David Archives

May 29, 2007

David: Black vs. White

If only he wasn’t trying to kill me, I think we’d get along famously. He’s an amoral killing machine with a penchant for ironically-deployed traps; I’m an amoral killing machine with a penchant for ironically-deployed traps. Peas in a pod.

You meet all kinds of folks working the embassy circuit, but I knew we’d have something special together the first time he ambushed me. The bomb in my rental car in Lisbon was a work of art. Too bad about the valet. And oh! The poisons we’ve shared.

I’ll have to remember to send a thank-you card to his funeral.

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May 30, 2007

David: White vs. Black

How is that infuriating man still alive? Granted, he’s good at his job, but so am I, and I’m not getting paid to admire his skill. I’ve got secrets to steal and world leaders to assassinate. But he’s there every time, acting like it’s all one big game we’re playing against each other.

Doesn’t he understand that the existence and well-being of my entire nation depends on my efforts? Without me, stronger nations, including his, would steamroll over us without a second thought. I’m a patriot. I don’t enjoy what I do; I do it because it is necessary.

Bastard.

Related to yesterday.

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May 31, 2007

David: Shifting Balance

“Hey, baby, do you like pina coladas?”

Without turning around, I grumbled, “Get away from me, you gold chain-wearing freak.” Then I looked.

“Oh crap,” I added, staring into the fur-lined cleavage of my supervisor. I shuddered involuntarily.

Mr. Johnson stared sternly down at me. “Now, Miss Jackson, that’s no way to earn a promotion.”

I couldn’t see any way around it. I needed this job. “I’m sorry, sir. Force of—wait, what?”

“What?” he repeated.

“My god, you did! You brought me to this conference to try to score with me. Are you really that much of a cliché?”

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June 6, 2007

David: Abashed

“You make me sick to look at you,” he said, and I could do nothing but nod in agreement. “You made an deal. You accepted responsibility. You had an obligation to live up to, and you shirked it.”

“But it’s hard,” I whined, hating myself for trying to make excuses in the face of my failure.

“Ooh, it’s hard,” he mimicked. “That’s not the point, is it? When you agree to do a thing, you do it. Period.”

“I’m not the only one who—“

“It’s only a hundred words a day,” my reflection said to me. “Suck it up.”

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June 7, 2007

David: With The What Now?

“All right. Think of it like this. Suppose you have a shovel, so you start digging straight down toward the center of the Earth. You toss each shovelful of dirt over your shoulder. As you keep going deeper and deeper, eventually you will reach a depth at which you are unable to throw the dirt in your shovel high enough to escape the hole. It will instead fall back down on your head, refilling the hole at best, or in the worst case burying you alive.”

“What does that have to do with whether or not the defendant mugged somebody?”

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June 8, 2007

David: I'd Rather...

“Hey, Bob, you coming to the meeting this afternoon?”

“I can’t, sir. I have a dentist’s appointment.”

“So? Reschedule. We have to talk about reallocation of resources in the new fiscal year.”

“Yeah, I wish I could. But one of my back teeth is killing me. I’m going in for a root canal.”

“Ouch. Sorry, son.”

“Thanks, sir. Have fun at the meeting.”

--

“Good afternoon, Mr. Johnson. How are you today?”

“Wonderful, Cindy. How long do you think this will take?”

“A couple of hours. Why? Is there someplace you need to be?”

Bob smiled. “Nope. I’m happy right here.”

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June 11, 2007

David: Quite Possibly The Most Disgusting Thing I've Ever Written

The stench of human filth almost made me vomit through my spandex mask. The crazed geologist turned super-villain whom the press had dubbed “The Mole Man” had committed another jewel heist and escaped below the city streets. It was up to me, Captain Midnight, to track him down and bring him to justice.

Hours of disgusting searching through the sewers led me to the Mole Man’s lair. Next to the stolen gem satchel, I spotted my quarry, half-submerged in a river of sludge, bathing in it, rubbing it against his bare skin and into his hair.

That’s it; I quit.

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June 12, 2007

David: A Place In The World

Everyone believes they’re the star of the movie that is their lives. Most of them are wrong.

Maybe one in a thousand is a star, a main character around which others revolve. Everyone else is a supporting character. They might be the antagonist, a love interest, an old buddy, a bit player, a cameo, an extra, a redshirt, or background decoration—little more than a prop—but not an actual person in the strictest sense.

Me? I’m the funny friend. I exist to lighten the heart of the star and clarify the story’s theme via hijinks. It’s a vital role.

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June 13, 2007

David: Slow Pitch

“Ready to hear about this fall’s hit TV show?”

“Hit me.”

“It’s a dramedy, with an ensemble cast of anthropomorphic animals living together in the African veldt.”

“Go on.”

“First, there’s Ethel the elderly elephant, who’s kind of the mother figure. Then there’s Melvin the mischievous meerkat, who gets into all kind of wacky trouble. Next is Jimmy the developmentally challenged lion. He–“

“Wait, what?”

“What?”

“Jimmy the developmentally challenged lion? Who thinks of that? It’s not even alliterative. What the f’k is wrong with you?”

“Okay, forget that. New show, for kids: 'Uni the Dullest Unicorn.'”

“Get out.”

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June 14, 2007

David: Incendio the Beatnik's Last Poetry Slam

Fire.
Fever.
Africa.
Fajitas.
The sun.
Stacy’s Mom.
Police pursuit.
Apple pie filling.
The latest trends.
That shade of pink.
The latest news item.
Dave’s Insanity Sauce.
The inside of a volcano.
Anything Paris Hilton enjoys.
Kathleen Turner in Body Heat.
The gun resting in your pocket.
The conversation everyone’s having.
The product everyone rushes out to buy.
The area inside the quarantine boundary.
A kitchen one might consider getting out of.
The sultry, sweaty, swampy state of Louisiana.
The area beneath the collar of an apoplectic politician.
The watch you bought from the guy on the street corner.
Me.

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