough down by the base. We needed all the metal we could get from these things. Every little bit helped.
George swung our latest prize up on his shoulder as I picked up the pillow and trotted to catch up with his long strides. The bat went over my own left shoulder. It was nothing compared to the five stop signs George was already carrying, but I consoled myself with the knowledge that as the one with the much smaller frame, I was the brains of the outfit. I was the one who’d picked this spot for harvesting, after all, and look what we’d already found.
The development had been abandoned for years, and most people still thought they’d die of radiation sickness the moment they set foot on the streets. Of course we knew better, but that was our advantage, and it was probably the only reason why the other harvesters hadn’t already decimated this place. George and I were only a two-person team and couldn’t compete for the big territories. We usually just got run off, the victims of superior numbers. This, though, was a fertile ground, and I let out a girlish squeal as I saw our next target.
“George! A yield sign!”
His head turned and he grinned while I blushed, trying to pretend I’d been big and manly about that. It wasn’t like I was ashamed of my sex or anything, but there weren’t too many girls in the harvesting business, and I was damned lucky to have George for the heavy stuff or I wouldn’t be able to pull my own weight. Some people say harvesters are scum, just picking the bones off of the dead, but I say—hell, the dead aren’t using them. Let the living eat for another day. I mean, sure I could go up to Jersey and work in a mini-mart or steal some skimpy clothes and become a whore, but I like harvesting better, even if it doesn’t pay as well.
The yield sign was in remarkable condition. Smelters pay extra for these, because the tiny bit of alloy in the red paint has become exceedingly rare in the modern era. I grinned up at George and he grinned back. He dropped the rest of the signs with what could legitimately be described as a clang. I tossed him the pillow and raised my bat in the air. American pastime, indeed.
by J. Loseth | Nov 12, 2005 | Story |
“I thought it was supposed to be bigger.”
“Well how should I know? This is what the guy at the shop gave me. It’s not like I ever saw one before.”
The two boys stared down at the black rectangle on the table, breathing in musty basement air. Marty, the older one, was twelve; Chester, his junior by only four months, was eagerly anticipating his birthday next week. The strange device in front of them was meant as part of Chester’s birthday present, along with the much larger box that the man in the antique shop had told Marty he’d need to use the thing, but so far Chester had showed little appreciation. He poked the boxlike object skeptically.
“But I thought all that old stuff was huge, like dinosaurs. My dad told me the computers used to take up whole rooms! And they had to use big cards with holes in them to put the numbers in. It’s all supposed to be big.”
“Well it goes in the big box. This thing is like one of those cards. That black tape inside has the picture on it, and the big thing is what you play it with.”
Chester seemed to accept this, poking his finger into the slot in the larger box, which was covered by a flap of hard plastic. “So how’s it work?”
“It has to get hooked up to the TV first. It’s an antique, remember? It’s got wires.”
“Does your TV even have wires?”
“Course not, but it’s got the place for some. My dad says it’s stupid but my mom says we need it ’cause Grandma hates wireless. She’s always coming over to show us her pictures, but she won’t use the beam on her album. She says the pictures might get lost in the air.” The two boys snickered at the thought. Marty plugged one end of a tangle of wires into the six ports on the wall. “Okay, hand me the player.”
Chester obeyed, pushing the larger black box over to Marty with the heels of his hands, stretching his body out like a worm. Marty took the device in hand and started turning it over and over while Chester lay down on his stomach and put his chin on his hand. “Did you find it yet?”
“No. They must put them in a different place.”
“Maybe it’s that black wire.”
“That’s the power, genius. You have to plug it into a grounder source.”
“What about those things on the back then?”
“That’s it. It’s probably only got two sound inputs.”
“So is anything even gonna play?”
“Of course it is! You think I woulda got it if it wasn’t going to play? We just need to give it some power… there. I knew my mom kept these old sources down here.”
“So what now?”
“Now we put it in.”
Marty picked up the cartridge from the floor. One edge had a flap on it that reminded him of the flap on the big box, so he pushed it in, that end first.
“Is it working?”
“Shh! Quiet!”
The TV flickered, the screen turning a different shade of black. The quiet hum of nothing issued from two of the speakers, the ones closest to the wall on either side. The others stayed deadly silent.
“Is that it?”
“I dunno… maybe we didn’t do it ri—”
The screen suddenly flared to life, going white and grey and grainy, a visual mish-mash that changed the quality of light playing over the two shocked faces. There was only a split second of delay before the sound came through, blaring white noise from the two forward speakers. Both boys jumped and Marty quickly turned the volume down. The low thrum of static filled the room as they stared at the screen.
At last, Marty broke the not-silence with a snort of disgust.
“Guess I got gypped. Man, what a waste. This is why they don’t make this stupid stuff anymore. C’mon, let’s go find something better to do. I shoulda known this thing wouldn’t work.”
Chester stayed silent, still blinking in the wake of the strange white light.
“Chester? Come on. I’ll get you a better birthday present, all right? Jeez.”
It took several moments for Chester to move. He answered with a short sound of assent, and Marty immediately turned to climb the stairs back up to the first floor. Chester stood and started after him, but hesitated after only a step. Quickly, he knelt by the player and hit the eject button. The cartridge popped out with a mechanical whir and Chester stuffed it into the huge pocket of his baggy pants. He ran to catch up with Marty.
“Nah, it’s okay. You don’t need to get me a better present.”
The artificial snow still danced behind his eyes.
by J. Loseth | Nov 6, 2005 | Story |
“Dan, please, calm down.” Daniel had only been home for a few moments, but the slammed door and Daniel’s flashing eyes told Gabe that the results of the subpoena had been poor.
“How can you say that? How can you say ‘calm down’?”
Gabe pressed his lips together but didn’t protest when Daniel yanked off his jacket, dumping it in a heap on the floor. “What happened?”
“You know damn well what happened. You know what they do.”
“No, I don’t, Dan. When they brought me in for questioning, I cooperated. They asked me a few things and then let me go.”
Daniel scowled and threw himself down into the easy chair. Gabe winced a little as he heard it creak, but now was not the time to discuss the state of their apartment. He bit his lip. “Do you want some coffee or something?”
“That shit’ll just make me jumpy. If I’m gonna drink something right now, it’s gonna be something hard.”
Gabe’s eyes widened. “Daniel… you haven’t had a drink in six months.”
“Seven,” Daniel corrected. He slumped in the chair, the defensive gleam going out of his eyes. “Just get me something to drink, okay?”
Gabe swallowed and nodded. He didn’t feel right leaving Daniel alone, so he propped the kitchen door open just enough so that Dan could hear his movements and maybe catch a glimpse of his body. He poured a shot of whiskey into the wide bottom of a juice glass and brought it back out to Daniel, kneeling carefully beside the easy chair.
Daniel took the glass, but he didn’t raise it. He didn’t look at it, either; his eyes were dim and unfocused, staring at something beyond the off-white carpet that no one could see but him. “They used the new probe,” he said finally, the words drawn out slowly, like handkerchiefs from the mouth of a clown.
Gabe gasped. “Oh my God… Dan… I thought they only did that to the criminals, not witnesses.”
“Yeah, well, I guess they didn’t like my attitude. They didn’t like the fact that my address was the same as yours, either.” Daniel glanced at Gabe, then looked away again, squeezing his eyes shut. “It’s like… fuck, Gabe, it’s like nothing. I can’t even describe it. Like someone ripping through your brain, tossing shit around, tearing things up. It’s like cops without a warrant trashing your place because you live in the slums and can’t do shit about it. And then they wipe their dicks on your face afterwards.”
“Dan…” Gabe reached out and took the drink from Daniel’s slack fingers, setting it carefully on the floor. Then he reached up and pulled Daniel into a hug, pressing the other man’s face into his chest and squeezing tight. He felt Daniel’s hands slowly raise and grasp the front of his shirt. “Are you going to have to go to court?”
“No. They got everything they needed. They’ll just pull it up on the screen for the jury. I don’t even have to testify.”
Gabe didn’t ask any more questions. He just stroked Daniel’s hair.
After a long time, Daniel spoke again. “I can’t find my memories,” he admitted in a small voice. “I know they’re there, and I know they can’t erase anything with the probe… but everything’s all moved around. I can’t find it. Little things I remember, like how to get home or which shelf we keep the mayo on, but big things, important things, are just…” He buried his head in Gabe’s chest. “I—I’m so confused.”
Gabe swallowed. “Shh,” he told Daniel. “If you worry about it, it’s just going to make it worse. You’ll find it all eventually.”
“You think?”
“Yeah.”
“Promise?”
“…Yeah.”
“Okay.”
There was another long silence before Daniel asked quietly, “Gabe?”
“Yeah?”
“I can’t remember how we first met.”
Gabe’s arms tightened around Daniel.
“Then I’ll tell you.”
by J. Loseth | Oct 26, 2005 | Story |
“So you see,†Bigsby slurred, “So you see, that’s why we’re better than you.â€
“No,†Jack replied, “I don’t see at all.â€
“Okay. Okay. I’ll explain it again. It’s like this. The beer, see–†He held up his own glass for demonstration. “The beer is the Earthmen. And these pretzels, well, the pretzels and the wings and the soda, those are all the colonies.â€
“So the colonies are the substantial portion of the menu.â€
“But the beer is why people come to the bar. Ya gotta have the beer to spice it up a bit.â€
“But that’s why people eat the pretzels,†Jack pointed out blandly. “Because they don’t want to feel the effects of the alcohol. Most of the colonies have outlawed beer entirely,†he pointed out, sipping his own Coke in quiet superiority. He hoped immigration would be next on the list.
“But that’s my point! That’s exactly my point.†Bigsby leaned forward, his watery eyes sparkling. “Back here on Earth, why do people drink alcohol?â€
“Because they don’t know any better and they don’t want to change.â€
“Wrong. That’s not it at all. They do it because they want change. Thank you,†Bigsby added to the bartender, who had just refilled his glass.
“Now you’ve lost me.â€
“It’s true. Listen. Why do frat boys drink beer at parties?â€
“What do you do for a living?†Jack cut in. He regarded Bigsby like some kind of rare bug specimen.
“I’m an out of work politician.â€
Jack sighed. That meant he wouldn’t get out of this without hearing the whole lecture. At least it would make a great scathing editorial when he got back to Mars. “All right, go on. Why do frat boys drink beer at parties? Aside from the obvious answers of immaturity and poor upbringing.â€
“Forget the frat boys, then. Why does anyone drink alcohol? Why does a perfectly sane, well-kempt, mature Earthman go out for a pint with his mates? Because he wants things to change. He wants to push the boundaries, wants to test the limits of himself. He wants to put himself in an abnormal situation and see if he gets an abnormal response. In short, he wants stimulus, and that’s something the colonies are never going to have.†Bigsby gestured widely with his glass, sloshing a respectable amount of beer onto the bar. “What’s the last innovation the colonies have come up with? The latest invention? Have there been any?â€
Jack glowered at the increasingly annoying Earthman. “You can’t possibly be saying that an era of peace, prosperity, and enlightenment is a bad thing. Our laws are the best in the universe. They promote the way of life that we want to live.â€
“Conflict is a catalyst,†Bigsby replied, eyes widening in an attempt to look wise. Jack remembered it as a catch phrase on the cover of the latest USA Today.
“Don’t go looking for work on Mars,†he told Bigsby shortly, setting the money for his drink on the bar.
“Stay on Earth a while,†Bigsby called after him from the barstool. “I’ll take you out. We’ll go watch pro wrestling!â€
Jack was already writing the editorial in his head.
