October 2001. Unending was the only way to describe this place. The grief and tragedy seemed to go on and on without end. The suddenness and cruelty of that warm abd bright September morning had faded to dull and obstinate pain. And the nation, instead of seeking some meaning or healing, turned inward, trading virtual and wisdom for bitterness and paranoia.
Molly watched as four exhausted firemen handed a flag draped litter along a line of construction workers and policemen from the tangled and shattered heap that was once the gleaming glass and steel twin towers of the World Trade Center. The remains, more wrapped than shrouded in the red and white stripes of a flag, was a bundle that ought to have filled the wire basket. One could scarcely believe that bundle was once a human being. They weren’t finding bodies any longer though. What was pulled from this place, this crime scene where three thousand had died, were pieces. It was torsos, hands, scalps and unidentifiable things.
Molly’s dark blue FBI jacket was zipped tight against the deepening cold. The sky had clouded up and looked like rain. That thickening blanket brushed the summits of Manhattan’s forest of skyscrapers, darkening steadily. From the pile smoke still rose to meet that sky after more than a month since the attack. The memory of that day only left Molly colder.
Something caught her attention. It was a man standing alone beside a fire engine that had been smashed and still remained half buried in debris. It was odd to see anyone alone at Ground Zero, and odder to see someone without an apparent job to do. Though a tight security cordon had been drawn around the sight now and then a grieving relative, the curious and vagrants would slip through. It was an understandable thing in the heart of New York, especially for the relatives of the hundreds still listed as missing-all those souls that on a bright September morning seemed to have simply disappeared in an hour of madness.
This was still a crime scene, Molly was thinking as she climbed down and made her way towards the man. He was tall, with thick dark hair and an inquisitive face. The collar of his maroon corduroy jacket was turned up against the cold. His jeans were torn just below the knee. It was hardly more than an inch or so long. There was a bit of fresh red blood staining the torn blue fabric.
“Hey there!” she called out, her hand covering a holstered .45 at her hip. She sort of led with that side, stepping over debris, making certain he could see she was armed.
He ignored her, the man’s eyes soberly following the body’s final journey down to a waiting ambulance.
“Excuse me ,” Molly said again, “this is a restricted area.”
“Sshhh,” he brought a finger to his lips without looking at her. In the same motion he drew a red Press pass from the jacket pocket.
“Journalist?”
He didn’t answer. His brow furled slightly. “Listen. It’s a living thing. It’s moving, changing, evolving. The groans, the sounds of things banging and falling deep inside. And the smoke, as if there was some great beast within pondering, struggling with vengeance, forgiveness, introspection, war and peace.”
Molly studied the man, fascinated and enthralled by such a mind. She had come to Ground Zero within a few weeks of the attack, and like most everyone else had watched in stunned horror as it unfolded on television, like some national collective cry. Never once did she allow her thoughts to conceive of this place as anything other than a crime scene.
A moment of uncorrupted sun broke through the blanketing clouds. It skidded across the monstrous pile, through trickling plumes of smoke, towering cranes and workers dwarfed in scale almost to insignificance.
“See there?” he began again. “The mood changes with the light and dark. The shadows wax and wane. At night there is the glow of fires from within, like some imprisoned sun, or the collective spirits of the victim fighting to escape. The pile is never the same moment to moment, like a woman upon a lover’s grave.”
Emotion suddenly rose in Molly’s chest. “Poetic.”
“Poems are declarations of love and passion and heartache.” He looked at her, pausing as he seemed to find something in her eyes, just as she found something in his. “I think I’ve come to love this place for its tragedy.”
“Agent Karaman, Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
“Where are my manners? Doug was chagrined. “Doug Springer, with The Times.” He handed her a business card.
“I haven’t been able to think that, I don’t know, abstractly about all this,” she said, studying his card. Molly drew one of her own and handed it over, as if it was some sort of trade.
“Trying to find some bigger perspective, I guess. Some fuller definition and contest.”
“Wish I had that luxury.”
“No offence,” he replied, “but there is a part of me that’s glad you can’t. Some very bad people did this, and some very incompetent people missed the signs screaming at us for years. I’m guessing a philosophical soul isn’t necessarily a helpful attribute in bringing either to justice.”
“Odd juxtaposition to put yourself in,” she said with a seemingly glance. There was a challenge and not a small amount of flirtation.
Doug reached up and scratched his cheek. It was the first time she’d seen the wedding ring upon his finger. She suddenly felt foolish, but as she excused herself and walked away she couldn’t help but feel the meeting was somehow significant.
“Call me a hopeful realist,” he said.
They both looked across the pile once more. Clouds returned dulling the scorched and twisted steel.
“So where does all this lead?” she asked.
Doug sighed. “No place good.”
“Sounds hopeless,” she looked at him sadly. “Even for a realist.”
The moment might have been forgotten, but some folks feel like a destination. She had always found herself attracted to clever intelligent men, but there was something more to Doug than cleverness and smarts. Molly couldn’t say what it was, but the memory of that day would haunt and return to her in the years to come…
Showing posts with label Angry Jasper. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Angry Jasper. Show all posts
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Friday, June 25, 2010
The Big Blue Sky: Seventeen
Traffic was heavy along Arlington Boulevard out of Washington. It was already dark. To the west, as if black ink had been spilled across the turquoise sunset, a storm was building. It was warm for an autumn day, but the scent of rain carried hints of a cold front behind the storm clouds. Molly’s gaze followed the ceaseless line of crimson taillights and felt father away from home than she had all day.
She flipped to the local talk radio station. After the awful news of the capture of 6 American servicemen, the Rightwing host touted the usual cartoonish drumbeat to war. It was always the same, she thought, diverting her thoughts from the frustration of stop and go traffic, that men who were too cowardly to go to war, or men who had never learned its lesson were its greatest proponents. They never quite understood that all human history had been an evolution from barbarism towards a world without war. On the radio the know-nothing host worked himself into a virtual sexual frenzy.
“…this Marxist Pacifist president! No doubt he’ll bow at the Iranian’s feet and apologize for America, as he does all over the world. What we should do is,” he began shouting, “TURN THEIR COUNTRY INTO AN ASHTRAY! Maybe we melt a few of their cities with Nukes. This country should demand the immediate release of all of our heroes, and reparations paid to all their families. And if they don’t, we toast a hundred thousand a day until they capitulate. But that won’t happen because we have a law professor for a President, and bureaucratic cowards commanding our military…”
Molly couldn’t listen any longer. It frustrated her and raised her blood pressure above the level normally inflicted by rush hour traffic, and seemingly brain-dead drivers. But she had seen all this before. She’d seen the nation evolve into war with Iraq. Spurred by the September attacks, a manipulative government, a corporate media and the war cry from Rightwing radio, a culture emerged in which questions or criticism was called unpatriotic and antimilitaristic heresy.
She flipped off the radio and let the relative silence fill in the gap. Sweet silence. Silence and unencumbered thought were the truest dangers to political talk radio on every side of the political divide. It was noise. It was know-nothings shouting and raging to obscure clear thought quite deliberately. That noise burned a hole through the mind, like looking into the sun, until unobstructed sight and insight was all but lost.
The silence brought to mind the horrors and tragedy of war, which Molly had glimpsed investigating various bombings throughout the Middle East, following the attacks in New York and Washington. In a war with Iran tens or hundreds of thousands would die. Many more would be maimed, both physically and emotionally. Millions would be uprooted. In this country there would be the widows and orphans of fallen soldiers. In this country men and women would return from combat missing limbs or faces, or made vegetable, or having become emotionally crippled. They would all be conspicuous for a time, then forgotten with greater time; the pornography of war. The nation’s economy would be strained from the waste of bullets and resources that produce nothing but death.
It all flooded in upon Molly until emotion knotted in her chest. When it became too much-a mix of rage and heartbreak-she flipped on the radio again, poking at the presets until she came to some progressive Rock Station. Molly turned it up loud. It was easier than thinking too much.
She flipped to the local talk radio station. After the awful news of the capture of 6 American servicemen, the Rightwing host touted the usual cartoonish drumbeat to war. It was always the same, she thought, diverting her thoughts from the frustration of stop and go traffic, that men who were too cowardly to go to war, or men who had never learned its lesson were its greatest proponents. They never quite understood that all human history had been an evolution from barbarism towards a world without war. On the radio the know-nothing host worked himself into a virtual sexual frenzy.
“…this Marxist Pacifist president! No doubt he’ll bow at the Iranian’s feet and apologize for America, as he does all over the world. What we should do is,” he began shouting, “TURN THEIR COUNTRY INTO AN ASHTRAY! Maybe we melt a few of their cities with Nukes. This country should demand the immediate release of all of our heroes, and reparations paid to all their families. And if they don’t, we toast a hundred thousand a day until they capitulate. But that won’t happen because we have a law professor for a President, and bureaucratic cowards commanding our military…”
Molly couldn’t listen any longer. It frustrated her and raised her blood pressure above the level normally inflicted by rush hour traffic, and seemingly brain-dead drivers. But she had seen all this before. She’d seen the nation evolve into war with Iraq. Spurred by the September attacks, a manipulative government, a corporate media and the war cry from Rightwing radio, a culture emerged in which questions or criticism was called unpatriotic and antimilitaristic heresy.
She flipped off the radio and let the relative silence fill in the gap. Sweet silence. Silence and unencumbered thought were the truest dangers to political talk radio on every side of the political divide. It was noise. It was know-nothings shouting and raging to obscure clear thought quite deliberately. That noise burned a hole through the mind, like looking into the sun, until unobstructed sight and insight was all but lost.
The silence brought to mind the horrors and tragedy of war, which Molly had glimpsed investigating various bombings throughout the Middle East, following the attacks in New York and Washington. In a war with Iran tens or hundreds of thousands would die. Many more would be maimed, both physically and emotionally. Millions would be uprooted. In this country there would be the widows and orphans of fallen soldiers. In this country men and women would return from combat missing limbs or faces, or made vegetable, or having become emotionally crippled. They would all be conspicuous for a time, then forgotten with greater time; the pornography of war. The nation’s economy would be strained from the waste of bullets and resources that produce nothing but death.
It all flooded in upon Molly until emotion knotted in her chest. When it became too much-a mix of rage and heartbreak-she flipped on the radio again, poking at the presets until she came to some progressive Rock Station. Molly turned it up loud. It was easier than thinking too much.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Angry Jasper: Fifty-seven
A billion and a half miles away, as the crow flies, a small dull gray ship sank through the dense methane clouds of Saturn’s moon Titan. It sank undetected through that thick twilight haze, settling in a small valley. Like a chameleon the ship shifted color to match perfectly the umber and brown landscape. It even mimicked the pale yellow and white patches of Methane snow.
Titan was still a pretty primitive place. There were a few colonies, but mostly for bio-researchers. It was one of the few worlds environmental activists had succeeded in protecting from the exploitative aims of the Corporation. Life was just emerging there, crude as it was, mostly near warm volcanic vents. Indeed, the whole place was akin to some primordial soup. It was the perfect place for Thomas to regroup and plan the eventual takeover of the solar system…
To be continued…
Titan was still a pretty primitive place. There were a few colonies, but mostly for bio-researchers. It was one of the few worlds environmental activists had succeeded in protecting from the exploitative aims of the Corporation. Life was just emerging there, crude as it was, mostly near warm volcanic vents. Indeed, the whole place was akin to some primordial soup. It was the perfect place for Thomas to regroup and plan the eventual takeover of the solar system…
To be continued…
Monday, May 31, 2010
Angry Jasper: Fifty-six
Jazz dressed and went down to Skull boy’s pod. The door was open, and he could see the kid at the glass, mesmerized by the strange creatures of Europa’s hidden ocean. He paused before going in and checked his credit pod. Full payment. Skull boy’s mother had deposited the full amount into his account before the end. The old bird must have known, he thought. He almost felt bad for all the stuff he said to her. He almost felt bad. Well, that was that, he thought, switching off the credit pod. There was just one last detail to attend to.
God, the kid was hideous, Jasper thought. Skull boy’s oblong face was reflected in the glass, superimposed against the turquoise aquatic world. Shame that the only person who could stomach a look at the little snot was dead. It didn’t hardly seem fair. Jazz could see that the kid looked terribly sad.
“Thinkin’ about your mom, kid?”
The kid shook his head without looking at Jazz. “About what you’re thinking.”
“You can read minds too?’
He turned. “No, but I know you’re gonna get rid of me.”
“That’s a little harsh.” Jasper couldn’t bring himself to look at the kid. “For your own good.”
“I know,” he sighed, and sat heavily against the glass.
“You do?” Jazz knelt beside the boy.
“I’ll spend a couple years in a corporation orphanage on Uranus. I’ll be abused by a hybid named Moose. You don’t want to know how. When I’m military age they’ll ship me off to a unit on the frontier. We’re at war by then, maybe the worst anyone ever imagined. I’ll survive a massacre. That’s how the corporation learns of my secret, and they ship me off to some remote research facility for the rest of my life.”
“See?” Jazz exclaimed. “That’s not so bad, eh?”
The kid wasn’t buying it, that much Jazz could tell. It was all for the best though; for him, and for the kid. And why should Jasper feel guilty? He was Angry Jasper, not Papa Jasper, or Daddy Jasper, or Freeload Jasper, or Best Buddy Jasper. He was Angry Jasper, and that’ how he wanted to remain. None of this was his fault. But then if that was true then why did he feel like such a dick?
Skullboy’s eyes held his accusingly. They trapped him, and that pissed Jazz off to no end. T made him feel responsible. Like he owed the kid, or Madame - the deceased Madame - something beyond the simple tenants of their initial contract. All he had agreed to do was rescue the kid from Chicago and return him home. Hell, he had already done far more than he had to. It wasn’t Jasper’s fault that the Earth blew up, smashing the wheel and his mom to bits.
So what if Jazz had come to like the kid? Skull boy kind of grew on a body, like an ugly little mole that you just sort of picked at, and then felt bad when it fell off finally. But it wasn’t about liking or not liking a damn thing. Jazz was a loner, a freighter trash kid who wore a broken heart on one sleeve (The one he led with in a fight), with a chip on his shoulder that would crush most folks, and who wore regret like a suit of armor. What the hell would he do with a kid?
“It’s really for the better,” said Jazz, feeling as though he was trying to convince himself as much as the kid. “You had nice home. You don’t want to traipse around space with the likes of me. Don’t you have an uncle, a grandparent, something somewhere?”
“Nobody.” Skull boy lay back on the floor. He curled into a ball, covering that ugly damn head. It cut through Jazz’ cold and bitter heart like a knife. Jazz stood and paced the room for a moment, wanting to shout or bust something. Suddenly he stopped and looked at Skull boy. He’d said something, and in all the emotion Jazz nearly missed it.
“What did you say about a war?”
“An alien invasion,” the kid’s reply was muted and dejected. “They overrun the frontiers, blah, blah, blah.”
Jasper knelt beside Skull boy, alarmed. “You’re not pulling my chain?”
“Why would I?”
“So when does this invasion… from where, how long?”
“It’s already started.”
“Thomas, survived?”
.”He rises through the Corporation and opens the frontier for a full fledged invasion.”
Jazz stood and backed away from the kid. He pressed his hands against the glass and found it cold.
“Thomas?” he said, more to himself that to the kid. He turned back to Skull boy. “And you’re certain he didn’t die on Earth?”
Skull boy shrugged. “I get the feeling he didn’t.”
God, the kid was hideous, Jasper thought. Skull boy’s oblong face was reflected in the glass, superimposed against the turquoise aquatic world. Shame that the only person who could stomach a look at the little snot was dead. It didn’t hardly seem fair. Jazz could see that the kid looked terribly sad.
“Thinkin’ about your mom, kid?”
The kid shook his head without looking at Jazz. “About what you’re thinking.”
“You can read minds too?’
He turned. “No, but I know you’re gonna get rid of me.”
“That’s a little harsh.” Jasper couldn’t bring himself to look at the kid. “For your own good.”
“I know,” he sighed, and sat heavily against the glass.
“You do?” Jazz knelt beside the boy.
“I’ll spend a couple years in a corporation orphanage on Uranus. I’ll be abused by a hybid named Moose. You don’t want to know how. When I’m military age they’ll ship me off to a unit on the frontier. We’re at war by then, maybe the worst anyone ever imagined. I’ll survive a massacre. That’s how the corporation learns of my secret, and they ship me off to some remote research facility for the rest of my life.”
“See?” Jazz exclaimed. “That’s not so bad, eh?”
The kid wasn’t buying it, that much Jazz could tell. It was all for the best though; for him, and for the kid. And why should Jasper feel guilty? He was Angry Jasper, not Papa Jasper, or Daddy Jasper, or Freeload Jasper, or Best Buddy Jasper. He was Angry Jasper, and that’ how he wanted to remain. None of this was his fault. But then if that was true then why did he feel like such a dick?
Skullboy’s eyes held his accusingly. They trapped him, and that pissed Jazz off to no end. T made him feel responsible. Like he owed the kid, or Madame - the deceased Madame - something beyond the simple tenants of their initial contract. All he had agreed to do was rescue the kid from Chicago and return him home. Hell, he had already done far more than he had to. It wasn’t Jasper’s fault that the Earth blew up, smashing the wheel and his mom to bits.
So what if Jazz had come to like the kid? Skull boy kind of grew on a body, like an ugly little mole that you just sort of picked at, and then felt bad when it fell off finally. But it wasn’t about liking or not liking a damn thing. Jazz was a loner, a freighter trash kid who wore a broken heart on one sleeve (The one he led with in a fight), with a chip on his shoulder that would crush most folks, and who wore regret like a suit of armor. What the hell would he do with a kid?
“It’s really for the better,” said Jazz, feeling as though he was trying to convince himself as much as the kid. “You had nice home. You don’t want to traipse around space with the likes of me. Don’t you have an uncle, a grandparent, something somewhere?”
“Nobody.” Skull boy lay back on the floor. He curled into a ball, covering that ugly damn head. It cut through Jazz’ cold and bitter heart like a knife. Jazz stood and paced the room for a moment, wanting to shout or bust something. Suddenly he stopped and looked at Skull boy. He’d said something, and in all the emotion Jazz nearly missed it.
“What did you say about a war?”
“An alien invasion,” the kid’s reply was muted and dejected. “They overrun the frontiers, blah, blah, blah.”
Jasper knelt beside Skull boy, alarmed. “You’re not pulling my chain?”
“Why would I?”
“So when does this invasion… from where, how long?”
“It’s already started.”
“Thomas, survived?”
.”He rises through the Corporation and opens the frontier for a full fledged invasion.”
Jazz stood and backed away from the kid. He pressed his hands against the glass and found it cold.
“Thomas?” he said, more to himself that to the kid. He turned back to Skull boy. “And you’re certain he didn’t die on Earth?”
Skull boy shrugged. “I get the feeling he didn’t.”
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Angry Jasper: Fifty-three
From the outer gas planets the end of the earth was a plaintive flash that momentarily rivaled the sun’s glare before fading from view. At mars the Earth’s demise threw a brief shadow across the rust red noon day landscape. The planet had disappeared in the relative blink of an eye. It had given rise to a species that had overrun, for better or worse, the solar system, and, god willing, would venture to the stars and galaxies and screw them up too. In the end its passing would matter little to only the most romantic souls, but its passing would not be noticed beyond the orbit of Jupiter. All of human history, the first humans to crawl from an African Gorge, Plato, Rome, The Great Wall,, Napoleon and Yakov Smirnoff erased for all time, but for the memories of ancestors reaching out across the universe.
Everyone aboard that little ship would remember, as they barreled through space. Even at a tenth the speed of light it took the better part of two days to reach the subterranean colony on Europa in the Jupiter system. The broad red and white bands of clouds sweeping across the giant gas planet were magnificent to behold after so much empty space. Jazz doubted the Corporation would be looking for them. It didn’t seem likely that anyone could have survived Earth’s end. Jazz couldn’t quite believe it either, and was quite certain they had been the only ones to escape.
He looked over at Kate. She was in a tangled heap of limbs with Buzz and the boy. They were sacked out cold against the lockers. Skullboy was sort of weaving, his head tilted back and mouth agape. Jazz felt sorry for the kid. He had lost his dad to the rebels. The wheel had taken a direct hit as Earth broke apart. It smashed through the wheel like a stone through a spider’s web.
They swung around the planet, racing above the swirling cloud tops. Jazz was uncomfortable exposing the ship to the planet’s incredible magnetic field for too long. The radiation meter on the console was nearly off the dial. The ship was pretty well protected for interplanetary space and could withstand short spikes in radiation, but itstruggled around behemoths like Jupiter and Saturn. The ship shuddered and groaned at its closest approach to the planet, and Jazz feared the engines might stall. He sighed with relief when icy yellow Europa came into view.
Everyone aboard that little ship would remember, as they barreled through space. Even at a tenth the speed of light it took the better part of two days to reach the subterranean colony on Europa in the Jupiter system. The broad red and white bands of clouds sweeping across the giant gas planet were magnificent to behold after so much empty space. Jazz doubted the Corporation would be looking for them. It didn’t seem likely that anyone could have survived Earth’s end. Jazz couldn’t quite believe it either, and was quite certain they had been the only ones to escape.
He looked over at Kate. She was in a tangled heap of limbs with Buzz and the boy. They were sacked out cold against the lockers. Skullboy was sort of weaving, his head tilted back and mouth agape. Jazz felt sorry for the kid. He had lost his dad to the rebels. The wheel had taken a direct hit as Earth broke apart. It smashed through the wheel like a stone through a spider’s web.
They swung around the planet, racing above the swirling cloud tops. Jazz was uncomfortable exposing the ship to the planet’s incredible magnetic field for too long. The radiation meter on the console was nearly off the dial. The ship was pretty well protected for interplanetary space and could withstand short spikes in radiation, but itstruggled around behemoths like Jupiter and Saturn. The ship shuddered and groaned at its closest approach to the planet, and Jazz feared the engines might stall. He sighed with relief when icy yellow Europa came into view.
Angry Jasper: Fifty-two
The pressure was unbearable now. Skull boy collapsed screaming, his cries lost to the grinding pressure and the violent shuddering of the planetoid and the strain of the engines. Kate was crawling, fighting with every ounce of strength to pull herself into the locker. Behind her, Jazz managed to shove the boy into locker. It sealed instantly as he slammed the door shut. fighting for air, and feeling as though his body might turn itself inside out, Jazz saw the door close and seal behind Kate as well.
The wounded ship bucked and kicked hard away from the dissolving chuck of rock and Ocean. Jazz screamed in pain. Clamping his hands tight over his ears in a vain attempt to keep his eardrums from bursting. He closed his eyes shot, but felt sure his eyes would explode from their sockets.
Jazz fumbled with the handle of the nearest locker. The pain was excruciating. His fingers felt as if they were swelling outward. Warm blood ran from his nails. Jazz fought one last time, knowing that this was likely his last chance. With all his might he hauled himself into the locker and pulled it closed. He fought for breath even as the door pressurized with a squealing hiss. With that fresh oxygen flooded into his lungs. He gave a long low groan, and would have cussed if he had the strength. Somewhere in the back of his mind he hoped Buzz could wrestle the ship away from the planetoid. His body could have cared less at that moment as he passed out cold.
Maury watched helplessly from his chamber at the center of the wheel as part of the smashed weapon, a piece roughly the size of an old Naval destroyer hurtled straight for him. There was no hope of escape, and Maury knew his fate was sealed. He hung his fat ugly head and moaned.
“Mother f…”
He and his chambers were vaporized by the impact. The wheel structure sort of collapsed around it, sort of like ball thrown into a net. This net didn’t hold, though. It buckled and snapped and ripped itself to pieces, spilling thousands of souls into space, like the Assessor and his wife, Marge. They instantly freeze-dried in the near absolute cold of space, then evaporated into dust. Madame had just dropped her slacks in the toilet when the calamity flung her out into space, bare-assed for all the Universe to see.
One small chunk of Earth fell steadily towards the sun. Somehow a part of Crawford remained intact. Just west of the train tracks and crossroads was a small ranch. Long abandoned, world leaders had once been summoned there to confer with a President whose name no one could recall any longer. If only folks could have seen that his own brand of politics set the stage not only for the rebellion, but for the rise of the Corporation as well. Indeed, it set in motion the long chain of events that doomed the planet and eventually led to its final destruction.
Crawford fell steadily towards the sun, the little ranch and the graffiti covered gravestone beneath the old cedar bough protected on the dark side of the chunk of earth. The stone was a study in kitsch, with big marble pillars. In the center of the gravestone was a larger than life picture of the long passed president. He was smirking, as though filled with contempt for damn near everyone. Like the Sphinx, his nose had been shot away by vandals.
There was a small shack by a creek not far from the gravesite. It was empty now. The bleached bones of the last of the president’s ancestors were scattered on the floor where he had died alone and in shame. A bible was open on the table next to a pair of spectacles and a dusty tin cup.
It evaporated as cinders and then as constituent atomic particles stripped of character and distinction. Curiously the shack was the last to be consumed. The words on the page of the book seemed fitting, and somehow prophetic:
“And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was death, and Hell followed with him. And power was given onto them over the fourth part of the earth, to kill with sword, and with hunger, and with death; and with beasts of the earth…”
The wounded ship bucked and kicked hard away from the dissolving chuck of rock and Ocean. Jazz screamed in pain. Clamping his hands tight over his ears in a vain attempt to keep his eardrums from bursting. He closed his eyes shot, but felt sure his eyes would explode from their sockets.
Jazz fumbled with the handle of the nearest locker. The pain was excruciating. His fingers felt as if they were swelling outward. Warm blood ran from his nails. Jazz fought one last time, knowing that this was likely his last chance. With all his might he hauled himself into the locker and pulled it closed. He fought for breath even as the door pressurized with a squealing hiss. With that fresh oxygen flooded into his lungs. He gave a long low groan, and would have cussed if he had the strength. Somewhere in the back of his mind he hoped Buzz could wrestle the ship away from the planetoid. His body could have cared less at that moment as he passed out cold.
Maury watched helplessly from his chamber at the center of the wheel as part of the smashed weapon, a piece roughly the size of an old Naval destroyer hurtled straight for him. There was no hope of escape, and Maury knew his fate was sealed. He hung his fat ugly head and moaned.
“Mother f…”
He and his chambers were vaporized by the impact. The wheel structure sort of collapsed around it, sort of like ball thrown into a net. This net didn’t hold, though. It buckled and snapped and ripped itself to pieces, spilling thousands of souls into space, like the Assessor and his wife, Marge. They instantly freeze-dried in the near absolute cold of space, then evaporated into dust. Madame had just dropped her slacks in the toilet when the calamity flung her out into space, bare-assed for all the Universe to see.
One small chunk of Earth fell steadily towards the sun. Somehow a part of Crawford remained intact. Just west of the train tracks and crossroads was a small ranch. Long abandoned, world leaders had once been summoned there to confer with a President whose name no one could recall any longer. If only folks could have seen that his own brand of politics set the stage not only for the rebellion, but for the rise of the Corporation as well. Indeed, it set in motion the long chain of events that doomed the planet and eventually led to its final destruction.
Crawford fell steadily towards the sun, the little ranch and the graffiti covered gravestone beneath the old cedar bough protected on the dark side of the chunk of earth. The stone was a study in kitsch, with big marble pillars. In the center of the gravestone was a larger than life picture of the long passed president. He was smirking, as though filled with contempt for damn near everyone. Like the Sphinx, his nose had been shot away by vandals.
There was a small shack by a creek not far from the gravesite. It was empty now. The bleached bones of the last of the president’s ancestors were scattered on the floor where he had died alone and in shame. A bible was open on the table next to a pair of spectacles and a dusty tin cup.
It evaporated as cinders and then as constituent atomic particles stripped of character and distinction. Curiously the shack was the last to be consumed. The words on the page of the book seemed fitting, and somehow prophetic:
“And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was death, and Hell followed with him. And power was given onto them over the fourth part of the earth, to kill with sword, and with hunger, and with death; and with beasts of the earth…”
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Angry Jasper: Thirty-Nine
He would have been better off in that cell, Jazz thought. His arms were handcuffed around an old steel beam. Skull Boy was on the floor nearby enjoying the last few bites of a chocolate bar. Jazz eyed the bar hungrily and would have given a nut for just one bite. He had not eaten since leaving Madame ’s the day before and could feel the ache of hunger in his bones. Skull Boy gobbled down the last of the chocolate, filling his cheeks and knowing full well how much he was torturing Jasper..
Worse than hunger, Jazz needed to take a mean piss. He beat his forehead against the beam, hoping the pain would stem the pressure. Jazz sworn under his breath. Banging his head did little to alleviate his burgeoning bladder, and gave him one hell of a headache to boot!
“Had enough to eat?” jazz asked, loathsome.
“Couldn’t eat another bite!” the boy rubbed his full belly, that gruesomely deformed face smeared with chocolate.
They were alone. The others had gone off, leaving them in some kind of storage chamber. By the looks of the boxes and crates this is where the conspirators stockpiled weapons for the coming coup. The rebel conspirators had hidden jazz and the boy just as Thomas’ freaks arrived. They wound up here, which Jazz still wondered if it was preferable to having his throat cut or submitting to whatever cruel fate Thomas’ men had in store for him. He sighed and pressed his cheek against the beam.
“This worked out pretty good for you, kid.”
Skull Boy didn’t answer. Jazz still couldn’t get use to looking for too long at the kid. Hell, he could even find a sort of odd beauty in the simpleness and efficiency of a cockroach, even some odd attraction to a fat horny old toad. But the kid…a lion would need a blindfold to keep from gagging on this one.
“Thought you could see the future?” he asked. “How come you didn’t see this?”
The kid looked off across the chamber, his eyes wide, as though transfixed on something. “I can see it. Don’t mean I have to talk about it.”
“News flash, kid,” Jazz snapped. “I’m the one who’s supposed to save you.”
“So?”
“Maybe you could help me little!”
“Why? I don’t like you.”
“How am I supposed to get us out of here shackled to this post, huh?”
“Relax,” said the boy. “Everything is going as it should.”
“Maybe you could clue me in a little?”
“Better this way,” he said.
“How do you figure?”
“Well for one, you can’t screw anything up this way.”
“That don’t make no dam sense!”
The kid turned. Those creepy dark eyes blinked once and then twice as they fixed upon Jazz. “Gets boring seeing the future all the time. So what? I see stuff happen and then it happens. Where’s the fun in that? Like watching a movie and every couple of minutes someone comes in and says, okay this is what will happen now. More fun to play with the future a little bit. Maybe I screw up and it goes another way. Now that’s fun!”
“You’re an odd critter.”
The door opened and Jazz looked up. A stepped inside and tossed an old tin plate at his feet. A fair amount of the gray-green slop at the bottom splashed onto the floor. It stunk to high heaven. Jazz wasn’t at all certain someone hadn’t already barfed his meal back up.
“What the hell is that?” he grumbled as the guard led Skull boy from the cell.
“Lunch,” replied the guard with a detestable grin.
“Flush the toilet for seconds?” Jazz words were lost as the door slammed shut. he looked at the plate and thought he saw something moved there. Just the thought of eating it made his stomach squirm, but beggars can’t be choosers, he thought. Besides, if he was going to get out of there and off the planet he would need every once of strength he could muster.
He studied the top of the beam where it met the stony ceiling. There was a little gap around beam, enough that he could wiggle it back and forth a bit. Not a lot, but enough that Jazz figured with a couple good tugs it might come loose enough for him to get his arms over the top. Looking back at the door once more, Jazz pushed away the plate with his left foot and got into a good strong stance. Holding tight to the shackles he rocked up and back several times for a little momentum. Jazz could hear the ancient concrete cracking and crumbling above him. He counted to three, checked one last time to be sure no one was near the door and yanked as hard as he could.
“Holy crap!” he groaned in pain, and falling back against the pole. Damn right something would give with a few more tugs. If Jazz didn’t bring the whole damn ceiling down on his head he was bound to dislocate both shoulders!
That was a waste, he told himself. Jazz slid to the floor onto his butt and eyed the gruel on the plate. This time he was sure something moved in the slop. He shook his head, and with a frown kind of tipped sideways. Jazz strained and stretched to get closer. The stink rose up to meet him fully, assailing his nostrils, bringing tears to his eyes and choking him.
It smelled like something a dead body would crap out. The stuff was vile, and worse the closer he came. Jazz fought the urge to gag and pushed his face into the lumpy lukewarm liquid. Something slithered into his nose, then retreated just as uickly. It helped to groan for some reason, as if that made the substance slithering down his throat easier to bear. He had eaten some nasty things over the years, but this just beat all.
A few good swallows was about all he could handle. Jazz sat up trying to spit the worst tasting chunks from his mouth. The stuff covered his face, dripped in to his eyes and leaked from his hair down the inside of his shirt. It felt alive there, slithering like creepy-crawlies down his body. Something caught in the back of his throat. Jazz hacked it up and spit it across the room, where it recovered and scurried away into the darkness.
Worse than hunger, Jazz needed to take a mean piss. He beat his forehead against the beam, hoping the pain would stem the pressure. Jazz sworn under his breath. Banging his head did little to alleviate his burgeoning bladder, and gave him one hell of a headache to boot!
“Had enough to eat?” jazz asked, loathsome.
“Couldn’t eat another bite!” the boy rubbed his full belly, that gruesomely deformed face smeared with chocolate.
They were alone. The others had gone off, leaving them in some kind of storage chamber. By the looks of the boxes and crates this is where the conspirators stockpiled weapons for the coming coup. The rebel conspirators had hidden jazz and the boy just as Thomas’ freaks arrived. They wound up here, which Jazz still wondered if it was preferable to having his throat cut or submitting to whatever cruel fate Thomas’ men had in store for him. He sighed and pressed his cheek against the beam.
“This worked out pretty good for you, kid.”
Skull Boy didn’t answer. Jazz still couldn’t get use to looking for too long at the kid. Hell, he could even find a sort of odd beauty in the simpleness and efficiency of a cockroach, even some odd attraction to a fat horny old toad. But the kid…a lion would need a blindfold to keep from gagging on this one.
“Thought you could see the future?” he asked. “How come you didn’t see this?”
The kid looked off across the chamber, his eyes wide, as though transfixed on something. “I can see it. Don’t mean I have to talk about it.”
“News flash, kid,” Jazz snapped. “I’m the one who’s supposed to save you.”
“So?”
“Maybe you could help me little!”
“Why? I don’t like you.”
“How am I supposed to get us out of here shackled to this post, huh?”
“Relax,” said the boy. “Everything is going as it should.”
“Maybe you could clue me in a little?”
“Better this way,” he said.
“How do you figure?”
“Well for one, you can’t screw anything up this way.”
“That don’t make no dam sense!”
The kid turned. Those creepy dark eyes blinked once and then twice as they fixed upon Jazz. “Gets boring seeing the future all the time. So what? I see stuff happen and then it happens. Where’s the fun in that? Like watching a movie and every couple of minutes someone comes in and says, okay this is what will happen now. More fun to play with the future a little bit. Maybe I screw up and it goes another way. Now that’s fun!”
“You’re an odd critter.”
The door opened and Jazz looked up. A stepped inside and tossed an old tin plate at his feet. A fair amount of the gray-green slop at the bottom splashed onto the floor. It stunk to high heaven. Jazz wasn’t at all certain someone hadn’t already barfed his meal back up.
“What the hell is that?” he grumbled as the guard led Skull boy from the cell.
“Lunch,” replied the guard with a detestable grin.
“Flush the toilet for seconds?” Jazz words were lost as the door slammed shut. he looked at the plate and thought he saw something moved there. Just the thought of eating it made his stomach squirm, but beggars can’t be choosers, he thought. Besides, if he was going to get out of there and off the planet he would need every once of strength he could muster.
He studied the top of the beam where it met the stony ceiling. There was a little gap around beam, enough that he could wiggle it back and forth a bit. Not a lot, but enough that Jazz figured with a couple good tugs it might come loose enough for him to get his arms over the top. Looking back at the door once more, Jazz pushed away the plate with his left foot and got into a good strong stance. Holding tight to the shackles he rocked up and back several times for a little momentum. Jazz could hear the ancient concrete cracking and crumbling above him. He counted to three, checked one last time to be sure no one was near the door and yanked as hard as he could.
“Holy crap!” he groaned in pain, and falling back against the pole. Damn right something would give with a few more tugs. If Jazz didn’t bring the whole damn ceiling down on his head he was bound to dislocate both shoulders!
That was a waste, he told himself. Jazz slid to the floor onto his butt and eyed the gruel on the plate. This time he was sure something moved in the slop. He shook his head, and with a frown kind of tipped sideways. Jazz strained and stretched to get closer. The stink rose up to meet him fully, assailing his nostrils, bringing tears to his eyes and choking him.
It smelled like something a dead body would crap out. The stuff was vile, and worse the closer he came. Jazz fought the urge to gag and pushed his face into the lumpy lukewarm liquid. Something slithered into his nose, then retreated just as uickly. It helped to groan for some reason, as if that made the substance slithering down his throat easier to bear. He had eaten some nasty things over the years, but this just beat all.
A few good swallows was about all he could handle. Jazz sat up trying to spit the worst tasting chunks from his mouth. The stuff covered his face, dripped in to his eyes and leaked from his hair down the inside of his shirt. It felt alive there, slithering like creepy-crawlies down his body. Something caught in the back of his throat. Jazz hacked it up and spit it across the room, where it recovered and scurried away into the darkness.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Angry Jasper-One
CHAPTER ONE
The World Sucks
ONE
The sun was just coming up, blood red through the dusty haze of a pitched battle on the horizon. Bright orange and red laser arcs chewed the sky at unseen targets. The long low continuous rumble of distant war shook the dusty streets of that little Texas town, somewhere south the ancient city of Dallas, which was now a deep and lifeless crater. The rectangular silhouette of a Corporation freighter rose silent across the oblong disk, running for hard mars. Ships went far more frequently than they came these days. It left an undeniable impression that the earth was being abandoned to the Rebel alliance, and that the last Corporation enclaves might be overrun at any time. That sense was fully evident on the deserted streets of tiny Crawford.
The freighter climbed quickly, keeping just ahead of two rebel rockets that raced skyward before tumbling impotently back to earth. The rebellion was problematic enough on earth, but they had taken their cause throughout the solar system. Their operatives and saboteurs were woven and concealed within every level of the Corporation. For now they were a latent cancer, biding their time and waiting, even as the Corporation hunted them relentlessly.
The freighter threw a shadow momentarily across the wood plank floor of an all night tavern. The ship and fat red sun were neatly framed by the tavern’s only window. A rusting metal sign reading THE SANCTUARY creaked on rusting hinges, a few decibels louder than the encroaching battle. There were three bullet holes in the window. All of them went out.
The place was empty, almost. Its wood blank wall were sooted from decades of tobacco smoke, spattered blood and filth. The tables and chairs were simple, adorned with cheap white doilies and tea-light candles in yellowing shot glasses. Much of the furniture appeared to have been repaired many times over, the legs broken or shortened so that some leaned precariously. The floor was worn to bare wood. Faded centerfold harlots, most torn, or sporting obscene scribbles were tacked to the walls at odd angles.
The bar reeked of stale beer, sweat and ammonia fighting to conceal the biting stink of vomit. It gave the place a dark and dangerous quality, like a back alley crime scene. A Hank Williams’ song was playing from a small and ancient radio behind the bar. It only confirmed the languishing desperation of the place.
A lone figure sat at the end of the bar, half consumed in shadow. He could see the door from where he sat. Not that he was expecting anyone in particular, just in general. He had his fair share of enemies, and was a fugitive a dozen times over, from Jupiter to the moon. He'd come to Earth in a halfhearted wish to join the rebellion. Not because he cared a wit about their cause, the so-called Earth-firsters who clung to the fool-hardy belief that man's place was on the home planet, the place of mankind's birth and evolution. They believed that abandoning Earth for the stars was an abomination, a denial of the very essence of our humanity. If nothing else, the fugitive figured, he'd get to kill someone and get paid for it!
Naw, he didn’t put much faith into all that Earth-first tripe. The fugitive didn't buy a lick of it, nor did he give a Titan-sea-slug either, but he figured it was the last place in the whole god-forsaken solar system where the Corporation could touch him. Only problem was, he’d have to go and fight if he crossed to the rebel side. Not that he ever ran from a fight, but he preferred them where when and with whom he chose.
Even the Corporation had long ago forgotten his original crimes. Not that he would admit any guilt, not often anyway. He bragged about them when he felt the need to bend the ear of a fellow drinker or some hybrid trollop he was momentarily smitten over. Didn’t much matter what those crimes were anymore. All that matter was that they felt like part of a larger process that was quickly coming to its conclusion. Just what that conclusion was exactly, well, who could say?
He was a huge sod, with arms the size of tree trunks. His mis-formed face was folded with a feverish scowl betraying a murderous mood. The deep lines of his brutish forehead overlapped, shadowing deep-set black eyes. A huge double chin and crooked jaw line protruded almost grotesquely outward. Scars, odd lumps and strange patches of hair covered his face.
That massive head sort of lolled back and forth to a rhythm of short, grunting breaths, like a mad dog that ought have been put down long ago. Drinking only helped focus his nasty mood. He’d gone through a bottle of vodka already, and was well into his second. Giant hands wrapped fully around the bottle, as though he meant to crush the thing, or that he might just swallow the whole damn thing, bottle and all. The ashtray before him was filled to overflowing.
The guy stunk something awful, a putrid mixture of sweat, turned liquor and death. The kind of stink that chased flies away, made hogs bury their nose or made maggots gag. But it was his expression that told the lout’s story best. It was the face of a man who knew he was done for, and now it was just a matter of how many he would take down with him.
He lit a cigarette and looked up through a cloud of smoke at a figure striding down the center of the street. Tumble weed bounced between the approaching stranger and the tavern, chased by a dusty gust of wind. The fugitive grinned and crumbled the lit cigarette in his palm. When life becomes a cliché, he thought of the tumbleweed, then its time to get out. But he was damned to leave this world easily, and certainly not alone!
The World Sucks
ONE
The sun was just coming up, blood red through the dusty haze of a pitched battle on the horizon. Bright orange and red laser arcs chewed the sky at unseen targets. The long low continuous rumble of distant war shook the dusty streets of that little Texas town, somewhere south the ancient city of Dallas, which was now a deep and lifeless crater. The rectangular silhouette of a Corporation freighter rose silent across the oblong disk, running for hard mars. Ships went far more frequently than they came these days. It left an undeniable impression that the earth was being abandoned to the Rebel alliance, and that the last Corporation enclaves might be overrun at any time. That sense was fully evident on the deserted streets of tiny Crawford.
The freighter climbed quickly, keeping just ahead of two rebel rockets that raced skyward before tumbling impotently back to earth. The rebellion was problematic enough on earth, but they had taken their cause throughout the solar system. Their operatives and saboteurs were woven and concealed within every level of the Corporation. For now they were a latent cancer, biding their time and waiting, even as the Corporation hunted them relentlessly.
The freighter threw a shadow momentarily across the wood plank floor of an all night tavern. The ship and fat red sun were neatly framed by the tavern’s only window. A rusting metal sign reading THE SANCTUARY creaked on rusting hinges, a few decibels louder than the encroaching battle. There were three bullet holes in the window. All of them went out.
The place was empty, almost. Its wood blank wall were sooted from decades of tobacco smoke, spattered blood and filth. The tables and chairs were simple, adorned with cheap white doilies and tea-light candles in yellowing shot glasses. Much of the furniture appeared to have been repaired many times over, the legs broken or shortened so that some leaned precariously. The floor was worn to bare wood. Faded centerfold harlots, most torn, or sporting obscene scribbles were tacked to the walls at odd angles.
The bar reeked of stale beer, sweat and ammonia fighting to conceal the biting stink of vomit. It gave the place a dark and dangerous quality, like a back alley crime scene. A Hank Williams’ song was playing from a small and ancient radio behind the bar. It only confirmed the languishing desperation of the place.
A lone figure sat at the end of the bar, half consumed in shadow. He could see the door from where he sat. Not that he was expecting anyone in particular, just in general. He had his fair share of enemies, and was a fugitive a dozen times over, from Jupiter to the moon. He'd come to Earth in a halfhearted wish to join the rebellion. Not because he cared a wit about their cause, the so-called Earth-firsters who clung to the fool-hardy belief that man's place was on the home planet, the place of mankind's birth and evolution. They believed that abandoning Earth for the stars was an abomination, a denial of the very essence of our humanity. If nothing else, the fugitive figured, he'd get to kill someone and get paid for it!
Naw, he didn’t put much faith into all that Earth-first tripe. The fugitive didn't buy a lick of it, nor did he give a Titan-sea-slug either, but he figured it was the last place in the whole god-forsaken solar system where the Corporation could touch him. Only problem was, he’d have to go and fight if he crossed to the rebel side. Not that he ever ran from a fight, but he preferred them where when and with whom he chose.
Even the Corporation had long ago forgotten his original crimes. Not that he would admit any guilt, not often anyway. He bragged about them when he felt the need to bend the ear of a fellow drinker or some hybrid trollop he was momentarily smitten over. Didn’t much matter what those crimes were anymore. All that matter was that they felt like part of a larger process that was quickly coming to its conclusion. Just what that conclusion was exactly, well, who could say?
He was a huge sod, with arms the size of tree trunks. His mis-formed face was folded with a feverish scowl betraying a murderous mood. The deep lines of his brutish forehead overlapped, shadowing deep-set black eyes. A huge double chin and crooked jaw line protruded almost grotesquely outward. Scars, odd lumps and strange patches of hair covered his face.
That massive head sort of lolled back and forth to a rhythm of short, grunting breaths, like a mad dog that ought have been put down long ago. Drinking only helped focus his nasty mood. He’d gone through a bottle of vodka already, and was well into his second. Giant hands wrapped fully around the bottle, as though he meant to crush the thing, or that he might just swallow the whole damn thing, bottle and all. The ashtray before him was filled to overflowing.
The guy stunk something awful, a putrid mixture of sweat, turned liquor and death. The kind of stink that chased flies away, made hogs bury their nose or made maggots gag. But it was his expression that told the lout’s story best. It was the face of a man who knew he was done for, and now it was just a matter of how many he would take down with him.
He lit a cigarette and looked up through a cloud of smoke at a figure striding down the center of the street. Tumble weed bounced between the approaching stranger and the tavern, chased by a dusty gust of wind. The fugitive grinned and crumbled the lit cigarette in his palm. When life becomes a cliché, he thought of the tumbleweed, then its time to get out. But he was damned to leave this world easily, and certainly not alone!
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