Aardvark

Cheers, I was half asleep and exhausted when I wrote it. Unemployment takes a lot out of a person

Human expansion into space was inevitable. With no further room on our own planet, or even in our own solar system, we were destined for a life among the stars. Light speed, once broken, proved to be the speed equivalent of an incredibly obvious crossword puzzle answer that eludes a genius for hours on end. How we'd failed to break that back in the early days of rocket propulsion was beyond us. And as an added kicker, when you broke the light barrier, you actually travelled backwards in time. Meaning that the average superlight ship would reach its destination before it left. Also, it used up negative energy. No scientists could explain this one, but that didn't stop the commercial application of a useful property of interstellar travel, a regenerating fuel supply. Of course, there were problems associated with this kind of travel. Such as what happens when the ship reaches its limit of fuel. Can you just blow a fuel dump valve at 2.8 LS? And what about the occupants of the vessel? Turns out, these two dilemmas would solve themselves. The worst thing about emerging from chronostasis is that uncomfortable feeling that you're not quite right. First thing to get to you is your teeth. They just don't seem to bite properly. Then your skin. It's never exactly as dry or soft as it was before you entered. From there it goes downhill. Chronomadness was one of the many longterm health risks predicted from extended use of chronostasis. Explorers were travelling around the universe, forever seeking out habitable planets, or inhabitable planets that qualified for terraforming. A cosmic fixer-upper, if you will. These explorers, travelling in a colony ship just waiting and ready to set up shop on a new world, would never see their home system again. It was rumoured that some colony ships had actually been able to predate mankind's evolution on Earth using superlight speed. Of course, this lead to the theory that mankind's existence was merely the result of our superlight expansion across the universe and that we're merely a cosmic timeloop. Mental therapy has seen a boon ever since the light barrier was broken. But back to stasis. You never feel quite right when you leave that pod. How they worked was a mystery, but they did require enormous amounts of energy to operate, which was just as well, as superlight travel just happened to generate enormous amounts of energy. So it all balanced out in the end, with the bill for travel being issued to the passengers in the form of their teeth feeling wrong. This usually took several days of adjustment, but was an acceptable price to pay to ensure the survival of the species. Everyone and everything on this ship travelled in stasis. Passengers, embryos, genetic materials, supplies and any lifeforms that are deemed useful enough in their current form to start life anew and unchallenged on a foreign world. Fungus were particularly good at this. As was kelp and plankton, if you could find a suitable ocean. Also, for reasons unknown to us, Ants. They seemed to have no trouble adapting to any environment. On this particular ship, stasis was extremely important. There are two types of colony ship. Cloneships and Broodships. Cloneships work on the simple premise that a computer controlled incubator factory, armed with the entire genome for every living thing known to man, will be able to tailor life to suit the planet, gently altering it towards human habitation, then populating it with freshly grown humans, who then go on to procreate and multiply as normal. These ships were few and usually reserved for intergalactic journeys. The more common ship, the Brooship, worked on the theory of Advanced Eugenics. The theory goes that as a species evolves, intelligence and higher brain functions will increase with every passing generation. In practise, this only seems to occur to a small percentage of each successive generation, meaning that as the population grows, the intelligent population will still only be a minority and will only really begin to appear after several generations. So what intelligent people from Earth, realising that they could save resources used for policing the underclasses and put them towards the expansion and survival of the species, did was to round up these underclasses, often against their will, pack them all in stasis and send them off to some far flung solar system, where they were forcibly educated in the tasks they would need for survival, namely agriculture and construction, then dumped on the planet with enough tools and resources to get them started and enough supplies, laced with inhibition-reducing drugs to encourage procreation, to last until they were self-sufficient. This random, uncontrolled pattern of colonisation worked rather well, initially. Due to the diverse genetic patterns being spawned, once all morals had been drugged away, intelligence seemed to crop up within five or six generations. Critics of the broodship often argued that reducing man to the level of stock, fit only for breeding, even if it did serve a greater purpose, was immoral, unethical and just plain criminal. They never got any arguments, because the Oligarchy running Earth was more concerned with controlling the rampant overpopulation problem than making people feel good about themselves. Critics also argued that intelligent people would also get caught up in the sweeps of the slums and lower class areas that fed the Broodships, which would account for the patterns of intelligence that the colonisation project sought out in freshly established broodcolonies. Once more, their criticisms were ignored. They never criticised too loudly, in case they just happened to be caught up in sweeps. Political prisoners were common and any prisoner could be easily reprogrammed before a trip in a broodship, giving them valuable terraforming skills and a desire to die creating a habitable environment for people to live in. But the voices were still there. They weren't actively silenced, just ignored. The biggest problem with the broodship method of colonisation was ensuring the intelligent did pair up and actually produce offspring. Observation determined that as a colony grew, even with established morals, the more intelligent couples would produce less offspring than their less intelligent fellows, or forego the production of children at all. Even when they did produce a steady stream of mentally superior humans, fit to lead the rabble, there was usually a primitive governmental system in place that would do anything it could to avoid losing power to these cocky young smart people. The solution could be thought to be older than Humankind itself. God. Give the people a deity to believe in, then encourage a generation of priests, prophets and other holy individuals, all claiming to hear God and all gifted with the ability to kill upstarts using the Divine Power of the Almighty, which just happened to be neutron projectors that could be concealed on the wrist, and watch as a once-chaotic, ever-growing, slowly evolving mass of humanity turn into a tightly ordered civilisation, ready to turn the planet into another Earth. Sure, it was cruel and lead to the eventual creation of underclasses of mentally inferior specimens, but there would always be more Broodships to fill How to create a modern day Deity. Simple. A few flashing lights in the sky, the occasional well-aimed proton beam at the occasional wild animal and the sudden appearance of well-dressed prophets, all with a simple explanation of these events and religion was born. Which brings us to the story at hand. Me. I'm a faith engineer. Who I was originally is lost to me. I know my mind was scrubbed clean and a new personality imprinted onto me, before a quick education in philosophy, religious history, theology and all things needed to create a functioning religion that will encourage a population to grow in the right direction was beamed directly into my brain. With a few simple adjustments to my mental makeup, not only am I unable to care enough about my origin to try and locate and re-establish it, I am aware of all this and still don't care. For me, the one thing I desire is to direct a people onto the path that will lead them to salvation. Or enlightenment. Or hedonistic pleasure. I haven't decided yet. All equally good techniques, it all comes down to a matter of personal preference. Onboard the ship, still in stasis, were hundreds of other people. Records show they were all criminals at one point in life. All were just waiting for re-education and a chance to be put towards something useful. Even though I'm sure I was one of them, once, I feel no empathy towards them. Even if I did, there would be nothing I could do for them. Their minds had all been scrubbed before they were loaded onboard. Standard procedures state this is done in the event of a stasis failure, to prevent hostile individuals capturing a superlight vessel. Instead, the ship would be overrun with zombies. All these people had also been repaired physically. All scars, marks, injuries, diseases and mutilations (tattoos, piercings, cyberbionics) had been fixed, repaired, removed or whatever verb applied. They were blank slates, ready for me to carve my commandments onto. The only other being aboard was the ship's computer. Although not truly an intelligence, there were several personality profiles that could be active at any given time, each with pre-programmed responses to any pattern of enquiry. Each of them was an expert in a certain field. All would gladly aid me in my work. Down below, on the planet's surface, external monitoring devices showed me a detailed feed of the events transpiring. This ship got lucky. They landed on a planet with abundant reserves of iron, tin, silver and other useful metals. Of course, this had already lead what all such discoveries invariably lead to, which was all out war. Several settlements had sprung up across the main continent. They all seemed to have a standing army and they all seemed to hate one of the other settlements enough to send their armies to attack and possibly destroy them. This could work to my advantage, as great wars were known to produce great leaders, who, coincidently, just happened to have the backing of an allpowerful deity. Of course, this meant I'd have to fry a few hundred people to strike the fear of God into them after they start to question, but this just happened to be the way of things. Other scans of the planet revealed several useful landmarks. A mountain covered in plant life that exuded a flammable vapour. A sea with an extremely high salt content, thus buoyancy. Large, vast oceans, teaming with life. And enough water locked away in the crust to cause a Great Flood, if needs be. With the ship in a high orbit, I prepared to return to Stasis. Things just weren't right for me. They didn't feel right. I'll not work, unless there is but one thing that doesn't feel right. My teeth. As the stasis pod sealed me in, I felt nothing. Seconds later, it opened again. Down below, things were vastly different.

Ultimately, everything you do, say, think or create is achieving little more than passing time and staving off boredom, if only for a little while. It may also be having a similar effect for other people as well, but the effect is brief. The natural state of humans is boredom. We're a boring lot. So it is thankful that in the grand scheme of things, we'll have little impact on the universe at large, which is mostly going on without a care in the world for us and will leave not even a marker to inform any other life of our existance when we do vanish

"Welcome to the Red Cove Centre for Neurological Replenishment and Research. All of our operators are currently busy, but if you would like to take a seat in our waiting room, one of our attendants will be with you shortly" Cheery, friendly voice, one for each patient. The future of marketing, it would've been. Fortunately, marketing was outlawed under the "Public Nuisance Act" of 2054. A bill that passed with much backing from the religious right, oddly enough. Now it was a messaging service. An individual friendly voice, beamed straight into your brain to tell you in an unnatural and disconcerting way exactly what the sign on the desk is telling you. OUT TO LUNCH The waiting room was your standard medical institute fare. Chairs arranged in clusters around several coffee tables, magazines from the previous century with themes ranging from Interior Decorating to Cars and back to Interior decorating, an old fashioned television playing a medical service piece, which would be violating the public nuisance laws, had they not been clever enough to omit the price, an empty water cooler, a children’s playpen, complete with toys unsuitable for children under three, several plants and a filing cabinet that seemed to go on forever. Not surprising, since the post-World War 3 population boom bumped the global population well past the 10 Billion mark. If it wasn't for the various corporate entities boosting production from their Meat Vats, the population would've eventually levelled out at a manageable number, but there's always money or charitable tax deductions to be had. One of the attendants returned from their lunchbreak. Gender was difficult to determine, as Occupational Health and Safety regulations stipulated that all medical workers must wear concealing biohazard suits. One Mad and/or Evil Scientist releases one little supervirus in the interests of population control and people start panicking. The attendant hit a button on the console, activating The Scanner. Several sensors in various parts of the ceiling release intense bursts of something outside the colour spectrum, which somehow scans people's retinas, fingerprints, digestive tract and DNA sequence. In a place like this, that’s all they need to know. Out of the arms of each occupied seat in the room popped a number. A sign above the reception desk displayed the number currently being served. Fortunately, chair technology had solved the problems of chair-induced skeletal injury, muscular trauma, sterility and peripheral neuropathy. A prolonged waiting room experience was no longer a health hazard. Well, at least the chairs weren't. Every now and then, a patient would get up and proceed through the white door. When the white door was opened, one couldn't help but wonder about the thickness of the door, the soundproof padding or the impenetrable darkness beyond. If one frequents such places, one would know that they're merely there to scare off those totally unsuitable for the procedure. When working with the brain, the last thing a neuro-engineer needs is a panicky subject. Fear is the mindkiller, especially when someone's probing your neurons with a nanoscalpel. The clock was always wrong. Supposedly a preparatory experience, but one has to wonder, how a clock with variable seconds, including negative seconds, helps prepare the brain for complex neural re-engineering. Another question would be how someone could design a weight-driven mechanical clock with variable-length seconds. "Patient Two... Three... Eight... Seven... Your Appointment Is Now. Please Proceed Through The White Door" Every word of that message had a trailing fullstop. They could get a welcoming greeting right, but any other message, including emergency alerts (fire, flood, famine, Bigfoot), was pieced together using individually recorded words. With an eight track hum. The darkness only goes for a few metres. Long enough to prevent anyone in the waiting room from seeing the light at the end of the tunnel. On each side of the corridor, doors led into the various surgeries. Every once in a while, a scream would echo throughout the area, followed by cursing. The good thing about being a practising neural engineer is patients will not remember the procedure. Along with large chunks of their childhood, if any associations formed. But the screams were never from actual pain, unless a paincentre was struck. Which happened rarely. Only twice a day, at the most. The biggest problem was always the accidental release of the patients' Worst Fears. Everybody has one, somewhere. Even if they normally don't fear it, triggering a fear response is frighteningly simple when you're probing peoples' synapses with various energised implements. There is always a single open door at any one time. No exits could ever be found until the procedure had finished. The single open door always lead to an unoccupied surgical chair with a bio-suited doctor standing by. There never was any idle chit chat, no reassuring words, just a simple gesture of direction and a patient gaze through the concealing mask. These people are the kind of people who can least afford empathy. Anyone entering a mind with anything less than engineering precision was likely to break something. Surgical seat with built-in, self-deploying restraints. Head, arms, waist, legs. The slightest movement in this occupation could be costly, as litigation had only gotten worse over the centuries. Smooth metal pads to the temples allowed minor manipulation of the senses. The last thing anyone needs to see is their own brain, but consciousness is essential. With a tiny jolt of electrons, the senses go dark. All five of them. A terribly disconcerting feeling, but a necessary one. --- When it ends, the senses return. A patient never sees an exit, for reasons they don't let anyone know. Probably to stop people stealing those nanoscalpels. The bill for such a procedure was always terribly high, but they did their jobs well. With a few pokes, prods and zaps, the mind is fresh, ready to let those creative brainjuices flow once more.

Plastic basket dangling from my arm, I made my way to the checkout. One more periodical ritual in my life, the supermarket. From hunting to bartering to wandering lost in a maze of consumer goods, dodging browsers and deathtrap carts, picking up the essentials. Enough to make it to next payday. Mankind surely has evolved. Butter, bread, meat, meat, cheese, cheese, tea and, just for the hell of it, a punnet of blueberries. Man, I love those things. Sweet, squishyblue goodness, Not too much, as I've already got most of my meals sorted out. Just enough to make the occasional toasted sandwich and wash it down. Enough to get me by. Checkout lines are always a problem, but today I'm lucky. There are more than two girls on checkout duty. The lines are relatively short. So I make my selection. First one... hideous. Yes, I'm shallow, but I need this experience to be as enjoyable as possible. Second one... arguing with a customer. Maybe another time. That leaves me with small, giggling blonde girl. I take my place in the queue, letting my mind wander. Already I can taste the first sip of Earl Gray and the vegan-enraging taste of my doublemeat, doublecheese sandwich. Anticipation. The best way of making a queue trip go longer. Need a new train of thought. The line moves up one. Suddenly, I'm thinking I shouldn't stop at two meats. Why not three? I've got pig and cow, I should get another animal for my sandwich. Can I call myself a man, settling for merely two animals? Cheeses, too. I should get a third type of cheese. I quickly banish the thought, as I know my funds are limited. Again, the line moves up. I start scanning through the magazine stand. Your standard supermarket fare, celebrity scandals, alien abductions, an up-to-the-minute report of the plot of some mindless tv show. For the fourteenth time today, I begin to wonder about my fellow man and how he ever descended from the trees if this garbage sells. One more person leaves the queue. I'm next. Now that my view is unhindered, I scan the checkout chick. About a head shorter than me, slim build, blue eyes, could do with a few thousand dollars injected into her bust, but otherwise quite nice. She feels my gaze and starts giggling. I fight the infectious feeling coursing through my nerves. Finally, it's my turn I empty my basket on the conveyor belt as she begins the ritual of idle chit chat. I vaguely hear a greeting and the first beep of an item when my eyes are drawn into the impulse purchase rack. Another beep. I ask her how she is, my gaze scanning through the sugary treats on display. I hear another giggle, a beep and tune out as she begins to tell me about her pointless existence outside of the supermarket. One more item beeps across the scanner as my vision narrows on the chocolate section. Beep. I mutter a few non-committal grunts as she continues... something about a duck? Beep. My eyes lock onto a chocolate bar. Beep. The chocolate bar. Beep. I hear her read out a total as my hand shoots to the chocolate, liberating it from the display. My eyes lock onto hers with a grin. The bar slips from my grasp, descending to the conveyor belt. Her eyes widen and her mouth begins to open as the bar hits with a resounding thud. Noise. White noise. Klaxons wailing. Bullhorns firing. Sirens flashing in every corner of the store. Solid metal shutters slam over every conceivable exit, door, window and vent. The giggly blonde girl suddenly looks three times her size as she levels a combat shotgun at my head. Over the cacophony, I hear her screaming at me. "RETURN THE CHOCOLATE BAR NOW!!!" Seeing no alternative, I place the bar back into the display. The barriers are lifted. The sirens slip into hidden roof panels. The klaxons and bullhorns fade into silence. In the distance, I hear the triple beep of someone resetting a car alarm. All eyes in the store are on me as I begin to sheepishly apologise. The shotgun is gone and the checkout chick is now the giggling blonde girl again. I hand over my money and collect my goods. As I leave, the girl, smiling as if nothing had ever happened, says, "Thankyou for observing the 8 items or less rule. Have a nice day." Thank heavens I'd stuck with two meats/cheeses.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY!! I GOT YOU A BOX WITH NOTHING IN IT!!!

Where am I? Cold, wet and windy it is outside. Breeze through my open window fluttering my blinds against the sill, snapping me from an uneasy sleep. The only sleep I can manage, lately. Eyes open, I stare at the ceiling, trying to collect myself. I'm scattered, fragmented. Unwhole. Memories, thoughts, emotions, instincts, the unkempt playroom of my psyche is where I had awoken. It could use a clean-up. A woman's touch, I mused, somewhat ironically. Lightless, noiseless, motionless. Even the simple molecules of air seemed unwilling to move, lest they disturb the scene. My eyes scan about, darting from object to object, chair to screen, coin to thread. All too familiar. Yet I cannot remember them. Where did they come from? The hat full of gold was a relic from an occupation long past, yet I cannot remember which one. Sifting through the debris of memories is no help, either. Although the figure $132.45 comes to me right away. The golden needle in an otherwise gray haystack. Black sheets, black cover, white pillow. My choice? Or a choice forced upon me? Am I frugal or practical? Or do I just have odd colour coordination? The phone tells me practical, but I have no idea why. A computer, on. Messages from people I've never met, but know so much about. Or think I do at least. Who are these people? I cannot recall right now, try again later. Even they seem to help me not with my identity crisis. At least they help me down to a one in three chance, if it ever comes to a diceroll. An hour has passed. I am still no closer to solving the important issues that seem to plague me. Short, mid and long term memory are almost sorted, but seem bare. The broken events of the past few days are laying out in front of me. Piecing them together requires a little more than glue and gaffa tape. How did I ever come to the conclusion that those two items were the fix-all and end-all of everything? There are longterm memories of me offering that advice to people, but no original inception or interception of such a useful bit of wisdom. No solid references to work with. No constant patterns of sleep to work the images around, only vague hints of a regular schedule. Events, people, ideas, a cerebral salad minus dressing. No help to me. Longterm is only mildly better. A schedule is there to work with, but it consists of blank chunks of time, with the occasional moment frozen in place. A few memorable events, surrounded by routine. I could understand why I wouldn't commit anymore than that to memory, but surely this wasn't the first time I had been through this experience. Wouldn't I leave a guide for next time? More time ticks away. Thoughts and ideas are turning out to be the easiest. A thought occurred to me, an appropriate analogy, just moments before I found a previous though of the same thing. Sifting through chunks of gold to find grains of dirt. How this was appropriate, I couldn't figure, but I would come to that. Events seemed mostly connected to ideas, the same way a pricetag is attached to an item. Desire for new vehicle, more robust and economical than current? Attached to event brakes failing for third time in six months. Unpublished theory of simple relativity? Attached to event saturday night party. A short story about me collecting my thoughts? Waking up, due to galeforce winds. For the life of me, I can't figure out which saturday night party that was. People. They're there. But so few, so infrequent. A few detailed and bright, many faded and dull. Do people disinterest me that much that I only remember them when I need to? Even most of the clear memories were tagged to events. Work, Jane, Justin, Joanne, Jerry. Which also seems to be tagged "Mild humour". Family life. A large event. With minor people tags attached. Even the saturday night party. Hundreds of tags, mostly dull, a few bright. At present, it occurs to me that this isn't necessarily one saturday night party, but all that I've ever been to, mulled together. It seems to also include friday night parties, sunday lunches, barbecues, gatherings, drinks nights and other miscellaneous social events. My final discovery. Event? Idea? Person. Single image of a person. Finely detailed. Could have been sculpted by a master, it is so detailed. Events aren't tags, they're novels. All closely tied to this person. Ideas as bookmarks. Emotion. Instinct. --- As I hang up the phone and begin to type, replaying the conversation over and over again, before it has a chance to fade or scatter, I realise finally why there was nothing to index. Some memories need to be buried. Sometimes they're the best ones.

"Ok, target locked. Initiating beam in 5...4...3... no wait, he's moving. Sorry guys" A collective cry went up among the crew of the black, nondescript van. Another setback on an already shattered schedule. Three in the morning when their next appointment was for 7 out in the country. The idea of another day without sleep haunted the four men as they recalibrated their equipment and retargeted the subject. The subject himself was, like many young students, nocturnal. Stayed awake to ungodly hours, exposing his mind to the rot that was The Internet. The scourge of intelligence everywhere, one of the greatest threats to the progress of mankind since the advent of television. If previous patterns were anything to go by, he would be doing this for another hour, so there would be plenty of other targeting opportunities. Sometimes one of the crew, conveniently garbed to match the black, nondescript van they operated, would toss about the idea of staging a home invasion to get their job done faster. They all agreed the plan did indeed have merits, but they all knew that if they started taking shortcuts, then their little operation would be revealed to the world. and their lives would be forfeit. "Righto, he's taken his drink, he's back on the forum, beam prepped in 10 seconds..." Little wasn't the right word for it. True, their particular operation only covered a small area, consisting of a small area around a university that consisted of high density student accommodation. The brightest minds, the future leaders of mankind, crammed into filing cabinet-style apartment blocks, conveniently close to the university grounds. With ample undercover parking, because no student should have to walk any distance greater than the distance between couch/comfy chair and kitchen/toilet. So geographically speaking, their operation was fairly small. Some other operations, on the other hand, had to cover vast rural areas. The one man operations. Where secrecy was easier to maintain and targeting was almost effortless. They didn't even have vans out there, merely weathered cars that could cover the distances without alerting the locals to the presence of strangers. Ofcourse, these teams and individuals were part of something larger. "No, wait, he recoiled in horror. I think he was goatse'd... again" A Global Concern, it was referred to as by the people in the know. Which was a lot of people. At last count, almost two and a half million people worked for the Global Concern. Most doing the grunt work. Beam operation. Some in higher administration. Above that, the structure was unknown. Even to those who make up that structure. A complex organisation that would never have been brought into existence, had television failed to catch on among consumers. One that would've been much smaller, had the Internet remained true to its military origins. "Ok, here we go, targeting in 5..." It has been said by many a parent that television rots your brains. Usually while said parents were watching the television. Which could explain why they use the excuse as a warning to their children, without realising the truth in their words. The Rot was picked up early in the life of television. Memories started to fade, the mind dulled, creativity began to dim. It was slow and gradual. But it was a concern. A Global Concern. And thusly, the Global Concern was formed to fight this mindrot. Television was already too pervasive to simply wipe out, so this option was discarded before being suggested. In the end, it was discovered that there was a simple way the Rot could be reversed. And it had major benefits for dental health, to boot. A method that could be easily administered to people in urban areas and could be unwittingly administered by the various dental associations of the world to the rest of the people. "4..." But the Internet was a whole different story. It was TV Rot, magnified and condensed into a form of utter stupidity that could take down even the greatest minds in a matter of days. It wasn't so much a problem in the early days, but when commercialisation of the Internet took root, Internet Rot became a serious dilemma. Thusly, the Beam was invented. "3..." A finely tuned beam of radiation that struck dormant centres of the human brain, causing them to spring into life and perform what was discovered to be their only purpose of regenerating the parts of the brain damaged by the Rot. With the Television Solution, they revived to a point, enough to stave off the worst effects of TV Rot. Internet Rot required a much greater energy to defeat. And more frequently, too. It was then decided that for the benefit of mankind, the Global Concern would beam every single individual human, once a month. Unless they disqualified themselves by displaying irrational stupidity without evidence of internet exposure. Which did cut down the workload significantly. But there were some left, a significant number, who would prove invaluable to humanity in the future, who were targeted by the Global Concern for a program of beaming. "2..." Which is why the Operations were set up. Teams of up to four, one black, nondescript van, hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of equipment and The Beam. They're given a list of names and addresses, complete with descriptions and photographs. They're given a schedule of time windows. It became their job to fight Internet Rot, one mind at a time. Everywhere on earth. "1...." But they couldn't let anybody know about it. No one knew why and everyone knew better than to ask. The money was good, the hours sucked, but they did allow for some flexibility, so it wasn't all bad. No one knew where the money cam from, either. Everyone knew their Operation mates and their direct superiors. Sometimes they knew the Operations that bordered on their areas. A useful thing in the event of a large event that requires immediate blogging/foruming. Those superiors knew someone above them who informed them of any strategic changes. Beyond that, they knew no one except the Operations below them. Of the people above the administrators? No one knows. "Fir.... CRAP! This worthless little internet DWEEB ACTUALLY ROLLED AROUND ON THE FLOOR, LAUGHING HIS ARSE OFF. WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH THESE PEOPLE? Seriously, not even BRAINROT makes people THAT GODDAMN STUPID" "That settles it, we brand him irrevocably stupid and cross him off the list. All in favour?" A chorus of "Aye!" filled the van before the four men discharged the equipment and headed off to their next target. Sure, it was a strange job with bad hours. Sure, it did have it's drawbacks, like the need for total secrecy to the point of individual coverstories, provided by the Administrators. Sure, sometimes the Operators themselves felt like they were getting lethal doses of brain rot from the very people they were protecting. But the pay was good and the job was steady, which was enough for anybody in these ever-trying times.

I'm nervous. I'm always nervous at interviews. In the cold reception area, the hard leather couch offer me no comfort as I shift and squirm, trying to relax. A small pile of sweat drenched towelletts is building up in the cup next to me. The reading material is of no help, either. Womens magazines with all the crosswords filled in and fishing magazines. I try to banish thoughts of who would read about fishing rather than go fishing and continue to go over my prepared responses to their most likely questions. But it tugs at my brain. I'm itchy. The suit, it itches. For a position like this one, the clothes make the man. A tailored suit would easily land me the position, so went my reasoning. Due to budget restraints, I had to settle for second best. Visually, it worked, but it didn't fit quite right and it itched in all the places one futilely tries to ignore in public. The receptionists have paid me no attention since asking me kindly to wait. They stared vacantly into space, answering call after call, transferring each away to the nether. Occasionally they prattled to eachother, when the phones went silent. I tried listening in on one of these conversations, but they made the womens magazines seem infinitely more appealing. I'm sweating. I always sweat when I'm nervous. Deodourant kept the smell at bay, but that doesn't stop me feeling uncomfortably moist. The air conditioning was up high, fortunately, giving me an excuse not to remove my jacket. Like anyone would've cared anyway. But still my pores drip fluid. Another towellete soaks my forehead dry as I continue to wait, still puzzled over who bought the fishing magazine. "Mr Black? Mr Schwartz will see you now." The receptionist had already gone to her next call before I could acknowledge her. I stood, straightened my suit and strode with false confidence into the office of Mr Schwartz. Briefcase in one hand, the other uncomfortably empty. I used it to straighten my tie, just to give it something to do. My palm was damp, too. Nothing I could do now. All around me, desk drones. People who sat at a screen all day and did... who knows what? It seemed that none of them actually did anything other than congregate around the desk of another, the coffee machine or the water cooler, talking. All I wanted to do was dry my hand on my pants like any other human, but couldn't, for the risk of being seen and given an odd look. Privacy at last. Outside the office of Mr Schwartz, away from prying eyes, I took the opportunity to wipe my hand dry on the seat of my pants. I imagined that countless other people in my position before me had done the same thing. And I imagined that countless other people had done so, knowing full well that the firm handshake could well be the make or break of the interview. I took a deep breath and knocked five times in quick succession. "Enter!" The door opened for me by some unseen force, revealing the office of Mr Schwartz. Of course, he had two cohorts with him. One on one interviews rarely were, these days. I walked in, shook the hands of the three men and accepted the invitation to have a seat and to a glass of water. My briefcase was placed beside my chair. "Firstly, welcome to Omnicorp" The pleasantries. As he went through the motions, I learned that the two lackeys were known as Smithson and Jackson. I held a straight face, barely. I introduced myself, noting a printout of my CV in front of each of the three men. A few brief questions followed, complete with a light hearted attempt at breaking the intense atmosphere of this room. It was hot. Damnably so. The air was thicker in here, the room smaller. The three men didn't seem to notice "Let us start with your education." He was genuinely impressed with my credentials. Graduated third in my class, with honours, almost groundbreaking bio thesis that opened the doors to world wide corporate applications. References from my professors had already confirmed everything I said, every detail. Occasionally, Mr Schwartz would feed me the end of one of my points, confirming that he already knew everything. I had a feeling he already knew whether or not I was successful. "Your previous occupation?" Not really a question, but delivered with the characteristic raise of tone at the end to indicate thusly. I'd done this job before, I'd excelled in this role. I knew what I had to do and I enjoyed every minute of it. The pay for one of my qualifications was almost dishonestly large, but people with my skills demanded it. We knew how to get what we wanted. It was, after all, our job. "Why did you leave?" The question I saw coming a mile off. But every time I'm asked, every time, my prepared statement deserts my brain faster than the french surrender in a war. I was on my own, once more. The short version always sufficed, though. It technically boiled down to a case of loyalty and trust. Due to a lack of loyalty, a bond of trust was broken. I had to escape that situation. "I'm very impressed" He's dropping hints now. He's professionally wasting time. There's somewhere he doesn't want to be and he's padding out my interview to ensure he doesn't make it. Every time I check the clock, I see it edging closer and closer to five o'clock. Honestly, I'd probably do the same in that position. But I can't let my knowledge turn into overconfidence. "Teamwork" I hate teamwork. I really hate teamwork. Teamwork merely means that another soul is there to get the credit, to shirk the responsibility and to stab you in the back when you need it most. I'd never been on the recieving end, but only because I was quicker with the knife. Professionally speaking, of course. Fortunately, my prepared response came to my rescue. "How flexible are your hours?" He's playing for time, now. I know what I'm required to do, I agreed to them when I sent in my CV. But I knew he would ask, so I humoured him. Eight hour days, no weekends, rostered day off each month, overtime pay, we went through them all, knowing full well that I would see none of my demands. I really didn't mind, though. "Do you have any questions?" I always fire off a few corporate questions here. It's always good to know everything you can about a company that hires you. Even better if it's a company that rejects you. But only for those with a sharp malevolent streak. I liked to think I had one of those, but people still said I'm too nice a guy. "Thankyou very much for your time" Finally. I shook the three hands again, noting the lack of speech from the two henchmen. They were built like henchmen, too. Strong frame to match their grip. I'd have to get some ice for that hand. "I'll be in touch" As I left the office, I felt fairly confident about things. There's always an element of uncertainty, even if you're sure of success. You just never let it show until after the interview is over. Three to five working days later, I received a call. It was official, I was once more employed. A private plane would be awaiting me. I'd already taken the liberty of indicating to my close friends and family I would once more be uncontactable for months at a time. I packed my things and caught a taxi to the airstrip. It felt good to be employed again. Although it did mean my life was now in jeopardy. Being the new chief torturer for an evil supervillian was not without it's risks, but the rewards were plenty for anyone who knew how to keep his hands clean. Intimate knowledge of the applications of a nutcracker to various bodily extremities also helped. Edit: Speilchecker

Ominous black clouds loomed overhead as I trudged through the burnt wastes. The cloth wrapped around my feet barely keeping out the sand; the leather encasing me fighting off the stinging cold of the desert winds. The storm had been gaining strength and power for the past hour or so. It was going to be a big one. Fortune was smiling, though, as the storm was travelling against me, away from the settlement that was my goal. But it was hindering my progress. Costing me valuable time, something a desert wanderer values as highly as fresh water. The settlement could've easily survived the storm, being located deep beneath the shifting dunes, down where the sand compacts into rock. Hidden away from the shattered world, safe from bad weather and bandits, the inhabitants of this small community spent their lives working on their own survival. Survival of the family as a whole, even if it cost them one of its members. That member was me. I'd drawn the short straw. The straw many others wanted. Few were ever permitted to leave, as the resources to sustain one man for a day in the wastes could keep one alive for a week beneath the sands. But there were things we needed, from time to time. Things we couldn't produce ourselves, despite the technology we possessed. The technology that sustained us, but at a cost. Right now, that cost was me. My boots had been discarded months ago. Hard leather general purpose really didn't suit desert travel. Most days, my leather clothes, designed to protect me from dust storms, were kept in my pack. In the hot desert sun, the last thing you want on is dark leather. But when choosing between slow dehydration and having the flesh ripped off your bones by fierce sandstorms, the decision was easier to make. When the clouds formed overhead, dropping the temperature, I chose to don the armour, fearing the dark portent. Another reason I was chosen was my physical condition. I was the strongest in the settlement. Which would be needed, as my objective was heavy. The machines that supported us down there all ran off a fission reactor. They burnt uranium fuel rods to keep us alive. And we were running slim. All I had to do was find a supplier of uranium out there, the bring some back. I'd left, all those months ago, well equiped for the journey. Automatic rifle, ammunition, air filter, electronic map with attached motion sensor and several months worth of dried rations and water. Now I had cloth on my feet and over my mouth, barely enough food and water, blistered feet, a pistol and enough uranium to keep the place going 'til a supply line could be properly established. Everything else was discarded as it broke, none of it being designed for the wear it went through. Over the months, I'd encountered so few people. We'd reasoned that there would be other survivors and small uranium reactors were common enough that there'd be someone who would've stumbled across one of the old mines and started trading the stuff again, but there was no one. I'd passed through so many ancient towns, some still in fairly good condition, some total wrecks, all ghost towns. Even at fortified military bases, there was no one. The only people I did encounter were a small family of nomads. They took my broken equipment and my boots, told me the best way to dress for the desert and gave me water. Then they left and I never saw them or anyone else again. Growing up underground, I'd always assumed that's how everyone had always lived. Underground, unable to visit the surface. No one had told us of the old age, before the apocalypse. No one ever spoke of that, either. When we were old enough to know, the elders allowed us access to the history files. We learned about how from humble beginnings, mankind rose from nothing and almost touched the stars. But that was all we ever learned. The computers had nothing on the events which lead us to dwell beneath the earth and the elders were tight lipped about it. We'd learned not to ask, as questions brought many of them to tears. Up here, all I'd been able to figure was there had been some kind of war. There had been signs of war everywhere. Craters, skeletons, the occasional rusted vehicle. But I'd found nothing more. Finding the mine and refinery in perfect condition had frightened me a little. The mines were deep shafts into the earth, the refinery had been built into a cavern near the entrance. After searching the place long and hard, I found nothing. Not a trace of the old workers. The computers had been wiped of all but basic operating protocols and mining/refining instructions for uranium ore. After mining and refining several kilograms of the stuff by hand, I created a map to the place and left, but not before leaving a message for anyone else who may have passed by. Just a simple hello. I didn't want to provoke anyone or tell them that settlers would soon be coming to plunder the place on a regular basis. Encaced in lead cylinders, I packed my weighty cargo and returned. Still, the world made no sense to me. There had been fighting, I could tell. But there were too few corpses around to indicate some kind of wholesale slaughter. Where had everyone gone? And how had we known to be spared? The storm had passed me by. Eyes shielded from sand by goggles scanned the area. Around here somewhere... ahh, there it was. Poking out of the sand at the bottom of one of the dunes was an ancient digging machine. The one that got me up here. I brushed off the sand, opened the machine up and hopped inside. None of the internal computers worked, only the main computer attached to the engine was functioning and it was programmed to take me up and return me when I returned. As I closed the hatch, I felt the machine sink into the sand. My journey was over.... almost. A delegation of elders greeted me as I arrived, the digging machine surfacing in an underground sanddock. I'd taken longer than expected, but not anticipated, so was just in time. The fuel rods were taken from me and I was lead away for debriefing. At the debriefing, there was one elder. He said nothing to me, just handing me a silver disc. I recognised it as an ancient CD. One thing was written on it. Revelations. He left the room without speaking a word, leaving me more confused than before. I had to find something to read this disc.

22 Only significant age event for me was 20th b'day Went from a hormone driven teen to a dirty old man in the blink of an eye Haven't looked back

Down here, we've got a program called Rage. It's on the government run station on Friday and Saturday night, after 1AM. Music videos, constantly. None of this MTV top 40 rubbish you get everywhere else. I'm talking absolute gold. On Friday nights, it's a lineup selected by one of the presenters of the government run youth radio station. Saturday night, the lineup is chosen by a band of relative fame, who then give commentary. Last night was Jet. Australian band, have one hit song, plus album filler. I haven't heard anything else by them, didn't think much of 'em. Now I know they have fantastic taste in music. Everything from ACDC to Bowie, the Beatles to Travis. Then a solid hour of Ramones videoclips starts playing. One Hour. All Ramones, all the time. Every time I feal the world's music industry is nothing more than the silverfoiled wrapped faeces of some corporate executive, all I have to do is watch Rage and my mind will be put at ease

You bastards have pinky bars. I hate you

I've recently given up chocolate in protest of what has happened with my favourite brands. Ok, so here's the scene down under. You've got cadburies who make the majority of chocolate down here. So popular are they that thanks to their slogan, "A glass and a half", which refers to how much milk goes into one bar of their milk chocolate, their name has been adopted by pissheads and drunkards everywhere to refer to people who can't handle their alcohol. Cadbury's, actually. But hey, what can you do. Anyway, they've got their milk chocolate, their white chocolate, their dark chocolate, their nutty chocolate, their nuttier chocolate, their creme filled chocolate, their fruit and nut chocolate, the list goes on. Anyway, many years ago, they released Top Deck. Simple concept, normal chocolate base with white chocolate on top. Greatest chocolate on the face of the planet. Fast forward to a decade and a half later, they release this new type of white chocolate, they call "Dream". It's rubbish. Tastes like powdered glass. Anyway, Cadbury's, in a fit of marketing genius must've seen that their Dream sales were bottoming out and their Topdeck sales were still at all time highs, so decided to replace the standard white chocolate on Top deck with their Dream chocolate, thus ruining forever the name Top Deck. Now they've brought out Triple Deck, which I puke at the thought of. Who's ever heard of pink chocolate, anyway?

Become a careers consultant. Get people to psy you to tell em what to do

That's rugrats

Well, good onya. You stuck to your principles to the end. Hats off to you as you depart these hallowed halls

Greatest movie of all time. A korean flick called True Man. God knows what it is in korean. If anyone has seen it and/or knows where I can get a copy, I will pay for it in human souls If anyone else gets a chance to see this little gem, I promise you, you won't walk away disappointed. Most recent film I've seen was I, Robot, simply because I love watching directors piss all over the works of great writers. Although Peter Jackson deserves a kick in the teeth. He was a wonderful b-grade horror director, once upon a time. Good movies I've seen recently... hmmm.... only one that comes to mind was eternal sunset of the something or other. Jim Carey in a movie that didn't make me beat my skull in

Don your invincible armour of ignorance and rush headlong, blindfolded into the great unknown, Grasshopper. For it is the human way. People rush into things without properly thinking them through all the time, man. As long as you know you won't be strapped for cash every day but payday, you can't be making the wrong decision. Hell, even then, why sit around, contemplating what ifs? They waste too much goddamn time

Have you ever had those moments where you know something, anything, in it's entirety, for a brief moment, then it's gone. You don't know where, you can no longer recall it, you just know for a brief second, you had it, all of it and nothing but it, whatever it was. And you know it would've been useful to remember or been a brilliant point in a conversation/arguement/debate or it would've cured world hunger or something along those lines. So you do whatever you can to remember it. The first thing is usually to turn to the person talking to you and say "What did you just say?", to which they'll repeat whatever they're talking about, to which you say, "No, before that", to which they reply with whatever they said BEFORE the bit where you had the inspiration and they'll swear blind they said nothing between the two, leaving you with nothing to go on. And you can't get to sleep until you've either remembered it or forgotten it completely. Both damn near impossible to do under any circumstance

I wouldn't be reading this thread. I'd probably also have one eye swollen shut

In chess, you can still have your finger on it

If I could go back and change something, I'd go back and punch myself just as I clicked on "Add Reply" for this post in this thread.

My shitty job... BURN! Anyone who capitalises the I in internet... BURN! Whoever made the word spellchecker declare an uncapitalised M in microsoft a spelling mistake... BURN! Sitcom actors... BURN! Anyone who thinks that I care that they care... BURN! Lack of naked chicks in my bed right now... BURN! Any soapie star turned singer... BURN! Any singer turned actor... BURN! Any pro-wrestler turned actor, with the possible exception of The Rock... BURN! Oh, what the hell... The Rock... BURN! Jhonen Vasquez... unless he makes more Zim... BURN! People who collect vast archives of photo albums that go beyond baby, wedding and family reunion photos... BURN! White rappers... BURN! Every other rapper... BURN! Atheists... BURN! Agnostics... BURN! Polyethiests... BURN! Monethiests... BURN! Anyone who even thinks about picking me up on my speling... BURN! Prophets of doom... BURN! Anyone who honestly puts "Don't care, too busy living to worry about the afterlife" in the box marked religion... salvation Anyone who puts the above down less than 100% word for word... BURN!

Libel lawyers... BURN! Union plumbers... BURN! Corporate dentists... BURN! Nefarius space-faring beings bent on conquoring my favouriate blue-green ball of rock... BURN! Media crosspromoters... BURN! Marketing gurus... BURN! Self help book authors... BURN! Spammers... BURN! Doorknockers... BURN! Rude people on public transport... BURN! Third world dictators... BURN! Ravers... BURN! Skaties... BURN! Mothers who don't beat their hellion offspring in public... BURN! People who drive less than the speedlimit... BURN! People who don't let speeding me pass them on two or more lane roads... BURN! Old people who use their age as an excuse to get away with inconveniencing me... BURN! Any liquor merchant who doesn't stock cachasa... BURN! People who try to use their lack of english skills to fein ignorance... BURN! People who argue semantics... BURN! People who argue against me in anything... BURN! Anyone who squeezes food in an effort to convince me of it's nutritional value... BURN! Anyone who fills a cup using the above method... BURN! People who drink pepsi when coke is freely available... BURN! People who piss on the toilet seat... BURN! Anyone who expects a discount without even giving me the satisfaction of a good show of haggling... BURN! Wyvern... BURN! Anyone who purposely perpetuates a negative racial sterotype, then has a whinge about racism... BURN! Racists. Serious ones, not your average joe blow who's just using race because he can't think of anything else using half a second of heated brain time... BURN! Joe Blow... BURN! Publicans who don't sell Guiness... BURN! People who take cheap over bloody tasty... BURN! Anyone who has a sticker of their car's brand on their windscreen... BURN! The thief who took the last slice of pizza without consulting me first... BURN! Scooters... BURN! Anyone who tells you life was better back in their day... BURN! Economists... BURN! Commercial airline "Captains"... BURN! To be continued... BURN!