David Archives

June 15, 2007

David: Inside History

It was inevitable that a cloud of black humor enveloped Los Alamos during the Manhattan Project. The men working there knew, better than the people who had put them to work, exactly what they might unleash. With the pressures they were under, any form of release they could find was welcomed.

Pranks abounded, from setting off the air raid sirens during the critical mass experiments to replacing uranium cores with modeling clay when the brass came to visit.

Not even Oppenheimer was immune. Whenever he went to his lab, he hung a sign on his office door saying, “Gone Fission.”

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June 18, 2007

David: Pact

The Demon Bell had rung 13 times since being bound in custody of the small New England town of Virtue in 1638. Each time has meant calamity somewhere in the world: war, plague, assassination, natural disaster. No one ever determined whether the bell was cause or alarm.

A parapsychologist studying the Demon Bell wanted to ring it, just to see if anything happened. The town council refused, but feared he would ring it anyway. Paranoia spread through Virtue, eventually causing an angry mob to hunt down and murder the parapsychologist and his team.

And the Demon Bell began to toll.

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June 20, 2007

David: In Japan, This Makes Perfect Sense

I was a teenaged lesbian stripper ninja catgirl, infiltrating the offices of Shaitan megacorp, when I encountered my arch-nemesis: a gay prudish pirate dogboy.

“Your lesbian stripper powers are useless against me!” he taunted.

“As are your homo-moralizing powers,” I countered.

“So, we face each other in the old fashion, ninja versus pirate. Let us settle this.”

“Wait! Do you even know what you’re protecting? The lost journals of Blackbeard Horumi.”

“The fabled progenitor ninja-pirate? Impossible.”

“Join forces with me, and we can end centuries of pointless warfare.”

He glowered at me. “Ninjas killed my parents.”

“So be it.” Shing!

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June 22, 2007

David: Did Someone Lose A Bet?

The Versace saleswoman looked down her nose at the burly man entering the store. He was tall and barrel-shaped, if the bottom ring of the barrel had given way. Wearing a red and black plaid shirt and blue jeans, he walked carefully, as if each step caused him pain.

She approached him, and noticed he was clean-shaven, with a healthy glow to his face that mismatched the sour expression he wore.

“May I help you, sir?” she asked. He mumbled a response.

“I beg your pardon?” she asked, leaning closer.

The man moaned miserably, “I, um,… want to look pretty.”

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June 25, 2007

David: The Second Wave

The difference between Fast Zeds and regular Zeds is like the difference between killer bees and regular bees. You don’t want to get stung by either type, but the regular ones are so much less aggressive.

A person could walk through a field of Zeds, and if they’re paying attention and quick on their feet, they’ll get through okay. Never try that with Fast Zeds. I saw someone try, down in the sewers. They swarmed him, ripped him limb from limb, and fought over the pieces.

Not that the hoarding bastard didn’t deserve it. But it was time to leave.

From Jeff R.'s The Underground

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June 26, 2007

David: Game Over

The devil sat defeated at the end of the makeshift bar, inside the ramshackle hut of scrounged metal, in the middle of the nuclear wasteland, nursing his beer.

“You idiots,” he grumbled. “Nuking yourselves before we could pull off Armageddon. That was not the plan!”

The bartender limped over. “Quiet, you.”

“Or what? I’m evil incarnate. I could incinerate your soul with a single thought.”

“Go ahead. Do me the favor.”

The devil slumped back on his stool. “Ah, screw it. What’s the point? No value in souls anymore. Gimme tequila, and I’ll grant your fondest wish.”

“Barter only, mac.”

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June 27, 2007

David: The Basics

“Observe,” the sorcerer told his apprentice, tearing a long thin strip from a scroll. “This represents the flow of magic in the world.” The sorcerer bent the paper over on itself and fed one loose end through the resulting loop. “What have I done?”

“You tied it into a knot.”

“Correct. Now,…” He carefully squeezed the paper knot flat, folding each bend and tightening until it was perfectly smooth and flat. “…what is this?”

“A pentagon?”

“Correct. This is why we perform our spells inside pentagrams. They are knots in the flow of magic, pooling it where we need it.”

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June 28, 2007

David: You Don't Hear What You Don't Expect

“Hmm? Oh, I don’t know. Nothing much. I thought I might get a little exercise in. Then there’s a couple of TV shows I want to catch. I’ll probably do some reading, wash the dishes, check out the headlines on the internet, stuff like that.

“Actually, there’s this short story I’ve been working on in my head for weeks now. I think I’ve finally got it to the point where I can risk writing it down without butchering it and ruining the idea. I might take a swing at that.

“So, do you have anything interesting going on tonight, Susan?”

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June 29, 2007

David: This Land Is My Land

Private Tom Johnson: Row 7, Number 6. 1758.
Corporal Jim Johnson: Row 38, Number 19. 1775.
Sergeant Jack Johnson: Row 61, Number 68. 1813.
Sgt. Major Archibald Johnson (Confederate): Row 120, Number 2. 1863.
Lieutenant Theodore Johnson: Row 120, Number 3. 1863.
Captain Hiram Johnson: Row 178, Number 26. 1898.
Major William Johnson: Row 205, Number 99. 1917.
Lt. Col. Robert Johnson: Row 250, Number 67. 1941.
Colonel Nathaniel Johnson: Row 280, Number 44. 1951.
Brigadier Winston Johnson: Row 302, Number 78. 1968.
General Richard Johnson: Row 317, Number 85. 1990.
Dick, Jane, Suzy Johnson: Row 399, Number 93. 2001.

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July 2, 2007

David: For The Greater Good

Most people don’t realize I have a secret identity. It never enters their mind. They assume I’m out saving the world 24/7.

It’s not like I encourage such thinking, obviously. That’s kind of the point of a secret identity. Telling people I have one would be like revealing my one true weakness in a major metropolitan newspaper. Only a few have ever come up with the idea that I live among them in between crises.

No one’s ever guessed the lengths I go to misleading those people into suspecting someone they know. Take that poor bastard Clark Kent, for instance.

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