Today's Word: Witty
Witty people don't have to cuss. If you aren't so witty. . . to hell with it.
-- david j.
Friday, June 08, 2007
Saturday, April 28, 2007
Today's Word: Simulation
"So you see, we're not really on earth, though I don't doubt there once was an earth -- probably long since destroyed by its own sun," said George Trenlor, president of the Lucas Falls chapter of the Society for and Enlightened People (SEP).
"We're really in a big computer simulator," said Kaleb, a news reporter for the Lucas Fall Observer.
"That's right," said George with a genuine smile. I might have a convert here, he thought.
"Isn't that just like that Matrix movie?" asked Kaleb.
"Well, yes, but Dr. Provelmein, the founder of our society, put forth this idea back in 1949. So you see, we knew about the Truth long before some Hollywood-types stole it."
"Right," said Kaleb, making a note. "And your society claims we invented the computers running this massive simulation ourselves."
"Not us, our ancient ancestors. Humans once had incredible technology. We once harnessed the power of stars and traveled this entire galaxy. But our people saw that we were essentially a blight on the universe -- we polluted everything, everywhere. They were so disheartened, they decided to build a simulation that would care for us and give us the semblance of a new start while also protecting the environment from our harmful influence."
"Uh-huh. And you also claim that most associations here don't matter?"
"They don't matter. Our children are not real; they're just computer programs built to simulate humans. We --"
"Wait, wait," said Kaleb, holding up a hand. "You're saying my kids aren't real because some computer randomly generated them"
"Not randomly. They are made to look and act much like real children created from your own genes might."
"How long has this been going on?"
"Twenty million years."
Kaleb stared for a moment. "Twenty million?"
"Yes."
"Then are you a computer program?"
George looked perplexed.
"Of course not."
"Then how could you be one of the original real people? Human's don't live twenty million years."
"I --" George swallowed. "I. . . never --"
"Only the first generation would have been real people, right? After that we would all be fake."
"Twenty-five years," said George in a choked whisper.
"Excuse me?"
"I believed in this crap for twenty-five years and I never questioned it. I lost my wife, my girls. Oh, God, the kids -- my girls -- I thought they didn't matter. I thought they were just programs. I treated them that way."
Kaleb was scribbling frantically in his little notebook. After a moment he looked up into a face as broken as any he had ever seen in his twenty-four years.
"Sorry."
-- david j.
"So you see, we're not really on earth, though I don't doubt there once was an earth -- probably long since destroyed by its own sun," said George Trenlor, president of the Lucas Falls chapter of the Society for and Enlightened People (SEP).
"We're really in a big computer simulator," said Kaleb, a news reporter for the Lucas Fall Observer.
"That's right," said George with a genuine smile. I might have a convert here, he thought.
"Isn't that just like that Matrix movie?" asked Kaleb.
"Well, yes, but Dr. Provelmein, the founder of our society, put forth this idea back in 1949. So you see, we knew about the Truth long before some Hollywood-types stole it."
"Right," said Kaleb, making a note. "And your society claims we invented the computers running this massive simulation ourselves."
"Not us, our ancient ancestors. Humans once had incredible technology. We once harnessed the power of stars and traveled this entire galaxy. But our people saw that we were essentially a blight on the universe -- we polluted everything, everywhere. They were so disheartened, they decided to build a simulation that would care for us and give us the semblance of a new start while also protecting the environment from our harmful influence."
"Uh-huh. And you also claim that most associations here don't matter?"
"They don't matter. Our children are not real; they're just computer programs built to simulate humans. We --"
"Wait, wait," said Kaleb, holding up a hand. "You're saying my kids aren't real because some computer randomly generated them"
"Not randomly. They are made to look and act much like real children created from your own genes might."
"How long has this been going on?"
"Twenty million years."
Kaleb stared for a moment. "Twenty million?"
"Yes."
"Then are you a computer program?"
George looked perplexed.
"Of course not."
"Then how could you be one of the original real people? Human's don't live twenty million years."
"I --" George swallowed. "I. . . never --"
"Only the first generation would have been real people, right? After that we would all be fake."
"Twenty-five years," said George in a choked whisper.
"Excuse me?"
"I believed in this crap for twenty-five years and I never questioned it. I lost my wife, my girls. Oh, God, the kids -- my girls -- I thought they didn't matter. I thought they were just programs. I treated them that way."
Kaleb was scribbling frantically in his little notebook. After a moment he looked up into a face as broken as any he had ever seen in his twenty-four years.
"Sorry."
-- david j.
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Monday, January 29, 2007
Today's Word: Cabal
Kristie's face was askew. Her pouting lips hung from the right side of her jaw. Her nose dangled from her left cheek. One eye was large, bulbous, and knobby like an overgrown yam. The other stretched around the curve of her temple so that the lashes spread out like blades on a fan. The rest of her head seemed normal enough, though her hair was dishevled from sleep. Her body too looked okay. Her pink PJs with hundreds of white covorting sheep clung to her small frame the same as ever. No strange bulges or inexplicable chasms maligned her torso or limbs. In her arms Kristie clutched the teddy bear her mother had made her last Christmas.
"Daddy?" she said from the side of her face. To Roger she sounded somehow electronic -- somehow modulated like an AM signal that has traveled just a little too far to reach your crystal.
Roger shivered.
-- david j.
Kristie's face was askew. Her pouting lips hung from the right side of her jaw. Her nose dangled from her left cheek. One eye was large, bulbous, and knobby like an overgrown yam. The other stretched around the curve of her temple so that the lashes spread out like blades on a fan. The rest of her head seemed normal enough, though her hair was dishevled from sleep. Her body too looked okay. Her pink PJs with hundreds of white covorting sheep clung to her small frame the same as ever. No strange bulges or inexplicable chasms maligned her torso or limbs. In her arms Kristie clutched the teddy bear her mother had made her last Christmas.
"Daddy?" she said from the side of her face. To Roger she sounded somehow electronic -- somehow modulated like an AM signal that has traveled just a little too far to reach your crystal.
Roger shivered.
-- david j.
Saturday, January 27, 2007
Today's Word: Static
Roger sat before his computer, clicking away, guiding his screen through site after site with no real direction. He had nothing to do. Sharon was in the shower and the kids were in bed. He had plenty of time to potato-surf wherever he liked.
A sound came from down the hallway. It was a small and tinny like the squelch of a CB between stations. Roger lifted his head, listened, heard nothing further and went back to his aimless searching.
He had just found a site explaining the history of his favorite candy when he heard the sound again. It still sounded tinny and kind of drawn out, but this time it held the distinctive note of a child's cry.
He was up and moving down the hall for the kids' room in an instant. Oliver and Kristie were too old to cry for no reason. Usually, when one or the other did cry, it was because they had to pee but were too sleepy to get out of bed. Five-year-olds could be so lazy sometimes.
As Roger neared the twins' room, he heard the sound yet again. This close up, it sounded like maybe he had forgotten to shut the kids' TV off after their weekend movie. Sometimes the DVD's blue light would make the kids cry because it was so annoying.
The TV was off when Roger opened the door. Shadows obscured the happy, dancing bears parading across the walls and the myriad stuffed animals and plastic trucks on the floor and arranged atop every free shelf. In the center of the room Roger could just make out his daughter, standing, hands raised to her face. He blinked, not trusting his eyes.
"Daddy?" said Kristie. Her voice came out in a high-pitched squelch that echoed into the hallway.
"What's the matter, baby. What happened to your --"
Kristie stepped forward so that the hallway light spilled onto her face. Roger gasped.
To be continued
-- david j.
Roger sat before his computer, clicking away, guiding his screen through site after site with no real direction. He had nothing to do. Sharon was in the shower and the kids were in bed. He had plenty of time to potato-surf wherever he liked.
A sound came from down the hallway. It was a small and tinny like the squelch of a CB between stations. Roger lifted his head, listened, heard nothing further and went back to his aimless searching.
He had just found a site explaining the history of his favorite candy when he heard the sound again. It still sounded tinny and kind of drawn out, but this time it held the distinctive note of a child's cry.
He was up and moving down the hall for the kids' room in an instant. Oliver and Kristie were too old to cry for no reason. Usually, when one or the other did cry, it was because they had to pee but were too sleepy to get out of bed. Five-year-olds could be so lazy sometimes.
As Roger neared the twins' room, he heard the sound yet again. This close up, it sounded like maybe he had forgotten to shut the kids' TV off after their weekend movie. Sometimes the DVD's blue light would make the kids cry because it was so annoying.
The TV was off when Roger opened the door. Shadows obscured the happy, dancing bears parading across the walls and the myriad stuffed animals and plastic trucks on the floor and arranged atop every free shelf. In the center of the room Roger could just make out his daughter, standing, hands raised to her face. He blinked, not trusting his eyes.
"Daddy?" said Kristie. Her voice came out in a high-pitched squelch that echoed into the hallway.
"What's the matter, baby. What happened to your --"
Kristie stepped forward so that the hallway light spilled onto her face. Roger gasped.
To be continued
-- david j.
Thursday, January 25, 2007
Today's Word: Fealty
Overn stumbled, nearly losing his balance to the morasse of blood-soaked earth at his feet. His enemy, the Martin King, rushed forward, trying to take advantage of Overn's misstep. He thrust his sword at the Stromerean warrior's side, but Overn was too young and too fast for the king. He gained his balance by pushing forward into the slide and then twisted his whole frame so that, for an instant, he stood at a right angle to the Martin King.
Overn struck with such force that his sword pierced through the king's armor. Its point protruded from the doomed man's back.
The Martin King dropped to his knees, his eyes wide -- pupils rapidly dilating -- and fixed on his killer.
As the king's last breaths rattled out his mouth, Overn bent forward and said, "You really thought I would swear fealty to you?"
-- david j.
Overn stumbled, nearly losing his balance to the morasse of blood-soaked earth at his feet. His enemy, the Martin King, rushed forward, trying to take advantage of Overn's misstep. He thrust his sword at the Stromerean warrior's side, but Overn was too young and too fast for the king. He gained his balance by pushing forward into the slide and then twisted his whole frame so that, for an instant, he stood at a right angle to the Martin King.
Overn struck with such force that his sword pierced through the king's armor. Its point protruded from the doomed man's back.
The Martin King dropped to his knees, his eyes wide -- pupils rapidly dilating -- and fixed on his killer.
As the king's last breaths rattled out his mouth, Overn bent forward and said, "You really thought I would swear fealty to you?"
-- david j.
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
Today's Word: Dam
Everything was silent.
Father was driving the old '42 Ford with both hands on the wheel. He wore his brown suit, derby hat, and an expression of mild concentration. Mother sat beside him in her blue Sunday dress, her hands folded primly in her lap.
Little Roy sat in the back alone, watching the thick forests that fronted the road pass by. The trees gave suddenly away to a waterscape far below as the Ford bumped onto a bridge.
"Look, Ma, a dam," said little Roy, pointing.
Mother eyed the bland cement structure across the man-made lake below.
"That's not a dam, Roy. It's a railroad. See the rails up on top? Their using it for a bridge."
"I know," said Roy. "It's a dam railroad!"
Father laughed. Mother slapped Roy.
Everything was silent.
-- david j.
Everything was silent.
Father was driving the old '42 Ford with both hands on the wheel. He wore his brown suit, derby hat, and an expression of mild concentration. Mother sat beside him in her blue Sunday dress, her hands folded primly in her lap.
Little Roy sat in the back alone, watching the thick forests that fronted the road pass by. The trees gave suddenly away to a waterscape far below as the Ford bumped onto a bridge.
"Look, Ma, a dam," said little Roy, pointing.
Mother eyed the bland cement structure across the man-made lake below.
"That's not a dam, Roy. It's a railroad. See the rails up on top? Their using it for a bridge."
"I know," said Roy. "It's a dam railroad!"
Father laughed. Mother slapped Roy.
Everything was silent.
-- david j.
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
Today's Word: Loafer
"And then there's the matter of your chef's shoes," said Mama Yont, the head cook at Echoes Town and Country Bistro.
"My chef shoes?" said Ray.
Mama Yont pointed at the brown loafers on Ray's plump feet.
"You wore them into my kitchen. You came here with the expectation of preparing food. Those must be your chef shoes."
Ray looked as his loafers and then looked at the nearly pristine white slippers Mama wore.
"Do you see a difference?" asked Mama, raising one arched eyebrow. She never bothered to follow his gaze to her own shoes.
"I sure do," said Ray.
"And what do you see?"
"I see there's dog poop on your left one."
-- david j.
"And then there's the matter of your chef's shoes," said Mama Yont, the head cook at Echoes Town and Country Bistro.
"My chef shoes?" said Ray.
Mama Yont pointed at the brown loafers on Ray's plump feet.
"You wore them into my kitchen. You came here with the expectation of preparing food. Those must be your chef shoes."
Ray looked as his loafers and then looked at the nearly pristine white slippers Mama wore.
"Do you see a difference?" asked Mama, raising one arched eyebrow. She never bothered to follow his gaze to her own shoes.
"I sure do," said Ray.
"And what do you see?"
"I see there's dog poop on your left one."
-- david j.
Monday, January 15, 2007
Something I had forgotten.
Do a page search for "The Deal Closer" (no quotes).
http://www.deadmule.com/content/index2.php?type=archive
-- david j.
Do a page search for "The Deal Closer" (no quotes).
http://www.deadmule.com/content/index2.php?type=archive
-- david j.
Saturday, January 13, 2007
Today's Word: Chary
The giant Toriean sloth is a chary animal. It spends most daylight hours suspended from high tree branches out of the sun. But at night, when most plains predators have retired, the sloth hunts in packs, wielding rudimentary spears and rough clubs. Far from docile by moonlight, the Toriean sloth is a ruthless, merciless killer of anything larger than a rat.
-- david j.
The giant Toriean sloth is a chary animal. It spends most daylight hours suspended from high tree branches out of the sun. But at night, when most plains predators have retired, the sloth hunts in packs, wielding rudimentary spears and rough clubs. Far from docile by moonlight, the Toriean sloth is a ruthless, merciless killer of anything larger than a rat.
-- david j.
Today's Word: Mellow
Old King Card mellowed in his old age. He no longer frequented the brothels on Angel street nor did he often host great feasts to honor his brave knights. Instead, Card led a simple life of tottering about his ancient castle sentencing every third person he saw in a given day to death by torture. It wasn't much of a sport, but he thought it kept him spry and it did wonders for his servants' efficiency.
-- david j.
Old King Card mellowed in his old age. He no longer frequented the brothels on Angel street nor did he often host great feasts to honor his brave knights. Instead, Card led a simple life of tottering about his ancient castle sentencing every third person he saw in a given day to death by torture. It wasn't much of a sport, but he thought it kept him spry and it did wonders for his servants' efficiency.
-- david j.
Thursday, January 11, 2007
Today's Word: Sonorous
Dragons did not shit where they ate, but that was only by virtue of their length. Gorge, servant to her majesty the red dragon Stynaserian during the eighth decade of her life, discovered early in his career that dragon's ate much and shit man-sized mounds.
In fact, it seemed to Gorge, after only three weeks service to his smoldering queen that his job of chamberlain entailed little more than removing waste from the rear of her cave and delivering food to the front. He spent half of every day just mucking feces, only to spend the second half hunting the great devil's dinner. And he had only taken the job because he thought all dragons kept treasure and he might steal a bit over time. Only too late did he discover that such tales were wild. What use had dragons for gold or diamonds? Such things were the paltry inventions of man and carried no more worth to a dragon than the mounds at the back of Stynaserian's cave.
This unbearable and altogether unhealthy situation continued for some weeks before the man confronted his dragon master early on the summer solstice when he knew he might catch her drowsy.
"My queen, what boon have I earned for the services I've provided you these long weeks?" he asked, trying to make his voice boom, though the cave and Styn's own sonorous breathing seemed to swallow up most of his bluster.
The dragon, her red scales glistening in a slant of sultry sunlight falling through the cave mouth, opened her huge eyes and puffed a gout of flame at the floor. Her head -- it was the size of a small fishing vessel -- rose from the ground and she regarded her servant.
"Boon? What boon would you have, little insect? Have I not suffered to smell your man blood day and night without eating you? Is that not boon enough?"
Gorge steeled himself against the fear that now turned his knees to pudding and his bowels to cream.
"No, my queen. It is not enough. I have served well and hard these last days and for nothing save some small scraps of charred meat -- your half-chewed leftovers. A man needs wages in this world, even if a dragon does not. I have shoveled your shit and now I would have payment."
"You smell of shit," said the dragon. But was there a hint of amusement in her voice? Had he gotten through? Engaged her respect for him if only a bit?
Gorge thought so.
"I smell as I do, because I serve you, my queen. Your cave is clean as a rain-soaked leaf."
Styn was quiet a moment, then she said, "Go to the river and return when you are clean. Then I shall give you your boon."
Gorge washed in the cold mountain water until every bit of filth had been cleansed away. And when he returned to his mistress he stood before her nude to show that every part of him was washed white.
Stynaserian, the great red dragon of the north, gobbled Gorge down in one swift flick of her neck and snap of her jaws. She did not even bother to chew.
In his first week of serving the dragon queen, Stynaserian, Elbert learned that dragons ate much and shit man-sized mounds.
* NOTE* An oldie, but a goodie.
-- david j.
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Thursday, February 02, 2006
Today's Word: Grammar
Dear Old Grammar
Our Grammar lived in an apartment above an alehouse. She was a dear old Grammar, full of pith, with a steady hand at the spinning wheel and sharp tongue at the table. On Sundays, after church, Grammar played three-card gleek with her blue-haired friends, swapping gossip and betting toothpicks. She was, on the whole, level-headed. But it was Grammar's house and Grammar's game. There might have been a chance for one of the other women to win, but they never took it. Grammar's notoriously short fuse was well respected among her friends and enemies alike. One hint of cheating -- and a winning hand dealt by anyone but Grammar was a hint of cheating in her book -- would send her into a torrent of expletives. Then there was no stopping her. It was best to let her vent, apologize the guests out the door, find the nearest closet, and hide.
Dear Old Grammar
Our Grammar lived in an apartment above an alehouse. She was a dear old Grammar, full of pith, with a steady hand at the spinning wheel and sharp tongue at the table. On Sundays, after church, Grammar played three-card gleek with her blue-haired friends, swapping gossip and betting toothpicks. She was, on the whole, level-headed. But it was Grammar's house and Grammar's game. There might have been a chance for one of the other women to win, but they never took it. Grammar's notoriously short fuse was well respected among her friends and enemies alike. One hint of cheating -- and a winning hand dealt by anyone but Grammar was a hint of cheating in her book -- would send her into a torrent of expletives. Then there was no stopping her. It was best to let her vent, apologize the guests out the door, find the nearest closet, and hide.
Monday, January 23, 2006
Today's Word: Incommunicado
We fired several low orbit flares, hoping to rouse some interest from the passing fleet, but the enemy ignored them. Without phased sub-tuners, fractal ansible emitters or even prehistoric push-button radios, we are held incommunicado from out compatriots. Alone and starving.
-- david j.
We fired several low orbit flares, hoping to rouse some interest from the passing fleet, but the enemy ignored them. Without phased sub-tuners, fractal ansible emitters or even prehistoric push-button radios, we are held incommunicado from out compatriots. Alone and starving.
-- david j.
Friday, December 02, 2005
Today's Word: Yeoman
Lord Tartar gagged as the poison seized his airway like a hangman's noose. He clawed at the heavy brocade collar about his neck, but found no relief. Silently, and red-faced, his eyes squirmed about the table as his high-born lady and noble children began to take notice.
"Harvard?" asked his wife, the first hint of alarm creeping into her refined tones.
"Da?" said his eldest son, the one who would inherit all Lord Tartar's holdings after his death. But Trevon would never do this. Ever had he been a good lad; dutiful and obedient.
Tartar gripped the corners of his fine blackwood dining table, the one he had ordered special from the Resonian isles. One of these people had killed him -- plotted murder against kin and played out the murder with deft alacrity. But who?
His youngest son, Ulus? The boy stood to gain nothing from his father's death, save a quickening of his ultimate enlistment in the kingsguard.
His middle daughter, Runa? Without her father's ties to the House Grannen she had no hope to wed the young knight Daved Grannen, the Youth of Sand Hill. Her mother could never work the arrangement well enough to satisfy those uppity Grannen folk. No. Not the girl.
His lady wife? She loved him without measure, he had no doubt. And her wails of misery at this crucial moment could not be foolery.
Who then? Who would kill a lord in his own manor, at his own table?
Only one among those gathered wore any look save horror.
The yeoman, Purstis Patch. The little, wizened man was smiling.
Lord Tartar pointed at the wretched servant with the last strength left in his arm. Already he felt his chest fit to burst from a fire that had kindled there. Already blue and red spots danced in the great lord's vision.
"Yes," said Patch from his spot in the corner, and he let slip the golden wine service in his hands so that it clattered loudly on the floor. Only then did Tatar's family take note of the steward. But the man did not flinch away, even as Lord Tartar's sons rounded on him, murder in their eyes.
"One hundred forty years my family has plotted to topple your house," said Patch, backing into the shadows. "Once our name reigned in the valleys and mountains of Yunfron. We were the lords while your folk were merely swineherds and sharecroppers. But you usurped us. You stole our lands and brought us low -- humiliated us by offering my folk service in our own halls. Well no more I say! No more!! You are no lords above Patch! We shall see you rot in the nine steps of the Pit before we allow you to rule us anymore. So die you old fool."
Tartar's oldest had reached Patch by then and manned him to the floor where he set to throttling the older, slighter man.
Fat good it did though. Lord Tartar died.
Lord Tartar gagged as the poison seized his airway like a hangman's noose. He clawed at the heavy brocade collar about his neck, but found no relief. Silently, and red-faced, his eyes squirmed about the table as his high-born lady and noble children began to take notice.
"Harvard?" asked his wife, the first hint of alarm creeping into her refined tones.
"Da?" said his eldest son, the one who would inherit all Lord Tartar's holdings after his death. But Trevon would never do this. Ever had he been a good lad; dutiful and obedient.
Tartar gripped the corners of his fine blackwood dining table, the one he had ordered special from the Resonian isles. One of these people had killed him -- plotted murder against kin and played out the murder with deft alacrity. But who?
His youngest son, Ulus? The boy stood to gain nothing from his father's death, save a quickening of his ultimate enlistment in the kingsguard.
His middle daughter, Runa? Without her father's ties to the House Grannen she had no hope to wed the young knight Daved Grannen, the Youth of Sand Hill. Her mother could never work the arrangement well enough to satisfy those uppity Grannen folk. No. Not the girl.
His lady wife? She loved him without measure, he had no doubt. And her wails of misery at this crucial moment could not be foolery.
Who then? Who would kill a lord in his own manor, at his own table?
Only one among those gathered wore any look save horror.
The yeoman, Purstis Patch. The little, wizened man was smiling.
Lord Tartar pointed at the wretched servant with the last strength left in his arm. Already he felt his chest fit to burst from a fire that had kindled there. Already blue and red spots danced in the great lord's vision.
"Yes," said Patch from his spot in the corner, and he let slip the golden wine service in his hands so that it clattered loudly on the floor. Only then did Tatar's family take note of the steward. But the man did not flinch away, even as Lord Tartar's sons rounded on him, murder in their eyes.
"One hundred forty years my family has plotted to topple your house," said Patch, backing into the shadows. "Once our name reigned in the valleys and mountains of Yunfron. We were the lords while your folk were merely swineherds and sharecroppers. But you usurped us. You stole our lands and brought us low -- humiliated us by offering my folk service in our own halls. Well no more I say! No more!! You are no lords above Patch! We shall see you rot in the nine steps of the Pit before we allow you to rule us anymore. So die you old fool."
Tartar's oldest had reached Patch by then and manned him to the floor where he set to throttling the older, slighter man.
Fat good it did though. Lord Tartar died.
Sunday, November 27, 2005
Saturday, November 26, 2005
Today's Word: Race
David sat before the empty computer screen imagining the worlds he might create, longing to tap out fame or money or both from the plastic keyboard. After two hours, with nothing to show for his time beyond the byline, David decided maybe he should become a race car driver instead. Look out Gordon.
-- david j.
David sat before the empty computer screen imagining the worlds he might create, longing to tap out fame or money or both from the plastic keyboard. After two hours, with nothing to show for his time beyond the byline, David decided maybe he should become a race car driver instead. Look out Gordon.
-- david j.
Monday, September 05, 2005
Today's Word: Popular
Auzor Reece eyed the human sitting before him.
"You don't believe the All-Point is slowing drawing all matter and energy back into itself?" asked the Auzor.
"No," said the man.
"Then what, sir, is your religion? To what diety do you owe your being?"
The human stared, his eyes never moving from the old Auzor's face.
"The popular and favorable opinion of friends, family, and millions of fans around the world. That's my religion. It's the only real source of power in any society, warrel or human.
The Auzor actually considered this. It was true that popularity embued its focal point with great power. And since the great reunification was still millions of years in the future, the All-Point could not, in actuality, give a believer any type of power; not in a real sense.
Auzor Reece nodded.
"And this is why we must destroy you, sir. Your power -- your popularity -- is too great on earth. You sway the humans against us; humans who would otherwise gladly join our religion. Thank you for the lesson on true power. It has been enlightening."
Reece motioned to the guards who took the human away to the first of many deaths. In the quiet interrogation room, the Auzor sat, hands folded under chin, contemplating power.
-- david j.
Auzor Reece eyed the human sitting before him.
"You don't believe the All-Point is slowing drawing all matter and energy back into itself?" asked the Auzor.
"No," said the man.
"Then what, sir, is your religion? To what diety do you owe your being?"
The human stared, his eyes never moving from the old Auzor's face.
"The popular and favorable opinion of friends, family, and millions of fans around the world. That's my religion. It's the only real source of power in any society, warrel or human.
The Auzor actually considered this. It was true that popularity embued its focal point with great power. And since the great reunification was still millions of years in the future, the All-Point could not, in actuality, give a believer any type of power; not in a real sense.
Auzor Reece nodded.
"And this is why we must destroy you, sir. Your power -- your popularity -- is too great on earth. You sway the humans against us; humans who would otherwise gladly join our religion. Thank you for the lesson on true power. It has been enlightening."
Reece motioned to the guards who took the human away to the first of many deaths. In the quiet interrogation room, the Auzor sat, hands folded under chin, contemplating power.
-- david j.
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