Your Letters, My Answers

Dearest Readers,

It is with great joy and anticipation of your epistolary camaraderie that owing to a recent innovation in an alternate eigenstate of this blog (quantum computing on and the implosion of Earth 2) that it is now possible to leave comments and messages to express your joy, concerns, vague disappointments and troubling personal doubts in the form of comments.

It is even possible to express some sort of reaction to the post itself. However, readers are reminded that any reaction that takes the form of a dialogue between this author and the reader as gay werewolves forced to perform humiliating acts while trapped in dog form at a dog show will be deleted. Again.

To celebrate this new homoerotic-lycanthropic-humiliation-scenario-free channel of communication, I publish here some much belated responses to some of your earlier letters and inquires not related to my being mounted publicly by a Great Dane in Madison Square Garden.






Dear อาจารย์แวน,

I enjoy reading your work very much. I feel it has shaped me as a person, for the better. I find it a source of great spiritual comfort.

I only have one humble question to ask: where do you get your throwing stars?

-Gloomy in Gotham



Dear Gloomy,

I'm glad you have found my work inspiring and useful.

Here in กรุงเทพ I find it easiest just to purchase shuriken, plumbata and other hand missiles at a little store in Chinatown called The Five Daughter's Vengeance Emporium. It is also where I get my ointments and "Viet Cong Q-tips." It's a nice little store, run by a dear little man with one of those moles with super long hairs and a horrid, pitiful story that you should by no means listen to.

The store sells throwing stars by the gross, and whereas they may not be nearly as well balanced as the batarangs you are used to, they are cheap, plentiful and pointy.

I'm not really sure who owns the store. If you go out back, there are a lot of old newspapers and spears, some from before the war. What war, you say? Any war.




Dear อาจารย์แวน,

I recently acquired an enormous sofa. It is really quite old and cumbersome -in fact, I'm not sure even how to go about sitting on it comfortably, with all its odd seats and slanted surfaces, but as an ancient family heirloom I cannot part with it.

Cleaning it, however, seems an enormous and difficult task, as its vast surface has a variety of complex and involved geegaws and decorations that I really don't understand, much less know how to clean. In particular, there is this one central stain that never seem to come out no matter how I try. As for the smell of this particular movable it seems totally inalienable from the article. Any advice?

-Recipient in Roanoke



Dear Recipient,

I am afraid you are somewhat confused. There is no stain on your sofa. There is no sofa.

From your description the object you are describing as your sofa is a Carcharodon or giant furred megalodon. The irregular features that trouble you are probably its fins, gills and possibly its eyes. If so, you should avoid trying to clean them, as you report doing, certainly not with any harsh cleansers. I must add that these features, as with the smell, are part of the natural compliment of the megalodon and really cannot be changed.

Further, the "stain" you cannot seem to remove is clearly the subconscious guilt you feel (c.f. Macbeth, Act V, Scene 1, Freud, "Obsessive Actions and Religious Practices," Lacan, The Four Fundamental Concepts of Psychoanalysis, passim.) produced by keeping such a magnificent extinct creature in the captivity of your apartment, instead of allowing it the freedom of apex predation in the world's oceans. I suspect you have other issues as well, so I advise you seek further help with a professional who is real and not imaginary.













Dear อาจารย์แวน,

I recently received a fuckbot for my bar mitzvah. Though it has a very good likeness of Baron von Ricthofen as I had asked for and is extremely prompt about blow jobs, I cannot help but feel that it is somehow increasingly less interested in sex, that somewhere behind its many emphatic cries, sobs and ululations of venereal delight, something is somehow missing.

I know that these things are only ultra-weak AIs and are programmed at the factory. The unit's devionics firmware is up to date and the diagnostics are in the normal/ideal parameters. Is it just me?

-Frigid in Freemont



Dear Frigid,

First of all, the proper term for an automaton designed expressly for sexual gratification, entertainment, education or aid is "android," "gymnoid" or "hermaphroid." This is the term of art of choice used by the industry, designers, droidaphiles, academics, legal authors, game shows and the automatons themselves. It is impolite, inaccurate and a non-felony lexcrime to refer to these valuable members of our post-reality economy as "skinjobs," "butt-bots," "ROV cum-dumpsters," "auto-skanks," "slut-threepios," "woombas," "Hy Pikes" or whatever other uncouth derogatory terms they are using over at Taffey Lewis' place.

Sex with fuckbots universally tends toward extreme paraphilias and object substitution. Indeed, in the DSM-XII, coitus or the desire for coitus modeled on heterosexual human coupling with a fuckbot is one of the criteria for para schizophrenia of the Mars Condo One type.

The reason for this is undoubtedly the same reason people who spend a lot of time with statues or mannequins tend to dress them up: to compensate for a perceived uncanny deficiency in the human simulacrum, namely that it is not "alive."

Though nth-generation fuckbots are quite animate and realistic in their responses, an awareness of their status as sex objects simpliciter seems to invite degrees of unrestricted sadism and perversity from otherwise sexually quite boring owners that would never be tempted to imagine such trespasses, diversions or violations with a traditional "living" "organic" human being or even an animal.

As such, most owners or operators of fuckbots (tip: leasing is better, though avoid heavily refurbished or refitted models, particularly those designed for asphyxiation or edge play; there is almost always a truly disturbing reason these models have had their memory wiped) report that their fuckbot, though objectively compliant and functioning normally become progressively less satisfying as sex surrogates from a perceived increasing lack of enthusiasm. This is usually explained by a normal plateau of sexual satisfaction and buyer's regret, a feature that manufacturers know of and anticipate with their buy back program.

Research into whether or not fuckbots actually become bored themselves is inconclusive. The never discussed reason for this is that in the process of trying to determine whether or not fuckbots become bored with sex, the researchers involved invariably become more and more dangerously perverse and depraved themselves, conducting more and more extreme, unnatural and complex "experiments" in an attempt to find the arousal threshold of their subject fuckbots, which they invariably perceive as constantly approaching the oblique asymtote limit of being cold and distant. This inevitably ends in death and mutilation for the researchers, often in some sort of sexually themed bull pen or orgasmic threshing machine.

[Given this problem, some research was, of course, carried out along the lines of fuckbots studying other fuckbots to determine whether they get bored. This directly led to fuckbot-designed fuckbots, the including the "Jumpin' Jami" model, now better known by its military industrial nomen, the MDX-151 Area Denial System. While its formidable capacity as a sexual surrogate exceeds human tolerances, its efficacy as a complete weapons system is undeniable, as the continued status of the "no-go" areas of Hokkado, Thotsakan ทศกัณฐ์ Industrial Park, KADDB complexes and East Bay demonstrate, all four of which made Caligula magazine's list of the "top 20 worst places to go if you have a penis or penes." The army of PORC is rumored to still be fighting a holding action against the Chinese knockoff of the MDX-151 ADS, the Fang-10, in Guiyu.]

May I suggest simply putting some sort of innocuous covering over the eyes or head of your unit? Avoid tape, as it tends to catch on the hair and the glue may stick to the face. Some people report that sunglasses with simple post-it pads are an economical way to avoid premature ejaculation into the uncanny valley while still staying organized.

If this does not work, why not throw a clone or a fistable monkey or lemur into the mix?




Dear อาจารย์แวน,

While making dinner for my family, who I actually love and do not despise, I put too much salt in the chowder. I believe this accident stems from the fatigue of working very hard to make my beautiful family happy and not any subconscious resentment as some would believe.

I have read that adding milk may help reduce the problem of excess salt. Is this true?

-Saline in Seattle





Dear Saline,

Often we complicate our lives by failing to follow through on our truest, deepest intentions (Nietzsche, "The Pale Criminal," Zarathustra, Book I). Milk is for children and cowards who are not lactose intolerant. If you have salted your food, so shall it be salted. Add more salt. Unscrew the lid of the shaker. Dump a whole bag on a plate. Say to your family: this, this is my heart.

When they are grown and the college of their choice burns to the ground, you will have prepared them.

Download:

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Off the Ole Wagon Bourbon Reviews

Ole Lonesome Nail

This one will punch you in the gut and give you two black eyes. One in the heart and one in the dick. Highly recommended.

Ol' Copper Kettle

Is one mean hornery copperhead, with lean blue eyes, sensual lips and a temper like an ammo wagon on fire. Thighs, hard from riding that will squeeze the life out of you. Yet light and fast as a bird. Hands that could play the piano or drive nails without a hammer. I hope you find me one day and put a bullet in me, Red.

Old Painted Beaver

This one is a real trip out to the woodshed: it will take down your britches, bring tears to your eyes and teach you what it is to be a man, namely to suffer pain and the ignominy of having survived and chosen to go on living. Turns your guts to a mass of scar tissue like a stone. So you can do what needs to be done, and done stone drunk.

Comes in a paint can, usually dented.

Old Dead Man

There’s a smile in every glass of this. It’s not a pretty smile. Not a drink that starts fights, or remembers it that way.

A good driving and punching the baby whisky.

Available in pails or buckets, because keeping it around is bad for the physical infrastructure of the house.

Old Rope

Old Rope is a standby favorite. It’s basically gallows humor in a convenient easy to throw bottle. Great for a first fight, or when moments of caution are confounding an otherwise spontaneous act of incest or getting through Faulkner.

Old Foggy Dog

Basically a dirty limerick looking for a rhyme for "stabbed in the leg." Not completely effective as a liquid blanket, but more effective than tearing at that locked screen door. When clean underwear is a distant memory that belongs to other people.

They’s some things they can’t never take away from you, boy. And that’s all them rotten things you’ve done.

Ol' Old Old

Each shot is sweet smoky fugue state with haunting images. Am I alive, or dead, or yet to be? That straight razor, who’s that for? Successfully blurs the line between murder and suicide but usually keeps them in the right order.

Another old standby. Oh hell, they all are.

Introducing Flavor Bumps!

What are Flavor Bumps?

Flavor Bumps are a brand new way to experience vibrant, long-lasting flavor, with no calories, sticky fingers, excess packaging or even the need to use your mouth.

How do I enjoy Flavor Bumps?

Just touch any of the brightly colored Flavor Bumps you find and enjoy a full flavor experience just by touching the bump. The cool, pale bumps are Zesty Cool Ranch. The bright orange bumps are Tangy Nacho-Gazpacho Cheese. The little red hard bumps are Rasslin’ Raspberry. The very white, almost translucent soft and lumpy bumps are Hearty New England Clam Chowder.

Where do I find Flavor Bumps?

Flavor Bumps are as convenient as they are easy to use. You can find them almost anywhere, whether at home, at the office, or on the go. They’re a taste sensation that you can take with you, that goes where you go. Flavor has never been this convenient. And you can find a full selection almost anywhere. Zesty Cool Ranch patches generally appear on the arms, elbows and back. Tangy Nacho-Gazpacho Cheese bumps are most often found around the face and ears, with some smaller splotches on the shoulders, waist and caudal area. Rasslin’ Raspberry spots may erupt around the nipples, groin, anus and urethra. Hearty New England Clam Chowder typically appears as wet, baggy sacs wherever natural fatty deposits occur, such as the breasts or buttocks. Use discretion when enjoying these flavors.

How did this happen?

We could spend all day trying to explain it. The fact is, it’s happened. This is not a dream.

Is this natural and vegan-safe?

On the one hand, yes, what could be more natural than your own body and more vegan than not actually eating anything. On the other hand, come on...

I can’t sleep at night. Every time I do, I wake up choking with the disgusting taste of New England Clam Chowder, Rasslin’ Raspberry and Cool Ranch Dressing in my mouth.

Try sleeping on your stomach.

I tried sleeping on my stomach, but the pain was incredible.

Some initial, acute pain and swelling is normal when Flavor Bumps first appear. However, these experiences usually only last a few weeks, to be replaced with normal swelling and pain. Some customers report sleeping in a chair with your arms tied to be most comfortable.

Sex is a nightmarish trough of vomit inducing taste/touch experiences.

Yes, yes it is.

Are there more flavors to come?

Some customers report the luscious taste of banana crème and/or asparagus when they close their eyes. We can only hope they are wrong.

PI 312

Films Tom Sent Me

Resigned as I am to the impossibility of recovery, and isolated as I am from human contact on this shrug of an island, quarantined even from the other inmates, it is with great pleasure and gratitude this week that I have finally received the boon of another care package most thoughtfully sent by the most considerate of friends.

One of the greatest influences upon my soul has been the education provided by the direction of that living eye, Tom Ronca. Under Tom's tutelage I have seen many things, things that hurt, horrified, or destroyed me; terrifying, reprehensible, awful things; ghastly, appalling, obscene things; but things, things that always, above all, we must not fail to acknowledge, that Tom wanted to show me.

Though I am deprived of his company and direct influence, Tom continues to grace me with his vision, much as the voices in the heads of Poe's protagonists provide certain and continual guidance.

Has this guidance been for the better, or for certain ill that has rendered me from any moral sense like glue is mealed out of horse, leaving only a puddle of putrescent dross with no fiber, value or shape, a soulless broken husk, exiled from all humanity, damned for all eternity like some unflushable ejecta that endlessly circles the endless white enameled arctic maelstrom like an excremental Pym?

Cast your eyes upon his gifts to me, dear reader and draw what conclusions you can. Tom's taste's are impeccable, save for their peccant essence of total damnation. They also, you may notice, reflect certain enthusiasms, certain questionable zeals that Tom has lately been obsessed with, a solecism that we had all hoped would die once this man-like thing had been sedulously staked in his grave, yet which, much to the horror and alarm of all non-deviants, seems to have found companions in his total campaign against Nature and Human Values.

The Room (2003)

I try and watch this from time to time. I honestly do. But every time I do, I end up stopping it, turning on the lights and taking a good long look at myself instead and thinking: I don’t deserve this, I don’t.

Bronson (2008)

On the other hand, I totally deserve this.

Pontypool (2009)

This is how the world ends: in a sound booth, full of Glenlivet with Slavoj Zizek and bad high school French, about to be stomped to death by an obsolete theory of language.

Everybody Poops, Dies (1982)

Wikipedia tells me this is The Big Sleep of caveman detective fiction, featuring more on screen club based deaths than any other feature film. When Gigantor and his raiding party massacre another more advanced tribe, they discover pictograms that depict time travel –or so it seems. What follows is a rather Lacanian account of the scene of language and the invention of writing. Features the immortal line: “It you Gronk, you.”

Mork –ein Pedo?

This documentary aims to prove the rather implausible thesis that the mission of Mork of Mork and Mindy was actually the rather unsavory directive to impregnate underage human females. Given the clearly specified age of the character of Mindy McConnell, the line of reasoning from the actual series seems unclear and is not at all made clearer by the filmmaker’s decision to express most of it in song.

Though the songs are sometimes catchy, the ideas presented are never quite intelligible or credible and the low-fi, single set-up camera, the degraded tape quality and the always hooded figure on the Casio keyboard by themselves make this one of the most disturbing videos I have ever seen.

Make Love to My Face Without Using Your Hands

Not sure what country is this from, but I hope I never go there.

Mindy is Naked and My Sister

What if Mork and Mindy were brother and sister? Wouldn’t this ruin the whole premise of the series? Apparently not for these Japanese fans of the M&M BDSM community. Also, apparently it’s okay if Mindy doesn’t keep her arms and legs, but does somehow become a stripper. A humiliating, upsetting film. I haven’t got past the appearance of “the Eggmen.”

The Mirror Has Two Faces (1996)

I honestly puzzled over why Tom sent me this film for some time, until I found he had replaced one of the DVD audio tracks. At first, I thought Tom was groaning during certain scenes to make fun of the film. Once I realized what he was doing, I threw the DVD away and joined a Buddhist monastery. And now you know the rest of the story.

Play Mindy for Me (1982)

Of all the Mork and Mindy fan films this is easily the most well known and well produced. Indeed, its leads look disturbingly like Robin Williams and Pam Dawber, though the ludicrous amount of body hair and cocaine use depicted are clearly dispositive of an homage. The film is both lyrical and disturbing at times, most notably in the scene where a nude Mork forces Mindy at gunpoint to stare at a TV screen and describe what she thinks is happening on a scrambled Cinemax channel.

This film is notable in that it established most of the conventions for Orkan genitalia and discharge in the many, many films to come, films I would have never, ever heard of or voluntarily sought out or watched, if not for my friend, Tom Ronca.

My Rejected Wiki Edits to "Crocodile Attacks"

Precautions and information

This section may contain material not appropriate for an encyclopedia. Please discuss this issue on the talk page. (January 2010)

▪ Just because crocodiles are not visibly present does not mean that an area is safe to swim. In fact, crocodiles that view humans as prey usually hide at the first sign of humans (i.e. a car parking or footsteps). However, not all crocodiles view humans as prey. Only the incredibly large and dangerous ones.

▪ A 6-meter-long crocodile can lie completely invisible in less than a foot of muddy water. However, the anti-protons that leak from their cloaking field can be used to detect them.

▪ Large crocodiles have the strongest biting force of any animal alive- exceeding 5000 psi. As such, they are quite capable of biting entirely through a policeman in body armor, police cruiser or ambulance door, just when you think you are safe.

▪ Most attacks by large crocodiles are over within a few seconds or less. However, it will seem like forever.

▪ Most human victims succumb to drowning long before dismemberment and consumption take place. We hope.

▪ Crocodiles become more aggressive during the mating season. This season only includes the months where the Earth orbits the sun.

▪ Crocodiles can move very quickly over short distances on land. By flying.

▪ Crocodiles won't hunt their prey on land over a distance longer than a couple of feet. They don't have a high stamina and don't want to waste energy. If you can escape their first strike and run a couple of meters, you are usually safe. Yep, as safe as a person only a couple of meters away from an unstoppable killing machine.

▪ Crocodiles are adept at learning and memorizing routines, such as the location of nearby campers or the routes of travelers. If you have used a birthday or anniversary as a pin number, it’s pretty much over.

▪ In water, crocodiles tend to drag their prey under and drown them.

▪ Crocodiles can slow their metabolism to such an extent that a tree with an intruder hiding in its branches may be guarded continuously for several weeks, without breaks for food. Then, once you've built a tree house around it and let your adorable children have their first backyard sleep out with their little friends ...I don't even want to think about it.

▪ Crocodiles have strong muscles for closing their jaws and holding them shut, but weak muscles for opening them. This and an unshielded thermal exhaust port, are the crocodile’s only flaws.

▪ There is a sensitive flap in a crocodile's throat, known as the glottis, which they use for breathing. As a result, as with some other predators, forcing the arm into the throat may encourage release, although this is not certain by any means and may instead lead to the arm being severed. If this happens, try the other arm.

▪ Sometimes, an attacking crocodile will bite, hold on, and then rapidly spin its body to weaken its prey or tear off limbs (the "death roll"). This is actually even more horrible than it sounds. Really. They can't even really show this stuff on animal programs because it's so disturbing people would basically just give up.

▪ When crocodiles see prey, they will duck under the water and when they reach their target, jump out and bite. Humanity has no defense against this.

▪ When a crocodile is near a large pile of leaves and sticks it is usually a female in mating season and very vicious. If there are no leaves or sticks, then it is a male and only normally vicious, unless it is a female that has lost its large pile of leaves and sticks, in which case it is incredibly vicious.

My Reviews of Various Fuck-Swings

F-22 Rapture: Erotic Dominance Fighter
Despite it's title, your basic entry-level model. Simple design, washable and as easy to install just using the mounts for hanging plants April left.


Captain Fantasy's Frigging Rigging
Oh yeah. Something could happen here. Definitely.


Apex Dragonrider
Propriety pulley system gives "superior impulse" and dampens unwanted spin. Excellent design and specs. Would love to know how this actually performs.


The Right-Stuff Zero-G Sextronaut Trainer
Great reviews, but notoriously hard to master. Not sure if I can really use/need the full 360 rotation. Really turned on by the manual's description of "full power landings" and "no stall pitch and roll," but honestly quite stymied by actual assembly, tired, went to bed had to look for a job tomorrow.


EZ-Lover Shover
Lower quality product with less give and elasticity. Seems to hold one person okay.


Bondage King's Sextra Supreme Tie-Up Trapeze for Fulsome Slaves
Not really comfortable or clear with all the straps. Also, found myself crying for some reason.


Rumid's Exstasy Webbing
Fairly generic remake of the discontinued Zodiac Wall-Climber. Stringy, weak bungees have little or no response. A total disappointment. Reminds me old stretched out bras my mom used to wear around the house. Why didn't she ever throw anything away?


The Red Baron
A good fit for an import, with comfortable padding. Actually sat in this one for a while, imagining myself diving out of the sun. Okay for watching TV, amusing the cat. Left it up as the gentle rocking helps me get back to sleep.


Sunset Superman
This is it. Black and smooth. I set this one up on a ladder. Incredible acceleration. Feels so good I never want to take it off. I could catch some serious air in this thing.

She was wrong about me, you know.

MARS CONDO ONE -1A

I left for Mars

I left for Mars that night while I washing dishes, listening to a mix someone had made for me at another of those farewell parties. So many people had said goodbye to be I was pretty sure I was dying; I was already halfway gone already at those parties, I barely knew what to say. I was going to Mars. I already knew I wasn't coming back, that was the feeling.


But I didn't actually go until that one night I was washing dishes in my Mom's kitchen. Then I floated right off the floor and out the window. Or so it felt: I already felt the reduced gravity, the heat of the Martian day through my faceplate, clearer than any of the million dollar hundred hour sims I had already done.

That was it. That was my trip to Mars. I still listen to that song when I want to remind myself what it's like. Because being here on Mars isn't like that at all. Mars isn't real. Nothing here is real. It can kill you all the same. Something doesn't have to be anything to kill you. That's what we've learned.


The Expression “Mars Mission”

Today, the expression, “mars mission” or “mission to mars” is synonymous with disaster, debacle and futility, painful, costly and ultimately fruitless enigmas, scientific, technological and cultural catastrophe. I can't really blame any of the people on the ground: they really were the best and the brightest, outside of those we sent here to die and lose their minds. Every possible contingency was prepared for. What could not be prepared for was the possibility that Mars played by no rules at all; it was like playing chess with a three year old: it killed you how and whenever it wanted to; you could not win.

I believe that is why the Third Mission blew up the Valley of the Peaceful Faces. Mars had been killing them slowly and arbitrarily. They struck back, however futilely. A lot of people blame everything that has happened since on this single, desperate act of violence. Humanity showed its dark side; this was our original sin on Mars, proof of our genetic imperialism. Others believe that it's a combination of things: a matrix of environmental factors on Mars that make it a psychological uninhabitable place; unknown physical or biological factors that make Mars appear unintelligible; some blame printer failure. Most of these critics don't believe what we actually have learned. They don't believe in Martians. They want to go back to where we were at the middle of the Twenty-First Century: confident, knowing, impressed with our latest technologies, ready to step out into the solar system. They want to live in the universe as described by Einstein, rather than Kant.

I would make that choice, too. I knew a lot of good people that did and died or worse. I am not a little ashamed to be still here alive. But I pray with the Martians now, and their prayers convey one thought: what's done is done; the world is all that is the case.

BREACHING THE GREENHOUSE


We lined up in the corridor pretty well, though it was pretty crowded so I ended up just around the corner. I could still hear everything Commander Williams had to say and say at length to the barricade. It was all very reasonable. If I had been Harris, I would have surely come out promptly, chagrined at not having invited the commander in at first knock. Then Major Goddard would have clobbered me. Kristen hadn’t even lit the torch and Mark was already all choked up on the shovel he’d sharpened. I’m pretty sure sharpening it was his idea and I’m pretty sure the commander had stressed using the flat part and that the major indeed intended to, applying it only against the relatively flat part of Harris’ head where his eyes and mouth were.

Williams continued in a firm and noble voice that put him way over the league of any of his fellow toastmasters on Earth. He began by calling on Harris in a familiar tone, but not in such a way that made you think you were going to be fired, or a group of thirst-crazed astronauts were going to bust into your improvised crib with a the pointy bits from the geology kit. No, as always, Williams was genuine. The commander then made clear the nature of the situation, of how the condensers had failed, the water supply evaporated and how we were now all dying of thirst and hunger in that order. The commander made clear that in terms of a social contract and a purely humanitarian level how we all had now to make entry and how Harris shouldn’t view this as a hostile act, but a necessary one, one with even several advantages to Harris himself.

The commander then laid out clearly what was to happen next and the exact order it was going to happen. Finally, in firm and unmistakably authoritative tone, he appealed to Harris not to make any violence necessary. He then nodded and Lockhart and Kristen put their shoulders to it, I remembered to pick up the heavy thing they had given me to hit Harris on the head with (a fac strut), the barricade moved and Goddard slipped in quicker than sublimating LOX.

It was dark and musty. Goddard swept the room quickly with his torch. He gestured to Lockhart and Kristen to cover him with drill bit and pole they had as he swiftly turned the corners of the nursery shelves. Harris was nowhere. Goddard swiftly knocked over some planters with a wushu kick. Harris was not under them. The Major swept the rippling torn dome of the ceiling with his light. He tensed. He indicated to the commander that he could be outside. Holding his breath, presumably. The commander appraised yet another situation that made no sense and would be hard to write up. Lockhart and Kristen had followed close on the major’s initial search, as he had drilled them to, but became increasingly distracted. There was a sound and smell in the air. Water was dripping. We could smell it. One of the dome struts shone as though just painted.

Dr. Cartwright started licking the pole. Dr. Lockhart followed with aplomb. Dr. Kristen yelled something and pulled them off. Dr. Cartwright was back on his feet and about to go again when Dr. Kristen yelled and pointed his torch in the corner.

The alfalfa planter was a complete wreck. Yet there was a weird dark shape slumped in it. It extended some ways up the dome wall as well. At first, it looked like a raincoat somebody had left. It was made out of lots of tiny nubbles. At first, one thought they were mushrooms glistening with moisture. Then they looked absurdly like oysters or barnacles. When they moved, you thought they were slugs or snails. Then the surfaces rotated and a red circle seemed to form like a rash, then puckered and opened into some sort of ciliated orifice that turned to face us. Weirdly, they reminded me of oreo cookies.



POINT OF INACCESSIBILITY

I haven't been out of this hotel room in about a month, I estimate. I paid in advance, enough to make them wave or discount the cleaning fee when they find one’s body or send in the HBT team. I am sure the Hyatt has dealt with it all before.

I am going on a journey to a deep interior, an intra-psychic point of inaccessibility. I have to be alone for this. I don't need provisions so much as a lack of provisions. Scarcity will feed and guide me. The complimentary cable package also, sometimes. But mainly the high speed connection.

I’ll follow the links. That’s how I’ll find it. That’s how I’ll remember.

I need it to be quiet.

Sometimes the living room doesn’t seem safe enough, or I can’t get there. Those times I stay in bed, or next to the bed, in a little hollow between the drawers and wall. The closet sometimes. It’s not much smaller than the space I had in the ACRV.

I don’t spend a lot of time in those positions. Usually it’s not that bad. The bed is comfortable. I’m not even that sleepy. It’s just feels good when you first put your head down, when the sun is shining, even if your ear hurts a little from putting your head down, it feels good, relaxing.

It’s just like being aboard MCS-Recovery One: Great Savings America.

I get a lot from the History Channel. The Second World War Never Ended. The Nazis are continually on the march with their superior technology. It’s a futuristic war between mechanized states, with robot planes and the ultimate weapon in the last act.

There's also a lot of cable mission creep: the puppy channel has reality shows about vampires & vampire hunters itself drifting with numerous branded challenges including a shift at Chili's.




I go to a party...

A man steps off the printer and puts a gun in his mouth. Guests scream.

A few minutes later the same man appears on the printer. He also chokes down on the SIG. He also makes a great big mess.

The same thing happens again. The host curses. He gets a special cloth, climbs up on the printer to try and reset its preferences and clear the cache. A few minutes later the same man appears and does it all over again.

It’s a DOS attack, the host explains. Bad breakup.

I wasn’t paying attention. I was playing wet worked video games based on the most painful episodes of my life. The idea was therapeutic: you played the game over and over again until you passed the level, the event that you could not overcome.

In the game I’m in a wooden room. There is a crack, a gunshot, and I fall down dead.

But if I am dead, then this is hell. And I can't have died, because there is no death on Mars. The Martians taught me that.


Printer Failure

-It's not really printer failure. Obviously, the fac-bots are 100% operational.

-You call this 100% operational? What about that rogue self-paving road we've got wandering all over Vallis Minotaurus?

-Well, Some of the computers seem to recognize what has actually been constructed, others disagree, others are in simulation mode and still others act on the results of that simulation as though it were real.

-Which explains why one team plows a field and the other puts a golf course across it.

-Yeah, the highway system has gone totally rogue. It’s supposed to rebuild itself depending on the weather and conditions, but it’s basically wandering all over the place now. It keeps going into the valley. It’s not supposed to do that.



-Where's the magnetic heat pumps, the transmission array? And what they fuck are these things?



-They're fuck swings.
Thousands and thousands of really well-made fuck swings.



-Why are they making things like acres of fuck swings and rococo bowling alleys? I don't remember MCS Control uploading the plans for Circus, Circus up here.



-I think they're trying to communicate.


-What?


-I don't know, but they're fac-bots. Their language is things.





SHOPPING AT ZABRISKE POINT

"But the point is, we did land on Mars. And that’s why I want to thank you all for coming to this Grand Opening of the Zabriske Point Mall."

"Here at the Zabriske Point Mall, some the same high technologies developed for Project Poseidon are here on Earth, at down to earth prices, here on earth, at earth prices at the Zabriske Point Mall? Some of the same technology that lifted us into space and sent us over 50 million miles to the shores of another world, that fed us, clothed us, kept us comfortable and ultimately failed us, is at work in the next generation of printer and printer appliances, personal connectivity and businessface applications."

"Take for example, this Nike Shoe One. Your peak performance is just prologue. This is the only running shoe whose difference you feel when you take off the shoe, the only shoe that guarantees you’ll never have sore feet again, no matter how much you run.

The secret, of course lies in adaptive “dope” suit technologies that we used on Mars. The shoe constantly monitors your feet's performance and it’s own. When your muscles begin to build up the lactic acid that causes soreness, Nike Shoe One detects this and begins a series of micro-injections that prevent the muscles from becoming sore, as well as boosting their performance. No matter how long you run or stand on your feet, you will never feel it, thanks to Nike Shoe One’s nerve block system, the same system I used to cut off my own legs and drag myself across the barren Martian soil. And the same nano capillary action that prevented me from bleeding to death will make sure your feet never swell up."




ROGUE SUIT

"Where's my suit?" Goddard had asked.

It was running on the surface, at a good steady clip, well balanced and light without the major in it, headed to the H-O plant.

The suit had a buzz-saw in it. It also had a lot of "hidden" military apps. I knew this because the other suits besides the major's were clearly prototypes of his, and a little backcaching let you see all the apps on a pull down menu they never wiped.

Every one suited up as per SOP. The major needed my suit because of the aforesaid apps.

That left me without a suit.

The core's pretty well shielded Billy, you'll be safe in there.

This was a smart suggestion, though somewhat blithe about what the shielding was for. I asked if I could just go to my room and work on the problem there.



I CAN'T BELIEVE IT'S NOT

I look out the window and see a beautiful meadow. In the distance a white sail appears. It is a young woman in a summer dress. Even though I have seen her appear many, many times, I watch over the course of an hour as she gets closer and closer. I wait for a glimpse of her face, because she is beautiful, seemingly shy of my glances as of the sun, her face artfully hidden by her summer hat. Finally, she pauses in the near middle distance and looks up at me. She is holding half of a perfectly sliced English Muffin. She looks at me and takes a bite of it. Words appear in the skies. The sun seems to drip butter.

We had such LCD windows on the Mars base. They are common now in high density housing and prisons.

Cartwright:

I think these Missions were deliberately designed to fail. Look out this window. What do you see? A bright, beautiful prairie on a summer's day. It looks just like a shot from Little House on the Prairie. Did you ever watch that show? Do you know what happens on that show? What I'm saying is: they are trying to kill us. If they wanted us to stay alive, it would be wall-to-wall porn.

Transit Diary:

I've been masturbating a lot lately. The thing that is worrisome is not the frequency. It's been getting really abstract. Last time I jerked off it was for half and hour to cheerleaders and prime numbers. It was a concession to the Christian Coalition that no women were allowed on the mission. Someone left an autocad of a rather sophisticated dutch wife on the 4-D printer. It was basically an anus surrounded by eyes. I wish it was a sick joke, but months into this mission, I know it's not a joke.



THIRD PERSON SHOOTER

Mark’s suit wasn’t having any of it. It brought down some heavy DU just as they were poking the dish over the crest of the connecting tunnel. The dish shredded into hot flakes. Kristen and Cartwright flattened themselves. The suit then fired under them, ripping apart corridor 12-6A. Flocks of tangled fuck swings blew out the corridor like a cloud of tangled rubber bands. The corridor sagged and collapsed, dropping Kristen and Cartwright with a respectable bounce. Kristen and Cartwright needed no additional encouragement to flee, keeping what was left of the concourse between themselves and the suit. The display showed a decent cardio for Kristen and Cartwright’s sprint, good respiration and that the Major Waste Accommodation Complexes in the groin and ass were cycling away. The major’s suit remained high and dry.



THE NARCOLOUNGER

I'm shaking in the big black soft leather womb of the narcolounger, another spinoff of our dope armor. The slogan says it knows you better than you know yourself because it reads every muscle, your pulse and your brain waves. I think it also smells you. What they don't say is that it's basically like a blow job for your whole body. I am lying here naked like Fay Wray in the big black leather palm of this chair. It's shaking me something fierce, reminding me of the lander's entry descent to Mars, which I suppose makes me more tense and so here we are caught in a negative feedback loop between bad memories, who we are and the machines that try and help us, just like on Mars


The Major Came Straight At It

It wouldn’t have surprised me if Goddard’s new suit transformed into a jet fighter.

I looked at Goddard like he was basically the coolest guy ever. He was a real space marine. The suit locked on him but did not fire. Goddard knew what he was doing, because it was basic mechanics. He body checked the empty suit and it went flying. That is, before righting itself with a gyro-stabilized somersault. It then came back at the major with what looked like an inhumanly fast capoeria move and the Major ended up on a little ride that took him out by the solar panels.



The Major had fulfilled his tactical goal, however. A blazing cloud of fireballs lit up the launch pad and the CRV shot up –not at maximum v, out of range of the suit, but instead canted toward it, dropping on the suit with its thrusters, flashing it into a cascade of hot melty bits in a second like a blow torch on a candle.


Author's Post Script

The lights of the casino shine in the canal, but there's no sound. The eyes of the swan boat I've crashed into the bank look to me with destiny. I am mad King Ludwig trapped in Master Wagner's opera. This canal is a channel of stars, and I, after all am an astronaut. I right the swan boat return vehicle. The stars are my destiny, the drinks are free and the slots are the loosest for a hundred million miles.