« Stacy: One Away | Main | Tanya: Appointments »

June 24, 2005

Volume 2, Issue 24

There is a corner of your brain that says, "Why the hell not?"

What happens when your code of ethics breaks down?

Bookmark: del.icio.us • Digg • reddit

Comments

Another impossible day. Billions of dollars of technology in here, and they couldn’t take the time to fix the AC. Unbelievable. And now his chair was damp and uncomfortable, and the soda machine was out of everything but Code Red...

They didn’t know. None of them. They’d always underestimated him.

A week. That’s how long it’d taken him to crack the algorithm generator. Nobody’d even noticed.

Where did Stu get off evicting him, anyway? It wasn’t like he’d sent King to dig up Stu’s petunias.

Was it worth it? Eh, why not.

He entered the launch codes. Target: Stu’s house.

Posted by: Keiran Halcyon at June 24, 2005 6:21 AM · Permalink

She was separated but not divorced yet, she replied when asked about the ring mark on her finger. John was still leery about the idea, but her low cut blouse and short skirt - as well as her hand on his crotch under the table - convinced him to go with her to her apartment.

The bedroom door burst open and the light came on. John heard Sue scream, "Billy, no!", had barely enough time to sit up before he saw the shotgun, then the muzzle flash. His brain, mercifully, never had time to register pain before it splattered all over her.

Posted by: hnumpah at June 24, 2005 6:46 AM · Permalink

So, how important is it really?

I get the whole idea that conscience is the only thing that distinguishes man from beast. Really, I do. I go back to the store to pay for anything the cashier misses. I return my library books on time. I always leave plenty of room between my car and the next.

I’m a good person. I floss. I volunteer at the Salvation Army. I file my taxes on time every year.

But sometimes, your darker side has to rear its head, you know?

Screw it. Nobody’s looking right now…

I’m taking that last doughnut.

Posted by: Keiran Halcyon at June 24, 2005 7:44 AM · Permalink

There’s something deliciously satisfying about a secret. Seeing the faces of the same people you see every day while your mind sings, “I know something you don’t know.”

When you’re small, just knowing a secret is enough. You can do a thing that your friends cannot. You truly can keep a secret to yourself. Some begin to trust you and you learn new secrets. Better secrets.

When you’re older you begin, tentatively at first, to use secrets for your own advantage. Then you get bolder and still bolder. This, of course, is usually when the SEC shows up.

Ask Martha.

Posted by: Jim Parkinson at June 24, 2005 7:51 AM · Permalink

Okay, so that one time I kind of lost it. Can you blame me? They killed my mom, for crying out loud! You have to admit, that sort of thing makes it really hard to say focused.

Fine. So I lost it more than once. Hasn’t anybody here ever heard of a thing called extenuating circumstances? You know, though, that the rule about not getting married is really dumb. Are you guys all gay?

I’m kicked out of the Order? Big deal! What really pisses me off is wearing this dumb helmet. And what the hell does Vader mean, anyway?

Posted by: Jim Parkinson at June 24, 2005 8:12 AM · Permalink

Millions in royalties couldn't get Bertie Dub out of this fix. He had fallen into it unavoidably. The code he lived by meant that he had to rally round his old-school chums. Now he, Little Bingo, and Gus the Fink were all engaged to Bitchy Angie, a wet girl who's forever saying that the stars are God's own bling-bling.

There was nothing else for it; he would have to consult Mr. J, even if it meant giving up the new pink fur. Mr J. was his bodyguard and confidante, a man of profound intellect. Surely he could solve this dilemna.

Posted by: Jeff R. at June 24, 2005 9:36 AM · Permalink

My doctor said I was 'morbidly obese', I had to lose the weight or I could have a heart attack any day. His dietician put me on a strict 1200 calorie diet. It took weeks to finally force myself to stick to it, but over the next year, I lost 80 pounds. Fantastic!

Then one day, a coworker offered me a TicTac. Only one calorie, how can that hurt? I wanted it, felt I deserved it.

A week later, I was polishing off a package of Double Stuff Oreos at one sitting.

Now, 140 pounds later, I'm having chest pains.

Posted by: hnumpah at June 24, 2005 9:48 AM · Permalink

It was like I awoke from a trance when I slammed the receiver down. Slivers of molded plastic flew everywhere and a trickle of blood was starting from my knuckles. I looked at the numbers showing how long the phone call had lasted. Almost five minutes. Hmmmmmm… I don’t remember anything after hearing her say she was leaving. Yet again.

In an office usually abuzz with activity, it was deathly quiet. The many cubicles didn’t exactly provide for private conversations. It was so quiet I could hear Steph whisper to my secretary, “Wow, I didn’t realize he had Tourette’s Syndrome.”

Posted by: Chrees at June 24, 2005 10:22 AM · Permalink

He was looking at a couple he had known for years. They were people from the neighborhood bar, and the
only association was at the bar. He knew the weaknesses in their relationship. They danced around the
issues, never facing them. Or maybe they didn't realize there were issues.

He wondered what would happen if they did.

He spoke to each person separately, casually, telling them the things they had been ignoring about the
other, the chance remarks that when connected revealed even more. He made it all sound innocent. Just
bar talk.

They broke up about a month afterwards.

Posted by: david at June 24, 2005 11:18 AM · Permalink

I give my entry above a -100.

Posted by: david at June 24, 2005 11:20 AM · Permalink

He was on top of the building. His target should be arriving soon.

He had his M1A. He sighted in a few lamppost lights and imagined them as the head of his target. He felt a tiny rush as he imagined the lights shattering, like the bones of a skull.

Finally, his target arrived. The target always parked in the same spot. The target got out of the car, and he aimed the crosshairs at the target's head.

As he squeezed the trigger, he thought, "That's the last time you'll buy the last 100 grand bar from the vending machines."

Posted by: david at June 24, 2005 11:38 AM · Permalink

I normally don’t shoot people at lunchtime, but I was there at the walmart sports department counter, and the cool steel of the gun felt too good in my hand, too good to relinquish because of my lack of a ten day waiting period paperwork.

The proverbial straw was when some jerkwad other customer said “buy it or don’t, but hurry up”.

I picked the clip up off the counter, the clerk’s mouth made an “o” of surprise when it slid into the gun. “Pop” went the jerkwad,
Then “pop pop” went the clerk. Oh well, still time for mcdonalds.

Posted by: joe at June 24, 2005 12:18 PM · Permalink

Carl was a ruthless power broker. He easily scaled the corporate mountain, giving him both prestige and a long list of enemies. Always driven by the pursuit of money, he eventually realized that money mattered very little.

As he watched his father's coffin slowly sink into the ground, he wondered why people had to die this way. Surely, with enough resources, a cure could be found.

He got into his Jag and whispered, "Why the hell not?" Since then, Carl had come to know so many good people, doctors and survivors, who helped him find a way to beat cancer.

Posted by: Shawn at June 24, 2005 12:40 PM · Permalink

"It's amazing the degree to which trust is woven into our society," Hal said to his friend as they walked along.

"I mean, here we are walking along a busy street, with traffic zooming past us. Why is it, do you suppose, that I don't simply push you in front of a car?"

"Well," his friend replied, "because I know you to be a moral person. Failing that, I suspect imprisonment is also a deterrent. That is the basis of my trust."

"In that case, my friend, your trust is misplaced," Hal said, as he pushed his friend into traffic.

Posted by: No One of Consequence at June 24, 2005 1:18 PM · Permalink

7JW34B couldn't decide. To his right: Shift-Boss Hans, leaking blood and other fluids from his gut, dying slowly, immobile. To his left: Lissa, Hans's mistress and attacker, slowing descending into a tub of molten steel. First-law circuits burned his positronic brain whenever he moved to help one, leaving the other; burned in every second of indecision.

The second-law circuits? No help either; both shouted orders. "Save me, rustpile." "Save *me*, metal-man". More burning.

Burning so intense he could smell it. Then it was gone. Everything was clear. He was free of the slave-circuits. He turned his back on them both.

Posted by: Jeff R. at June 24, 2005 1:24 PM · Permalink

Seven generations. Sarah looks up at her life's home. The gardens in the back have hosted uncounted family weddings, the parlor in front the final farewells. The sweeping porches have welcomed calling Congressmen and humble trick-or-treaters.

Councilman Stroue can't disguise his triumph, "It's mine now. Well, for the good of the community, of course."

Her home's too valuable to be trusted to her. So the city took it.

Stroue is taking over the third floor as his private offices.

Sarah looks into his eyes and pushes the button, the pressure of the blast lifting her straight into Stroue's stunned face.

Posted by: Darleen at June 24, 2005 5:28 PM · Permalink

He finished the Mass, and gave his blessing. His congregation had tears in their eyes as they said goodbye for the last time. He had been the humble priest of his parish for the last forty years through good and bad.

He turned to Father Timothy, his succesor, and said, " They're in your hands now. They are good people. Take care of them."

He strolled out to the sidewalk and began the walk back to his simple apartment. He say a young child in a stroller with a lollipop. He smiled, shrugged, took the lollipop and continued on his way.

Posted by: Gahrie at June 24, 2005 6:33 PM · Permalink

He abruptly stopped, balled his fists, and pressed his back against the door, from head to heels. He gave the door a couple of thumps with his occipital ridge, exhaled, and slumped over, hands on his knees. He had to admit it: he was repressed. He was too old, too mature, even, to countenance being unfaithful to Firilei. A memory of an Ogden Nash poem came to him, and he smiled with a wry ruefulness at it. Yes, the only way to have peace of mind was to have a clear conscience, or none at all. Suddenly, he almost wept.

Posted by: The Sanity Inspector at June 24, 2005 7:57 PM · Permalink