The Culmination of a Half-Year of Non-Thought (Part 4)

It was a rather green Christmas where I was. What little snow had come melted. At best, maybe a week of cold and then it was gone in the wind. Literally. Lots of wind, hustling and bustling through the city, keening away. People complained about the wind until it stopped and the cold came back. Then they'd complain about the cold and the wind, hearing them, would swoop back in and gush about energetically. Either form of temperature was disturbing. The subs and pluses.

But I was going to my parents for Christmas, where there would be snow. Lots of it. All white, fluffy, adorable stuff. Throw it at people, laugh, eat a white orb in the face moving at significant velocity . . . okay, not so enjoyable, but you get the picture.

This of course involves an eight hour drive through a wonderful mountain pass. A pass that features blizzard conditions, blowing snow, black ice, compact snow, slippery sections and tailgaters with no sense. You can already see the horrible shenanigans taking place, like retarded ballerinas on ice. Just twirling, twirling into tomorrow. The future. And ruining your present. Of the literal, figurative and ideological sense.

Somewhere off in the middle of no where, between a town of little significance and a town of greater significance as a tourist destination for skiing, I found myself driving slow. Not as slow as I could have been traveling (or as slow as I wanted to be traveling to ensure personal safety). To wit, three vehicles trailed behind me, and while I was assuming a speed somewhere around the seventy kilometer per hour range, I began the hazardous attempt of braking in order to slow myself further.

This in itself was probably the thing that made my life a victim of happenstance moreso than the moment of the tires of my truck coming into contact with the slicker icy surface mere meters beyond the point of my braking. My truck began to slide, following the leftward contour of the road to extremes, the front end beginning to position itself for a head-on collision with the snow (and guard rail) on the opposite side of the road.

As it stands, I'm not sure if what I did was smart or stupid. Perhaps it lessened what could have been catastrophic damage to being merely cosmetic. I jacked the wheel as hard and fast to the right as I could while feathering the accelerator. This caused my truck to slew to the right, missing the opposite side of the road (and all it entailed) to instead rotate my truck one hundred and eighty degrees so I was now facing the direction I had been coming along.

Of course, the three hangers-on that had been following me passed me by. It being the eve of the few days before Christmas, their own familial traditions probably weighing heavily upon their minds, any for of Good Samaritan service would be a preclude to wastefulness of their time and proclivities.

My truck continued its slewing, skating on the surface to the point where the drivers side (occupied by myself) initiated contact with the snowbank. The truck rolled upward, the momentum carrying it. There was a brief moment as I looked to my left over the edge of the snowbank and . . . down. Down. An embankment of perhaps a good fifty feet, probably more. I was on the precipice, and in the back of my mind a small voice said, ironically, not again (a story for another time, perhaps).

However, the moment passed, and the angels reeled in their line pulling my truck back onto its four wheels. No smoke, no fumes, nothing but the purr of the engine. My head rotates to the right, and my sister is sitting stock still in her seat, eyes perhaps a little wider than necessary to perceive the world about her. At this point I placed my vehicle into four wheel drive (a trait I am most thankful for), and placed it into reverse. Three more cars passed, along with an ambulance.

A three point turn and turned-on hazard lights later, I find myself outside my truck inspecting the damage and thanking God for the skid plates under my truck (it's designed for off-roading, you see) that protected the undercarriage from damage. I drove the rest of the way to my parents house at a more subdued speed, but safely.

My truck is still running without fault to this day.

The Culmination of a Half-Year of Non-Thought (Part 3)

Packing. Boxes. Totes. Clothes stuffed into bags, garbage and otherwise. Sealed up tighter than a . . . well I won't finish that analogy. Derailed. Denied. But I am approaching the horizon, the epoch of a long journey in an ever expanding storyline of anger, frustration, hated, ignorance (certainly no bliss to be found here, so move along), spite, apathy. The adjectives march by like a parade, I will assure you.

Anyway, there is the packing. It has to be done. All in the timespan of a day, two maybe? No, a day and a half, or was it half a day? It was furious, and while I found myself furious, fuming like a titillating teapot on an ancient stove demanding attention like an attention whore bound by her own impulses, I also found within myself a strange nerve. And it had been struck. Oh, by golly.

Turning to a roommate of mine, I approached with a singular question: do you want to move?

A shrug, a face, a twisting of features into a "don't know" and also a possible "don't care." But as we were jamming more items into small spaces as to make clowns with small cars envious. A website with pictures was found denoting a possible new place of residence. It didn't take long to sway either myself or the other roommates to move. It was easier to move (we were already packed!) then stay and live outside a box while our stuff was interned within.

A call went out, dialed into my aging, dying obsolete phone. An archaic thing with an answering machine! A cry in the dark, screaming in the wind, carried off to who knows where. And my plea was heard... eventually. But we're coming up on Christmas soon, too. And there's still a whole slew of other nuances yet to take place . . .

The Culmination of a Half-Year of Non-Thought (Part 2)

There is a knock upon my door. A knock-knocking of poignant importance. My seat is left with a flurry and spins in my absence as I abscond to the top of the stairs, leaning over to peer down and through the window. Another knock upon my door, a knock-tap-knock. Impatient, insufferable, intolerant persons upon my step are gathered like a storm that hasn't properly visited this winter.

Dejectedly, muted as a TV in the throes of more important (if not insipid) conversation, I descend like a mongrel king to the entrance, and upon disengaging the lock of the door, divulge the outer frame by removal of the same. It swings inward, chilly autumn-like air pooling at my feel. Little gremlins stealing my heat. Two women, bundled against the cold, eye me. Blue eyes and brown eyes.

They hand me a piece of paper, speaking as they divest themselves of whatever this solemn duty is. Apparently, my abode is to be screened for bedbugs.

My face falls, a warrior atop a ridge shot in silhouette and left to tumble down in crimson, furiously clinging to a wound and life. A victim of happenstance. Questions begin to roll out my mouth, unabetted regurgitation of demands for information. At first, shy and coy glances are spent between blue and brown. Oh, but they can't! But they shouldn't! But they couldn't! But they will. And the tale, loathsome as it is, is unfurled before my glazed over eyes.

It begins innocently enough. New neighbors. Only it is what they've brought with them that horrifies, shocks and bedazzles the mind. An infestation of bedbugs. But they didn't, nay wouldn't, tell anyone of their pet problem. Instead, they horde the little beasts in the confines of their beds, feeding them at night on a strict diet of human blood. But a problem arises. Some of the minuscule pests jump ship, clambering through a wall into an adjacent townhouse . . . upon which the renter made complaint.

Obviously, there was an investigation of all the attached units, to ensure that the problem hadn't spread further along. And then they realize who had started it: three families, all of Indian origin (from the country of the same name) and who were now tracking that very vile parasite between three different blocks of townhouses, one of which was my own. They were living next door.

Everything had to be packed up. Furniture pulled away from walls, dishes boxed up, clothes into totes and plastic bags to protect them from the pests, although they first having to be laundered in boiling hot water and died in the dryer at the highest temperature for a minimum of forty minutes. So much work for the inspection. The end result I already knew -- I didn't have an infestation.

This, however, leads to a new whole series of adventures...

The Culmination of a Half-Year of Non-Thought (Part 1)

Where to begin, where to begin. A statement, not a question, because there is no question inasmuch as to the fact that things have indeed happened to me. The percolation of non-thoughts, for I can't say I have truly been thinking, and deeds, for they are actions in name alone, of a morbidly malcontent societal zombie has broken down the tirade dams erected against the brazen beast of a supposed civilized world.

Too much, no enough, and somewhere in-between. Like the pivotal point of a movie plot, the highest moment where heroes become truly heroic and demons and villains become their most disturbing incarnations of the apathetic beast. I sit in a kind of limbo, only now having sinned and eaten of the fruit and seen truth, but I can't call it wisdom, for to admit to myself any form of wisdom would be deceitful, and only cause to stand out the lark that is my own true retardation.

I think, if anything, I should throw back the clock into the previous era of months past. That being September of a year now currently disassociating itself from the current year. Roughly in this stretch, I began to receive mail from a government I probably elected, but through shenanigans, the bureaucratic behemoth has become another malcontent and is in itself seeking debtors, even those not indebted to the system. Or at least, believed not to be indebted to the system.

The letter, THE LETTER, held in my grubby hands and torn into like a starving child in Africa, was government issue. Obviously of importance. I remember checking the mail on a lunch break while I was home, making lunch itself. A good day was destroyed in that instant. Oh, but it was. It proclaimed in not-too-subtle language that I owed to the government a large sum of money, and that if I did not reproduce these misplaced funds owing, would find myself at the pointy end of litigation. The thoughts that began to fester in my mind at this point were cancerous at worst.

Returning to work, I found myself relating my new conundrum with coworkers. Oh, how this must be wrong. I had yet to file taxes for the current province of residence, so my address should have technically been somewhere else, but no, the government had in a moment of putrid, blindingly-bright epiphany, found me. Upon returning home, I seized upon the phone. A conqueror taking what he felt he owed.

I called the various revenue agencies within Canada. Two numbers. When passing on my personal information, they assured me that I didn't owe a single cent to the government. This was good. But still, the lingering poison of doubt left its presence upon me. In fact, one of the agencies even said that this might be the possibility of being fraud! Indulgent to this thought, I left it as is. A month passed until September became October. The day before I left for my folks place, a rainy day, my phone rang and I answered.

It was a woman. A Christine, if memory serves. She alleged that she worked with the CRA, or Canada Revenue Agency, and that once she had my name, wanted to know if I had the sum owed to the government. I, at this point, held my temper. Barely. Fraught with an internal rage burning brightly, eyes I'm sure glimmering with the utmost vengeance to be sworn upon this rabid, spiteful harlot and her ilk, her kin, her children and grandchildren whom I would consume in fire for centuries. But none of this was elucidated from my lips. Instead, a pointed remark: "I don't owe the government anything."

There was of course very pointed confusion on her end. Obviously this was not the remark she wanted, and she asked, nay, demanded clarification on my part as to the how's and why's that would come about such an outcome as me not actually owing money to the giant tentacle monster poised atop Parliament Hill. I clarified: "I've already contacted the CRA and they assure me that I don't owe any money. In fact, your timeline for past infractions as to my indebtedness to the government via lack of payment is indeed fraudulent at best, as in your earliest indication of slipping to pay taxes, I was still in highschool."

Oh, but now she is doubly confused. This isn't right. Her data is wrong. She begins to say that, no, it can't be wrong, because she FEELS it is right. I again reiterate my point, even going so far as to give my birthdate for clarification. I can feel the heat of a light shining through the receiver on my phone, the kind of giant spotlights used in prisons to find prisoners. She asks me for a specific point of information, and after a moment of thought, I give in.

The sorries begin to gush, the dam broken and the watery equivalent of apologetic-ese, a disease suffered by many North Americans, asserts itself. It's so her fault, and she is so very, very sorry. The person they are looking for has my name (except my middle name), once had my home phone number (two years before), and even lived at my residence! (again, within the previous two years). The coincidence of this and the magnitude of likelihood of this happening are exponential as if to be impossible.

I got to my parents house very thankful that Thanksgiving.

Invasion

I am a proud member of the nation of Wakefulness, and like all persons of my nation, I gladly wage a war every evening. It need not necessarily be in the evening, either, but whenever the lethargy takes me. Those moments of tiredness awaken in me a bloodlust. With that, I begin my usual assault upon the nation of Sleep.

That foreign, disgusting country. I cannot remember its exact location, nor is it quite found on a map, but I know where it is. We all do.

My assaults begin with the same fervent passion, with vigor, demanding that the great country open its gates and allow me entrance, passage. However long these assaults take, I usually win out. But only ever for a few mere hours. Maybe not even that. They are cunning, these creatures that command the country of Sleep. Always I find myself back within the realms of Wakefulness. It disgusts me to be there, having lost once again.

Sleep, so overpowering... it always wins. Even in Wakefulness.

Now, Sweet Dreams... That place is impenetrable. None that I know have ever passed through its golden, gilded gates. What lies beyond is mystery. Any assault made there is doomed to failure before it begins. At least with the Country of Sleep, you may win out over it for a few hours.

Remember, my friends: be weary of Sleep. Always weary...

Tigers in My Pants

I've been telling this tale a lot lately to co-workers, but I don't think I've intimated this tale to any of my readership (if I have one), so here it is.

It starts in the year 2006 when I was doing my Basic Training, well on my way to being an actual military member. I was in my cubicle (we lived in these 9 by 9 foot boxes strung along a circular (kinda) corridor similar in design to a prison) minding my own business when a guy comes along and says to me, "Hey, Carey, you wanna put some Tiger Balm on your nuts?"

I look up at him.

"Do I look stupid to you?"

"Maybe."

"No. Are you going around asking everyone that?"

He just shrugs, walks over to the next cubicle and says, "Hey, Cloutier, want to put Tiger Balm on your nuts?"

"Fuck off!"

So, he continues on down the line. Eventually, as I sit polishing my boots, I begin to hear this high pitched screaming. He found a guy. The screaming gets louder as the guy in question rounds the corner wearing his boxes, holding his balls and screaming. Felix. Not the brightest guy and now he's hurting for that lack of intelligence.

I hear someone yell, "Hey, Felix, put water on it! It'll cool it down!"

All I can think is "Oh no. Oh fuck no."

You see, if you know any form of chemistry, often times water acts as a catalyst, speeds up the reaction. So, Felix, taking this ill-intended advice, runs into the washroom. And the screaming rising an octave or so. I could not believe it. He comes whipping out of the bathroom, face red, eyes watering, balls being crushed in a vice-grip with wet boxers and then a loud shout pierces the halls: "GROUP!"

When an NCO comes onto the floor, the first person to see the NCO must come to attention and yell group alerting all persons that the NCO is present and that they too must come to attention. So, the NCO comes around the corner and sees Felix standing there, fidgeting at attention, jerking up and down like he's having a seizure while standing up.

"What the fuck is your fucking problem, troop?"

"I- I- I- h-have T-t-t-tiger B-balm on m-muh-my nuts, S-s-uh-sergeant."

At that point all of us begin to snicker, holding in laughter. The NCO looks around, eyes scanning above the cubicle walls at everyone standing at attention. I can only imagine what was going through his mind as Felix stood there fidgeting with Tiger Balm on his balls, but he said after a short pause, "Carry on" before leaving the floor.

Felix slumped into a pile, shiver and shaking as he cried for his pain. So, remember, if someone asks if you want to put Tiger Balm, or Icy Hot (a later incident involved this to much the same development), just say no and save yourself the pain.

The Post Mortem of Bliss

So, I forgot to do something. I forgot to talk about the events directly after my move. My parents helped me, they hauled one trailer, I the other. It was quick, and by the second of June my folks had left. Well, the power went out for us that night...and no one else. There was a limiter placed on the power because the previous tenants had failed to pay their utilities bill. We were paying for that... But that got fixed the next morning.

For the first couple weeks, out of myself and my two roomies, I was the only one with a job, so inherently, I got to pay for everything. That's balanced out now (kinda). Then there was the fact that I didn't get a landline (phone) until the 17th of June and didn't get internet until the 25th of June. I had signed up for both on the 2nd of June. That's...way to long to wait for either.

Never mind me attempting to get my license changed over (and needing a bill for that, which I had to wait until near the end of the month to get) or that I get to play taxi as I'm the only person with a vehicle and a license to drive it. Still waiting on my two roommates to get bus passes. At least one of them has a bike.

And my job? I get to deliver stuff to people who are, quick seriously, crazy. Or just straight up odd. Very, very odd. But, it'll be fun.

Delivering News

So, I moved...and I've started working. I work as a delivery driver, primarily. A fancy title comes along with it. I've been working even though the store isn't officially open. And in that time, I've done two deliveries. The first one was just a TV, nothing special. The second...well. My second delivery was two children's bedroom sets -- one white, one dark. It was while I was setting up the white one up stairs that my tale begins.

There was a small child, a girl of perhaps four years. She was jumping about the room excited to watch as I set up her new bedroom set. As I'm attaching the headboard to the bedrails, I begin to talk to her:

"Excited to be getting your new bed?"

"YES!"

"You like the color white, or the other color downstairs?"

"White is my favorite color."

"So what do you think of the dresser? Pretty cool, eh?"

"It's awesome!"

"I've got some pretty cool furniture myself. My dad and I built it."

"What's your daddy's name?"

It is at this point that I should have clued in and shut up. But I didn't. To me, it was a harmless question by a four year old. So I told her my dad's name and asked her what her father's name was. This was the response:

"I don't know my daddy's name."

Oh... But, she followed up with:

"I'll go ask!"

Then I hear from the bedroom:

"Mom, what's my daddy's name?"

A moment later, she returns to say:

"My daddy's name is Bob!"

Yeah. Note to self, to mention anything about parents. Could be a touchy subject. Especially, as I found out, if the woman has had five kids from five different men. Bad indeed. As an aside, though, I'll have another post up in the future about what's been going on in the past month.

Drive By

Normally my nights aren't so eventful at work. Usually, when something happens, it generally isn't that noteworthy. Tonight, however...well, it was eventful. The first thing happened as I came off my first break. A coworker was taking a Drive-Thru order. The woman wanted a steamed milk. Not difficult by any means. She wanted espresso in it. Again, no difficult, but odd, since a latte is steamed milk with espresso already in it (and is cheaper than getting a steamed milk and adding espresso). And finally, what made this whole ordeal interesting enough to contemplate -- she wanted a medium of these...in a small cup. I'm somehow supposed to jam it into a small cup. She goes on at length, no less, about how she wants this medium steamed milk -- add espresso -- in a small cup. My coworker is stumped. I had to literally tell the woman that it was technically impossible unless she somehow had a device to bend space-time to force larger objects inside smaller ones. That shut her up. A man came behind her with an order of his own, and when he got to the window, told me the woman in front of him who had made these demands was a lunatic, and that he didn't envy my job. We had a laugh.

However, this second bit to my night is what really takes the cake. About nine-thirty, a woman came through. She ordered a couple large coffees. I put them together and came to the window. Repeated the price I had on the speaker box, and then promptly felt my jaw slide open a bit.

When she came up, I noticed the woman was pretty good looking. Literally a smoking hot blonde. She had a nice pair of legs, too. In fact, I followed those legs up to where they connected with her torso only to find she wasn't wearing any pants. None. Not even any underwear. The only garment she had one was a jacket. That's it, and even that wasn't done up all the way revealing some very, very nice assets. At this point I tried my best to keep a straight face, not make comments and maintain eye contact. She was stone-faced, although blushing profusely. She paid in cash, hurriedly took her coffee and drove away. Never before have I had a woman come through Drive-Thru wearing only a jacket that came barely to her waist.

I've heard of being in a rush and forgetting your pants, but everything else? Yeah...maybe it was a dare? Either way, she was pretty cute when you look at it...all things considered. I'm gonna stop there.

In a Minute

It's a morning like any other. My usual habit is to shower first and then sit down and eat a bowl of cereal. Nothing grand or exciting, just what I do. Well, on this particular morning, as I sit down and begin to eat, I see a woman. She's walking past my window. See, I live in the basement of my apartment building, so my windows are at ground level. When this woman walks past and turns to look at me, she sees me quite clearly at my kitchen table with a spoon jammed halfway into my mouth. She just stands there a moment, looking at me. I can almost see gears turning, steam sprouting and hear the call of a foreman demanding more power from the engines and to damn the torpedoes.

That little percolation of thought comes together and she smiles at me. Very, very creepy smile, no less.

Doing a quick sideways look out of the corner of my eyes, I'm checking to actually see if it is me that she's smiling at. Oh, but she's got to approach my kitchen window to knock almost politely on it. I've still got a spoon in my mouth and a bowl of corn flakes in front of me. I open the window.

"Hi," she says.

"Uh, hi?"

"Um, do you think you could help me? I need to move this thing up the stairs to the third floor and I can't lift it."

"Can I finish my breakfast first?"

She agrees, so I agree. I close my window and resume eating as she disappears back the way she'd come. What a way to introduce yourself to a neighbor. The item, in the end, wasn't that heavy. Although the look I got while eating breakfast, yeah, that was still somewhat creepy. I should probably eat with the blinds down.

It Won't Take Too Long

When I'm not working under a tyrannical oppression (Tim Hortons), I moonlight at the local Sears doing deliveries. Main reason is because my older brother owns the place and he sometimes needs a hand. Plus there's less stress overall, and even bad deliveries are still better than obnoxious, bad customers at Timmy's.

This tale starts about a week ago. We (that being my brother and I) were supposed to drop off a stove and fridge at quarter two five in the evening. We were a bit late, but when we showed, house lights were out, no car in the driveway. Get things ready, and we wait. My brother calls the woman, gets her house number. We hear the phone ringing inside and nobody answering it. Of course. So, he calls back to Sears, asks an employee of his to get her work number to try that. Well, turns out the place she works at closes at four, so there shouldn't be any reason on why she isn't there. At ten after five, he calls it and we move on with the next delivery. When we returned to Sears, she called, asking why we weren't there. By this point, we're done for the evening and she has to reschedule.

Fast forward a week, and this bit starts to truly take shape.

Well, this time she is there. Now, in the previous week, I had accidentally dented the bottom of the fridge with the dolly. Completely unremarkable and wouldn't affect the units ability to cool things. Well, as we get the fridge off the van and my brother is pointing this out to the woman, she says that an employee says that we could switch the direction the door on the fridge opens, but with that comes an assembly fee. She'd forget about the dent (and any money that might have been taken off) in exchange for doing the door reversal. "Sure," my brother says, "no problem."

Get the fridge in through the front door, sliding it into the kitchen, which is at the front of the house. I'm thinking how this might be a fifteen, maybe twenty minute job. In and out. Even with the door reversal, shouldn't take too long. Well, inside the kitchen comes the first hiccup. "Uh," I say, "the fridge is too tall for the slot." I can hear my brother saying "what?" as he looks at the spot in question. The cupboards were too low by a half inch to get the fridge in. Oh, damn. Well, my brother has the bright idea of unscrewing the cabinet and pushing it up the wall an inch or so to make room for the taller unit. "Get the drill and socket set from the van," my brother says. Only as I'm about to head there I realize, and so does he, that we had forgotten those very tools back at the store. Damn. Got a screwdriver, though!

So, while my brother toils with a screwdriver, I call my dad up and ask him if he can't run to the store and pick up the tools for us. He says sure. We eventually get the drill, but in the meantime while we're waiting we pull the old fridge out and load it on the van, along with the old stove. Put the new stove in, which the woman is concerned about because she thinks it might not fit because the fridge didn't. Dad shows up with the drill, and things seem to be moving along again. Hurrah, cheers, drinks on the house and all that, right? Nope.

After unscrewing the cabinet, it's sticking in place due to paint, so we actually have to smash it out of place without damaging it. That was great. Slide it up the wall, hold in place while my brother screws it into the wall again. Slide the new fridge in. Now comes the fun part: the door reversal. There were more screws, clips, hooks and insertions to be made on this door in such a complicated manner I thought some military tactician had come out to say "surprise." The whole system was extremely and unnecessarily convoluted. I hoped that the engineer who designed the system was proud of himself. Just getting the door off, and the freezer door off, was a chore. Getting it back one wasn't as bad, but still.

The end result was a job that should have taken twenty minutes, max, take an hour and fifteen minutes. And yet, even for all that, it still doesn't come close to my worst delivery...

The Misadventurous Trio - 2

"Hey, Gar?"

"Yeah?"

"Mind letting me pilot for once? I mean, I did build it."

"Yeah, that's true, you did build the ship. You also crashed it right after you finished it then spent three weeks fixing it back up."

"What's your point?"

"Do I need one."

Kish came up and put a hand on Wolf's shoulder. "It's okay. He's just saying you pilot like a blind man. Actually, I think the blind man might do better."

"Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence, Kish. Fuck."

---

Kish walked up to Wolf while he sat at the table, a cloth spread over it and random parts were placed about. Kish went to reach for one. "Don't touch."

"Why, what harm could it do?"

"Well, the part you were about to reach for can explode if you aren't properly grounded, and unlike you, I'd rather keep living."

"Oh. Well, what about this-"

"-no. Like I said, don't touch."

"What? Not every single one of these parts can explode."

"Yeah, but you seem to gravitate to "stuff that could make life miserable for Wolf", so I thought it best to cut you off."

"I'm not that bad. Gar, am I that bad?"

"Yes, Kish, you are that bad," Gar called from the cockpit.

---

"Gar, you stay with the ship. I'm taking Kish."

"And why do I stay with the ship."

"Because I fly like a blind man of psychotropic drugs, and Kish flies like a...well, we really don't want to know how he flies."

"Fine. But why take him?"

"Well, more to act as a distraction."

Kish walked up wearing a purple cape. "I'm ready."

"See what I mean?"

---

"Kish, wait here."

"Why?"

"Just, guh, just do it."

"Fine."

Wolf stalked off further into the interior of the bar, glancing about left and right. He approached a table in the back while Kish made his way to the front.

"Hey," Kish said, his purple, silk cape fluttered. The bartender looked at him, eyes wide a moment before he glared sharply.

"And just who in the fuck are you?"

"Oh, I'm Kish."

"Why the purple cape? What are you, some kind of superhero?"

"Well I am super."

What Do You Get...

So, I'm at work tonight and I'm talking with one of the bakers. We're talking about the gifts we'll be giving loved ones at Christmas. Then she pipes up that she's thinking of getting another coworker a t-shirt, custom job at that. I ask her what about. So she looks at me and says, very seriously, that the caption would be "What do you get a hypochondriac that has everything?" I couldn't stop laughing, because the coworker in question is a hypochondriac and the idea just by itself is hilarious. I told her that if she does get the shirt done up, she should also put an empty bottle of pills fallen over on its side next to, or in the background of the caption. You know, for emphasis.

The Misadventurous Trio - 1

"Where's Wolf?"

"Working, Kish."

"On what?"

"Not getting killed."

"Where is he?"

"Not here, obviously."

"Well-"

"Kish,-" Gar put his palms to his face, dragging them downward for a moment, "-it's times like this I wish Wolf would take you with him. Then it'd be a two-way split."

"What? And why wouldn't I get paid."

"Because you lack a skill Wolf has."

"And that is?"

"Not getting killed."

Kish grew quiet. He would have made himself useful had Wolf been there to tell him to make himself useful. Instead, he just sat in the navigation seat waiting, wondering what it was Wolf was doing. The best answer he knew he'd get out of Gar was "working." Working for who? Was this another contract? Who was their contact? He couldn't help but feel he was sometimes treated like a child and kept out of the loop. He was the best guy for dealing with people, surprisingly, despite being the most antisocial of the three. After about an hour of sitting there, waiting, the comm crackled to life.

"Start the ship! Start the ship!" a tinny voice squawked.

"What?"

"Dammit, Gar! Start the fucking ship!"

"What's wrong?"

A flash of red laser fire splattered in the direction of the ship. Gar watched through the HUD Wolf running back at breakneck speed, hopping over debris and past obstacles. Behind him, trailing but catching up, were a series of guards taking pot shots at him with sidearms.

"Oh."

"So," Kish began, "that's what 'not getting killed' looks like."

Wolf came rushing past as Gar brought the main forward weapons online and began to send furrows of coherent red energy flashing into the oncoming enemy force. Bright explosions of dirt and debris and bodies, whole and otherwise, flung everywhere at once. He held down the trigger until a status light on his console clicked green signaling the hold having been sealed and Wolf now being inside. He rushed up into the cockpit, dressed in a black jumpsuit holding a plasma assault rifle. He had a pair of goggles hanging around his neck from a strap and began doing up his crash restraints, all the while screaming "Go, go go!"

"What the hell did you do down there?" Gar asked.

"Stirred up the hornets nest, that's what! Fuck! I hope they aren't getting any air support, that'd just screw my day over."

Gar grimaced at that remark, lifted the Grinning Jackal up on its anti-grav thrusters before kicking in the main engines and blasting skyward at speed. Wolf began monitoring the tactical console he was sitting at.

"They're sending fighters. Looks like a half squad of 'em," Wolf said. "Kish, get a jump course plotted out of this shitpit."

"Working on it."

The Jackel jerked about as Gar sent the craft through a series of evasive maneuvers. But the larger craft was still taking strikes from the more agile fighters.

"Jump course plotted!" Kish said before bringing up a tactical display. Six fighters, all blasting away, and more incoming. "Uh, more fighters incoming. I'm gonna take the guns."

Conversations About Work

(23:24:42) Wolf: So, this guy comes through Drive-Thru tonight, and he says to me: "We were driving along and saw the Tim Horton's sign and thought: awesome! We can get coffee! What do you feel when you see the Timmy's sign." I looked the man in the eye and promptly said, "I feel ashamed when I see a Tim Horton's sign."

(23:24:56) Starry: ROFL.

(23:24:58) Starry: Ashamed, eh?

(23:25:25) Wolf: I had the manager ask me what "due diligence" meant tonight.

No, I'm NOT Driving

I woke this morning to a phone call. It normally wouldn't strike as so odd if it weren't for the fact that nobody really calls me. Especially not at six-fifty in the morning. I'm blinking at my clock while rays of sunlight slash through the blinds before turning my head at the offensive noise. I hop, literally, from bed and bound up to the phone with a kind of perverse curiosity. I don't really register what the call display says and instead just answer it.

"Hello?" I ask. Surprisingly lucid, awake.

"Hey, do you have today off?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Want to drive to Canmore?"

Wait, what? Canmore? That's a four hours drive away at best, and there's nothing out there, really. Just a resort town in Alberta. Why in the hell would I want to drive there? Turns out it's my mom calling. She wants to know if I'd drive a woman's vehicle to Canmore because she doesn't want to drive through the Rockies. Too scary for her, what with all the winding roads. Woman is from Saskatchewan, where there aren't any corners... I tell my mom that that is crazy. And that even though it's my day off, it is my ONLY day off. It's back to work tomorrow. I want to get errands done, nevermind seeing the latest Harry Potter movie tonight (more on that in a moment). The plan proposed was that I drive the woman's truck, the woman in question takes the bus, and my sister follows behind me in the truck so that we can make a quick turn-around after it's all said and done. Best estimates of time is eight hours there and back. Like I said before, crazy. And definitely not happening. My sister, on the other hand, took up the offer. It paid two hundred dollars. Can't fault her for wanting the money -- unlike me, she's broke. But still, not something I'd do.

As for the Harry Potter movie. It was good. At least, the parts I wasn't making fun of and nearly getting kicked out of the theater for were good.

The Irony

I work at a coffee shop. I'm allergic to caffeine. No, the irony isn't lost on me.

It's a Zombie Rush!

So, I've equated working in the service industry to being like a zombie movie. Instead of saying "brains" it's "coffee." And, when there's a lull, it's like that point in the movie where the person says it's "too quiet," then a zombie comes around and kills them. Time to reload, boys! The hordes just around the corner ready to come again.

Chat - Vol 6

(22:40:38) MasterHIM: How freakish? Would I have been disturbed?

(22:41:08) Wolf: Probably, especially when I did a Vicky-like squeal of joy.

(22:41:50) MasterHIM: ...

(22:41:59) MasterHIM: I am disturbed right now, if that's any consolation.

(22:42:05) Wolf: Hurrah!

This is Awkward...

My friend and I have decided an extremely awkward conversation would follow along these lines:

"Hello, this is Video Express: we're calling you to inform you that The Wrestler is one day over due."

"Um, yeah, well, our son shattered the disc and stabbed himself to death in the stomach with the pieces."

"Oh, uh, um, okay."

"Would you like the pieces back? The mortician says that we could keep them, but if you want them..."