Aardvark

Marduk, son of Ea, slayer of Tiamat Marduk rules He totally does

For a while there, I was your standard Roman Catholic. I was dragged to church every sunday, went to a catholic school, went through the sacraments, etc, etc. Then for no reason, the dragging ceased. And secular schools, even selective ones, were far cheaper than catholic schools. So the whole religion thing just ended there. Then I had a religious experience. I was in a poker game with God, Satan and some dude dressed up as Santa Claus. God and Satan were arguing because Satan reckoned God was palming aces, but all I could think was, "Man, that's a stupid looking beard" So now my thoughts on the matter are yeah, there's a God, there's a Satan, but I believe in them the same way I believe that I'm really breathing oxygen. They're there, that's enough for me. Which is why I find doorknocking bible thumpers amusing. To me it's like someone going door to door selling cans of air. Church is merely a sunday social gathering/mass gossip session, funerals are for the living, weddings are an excuse to cash in on a legal process, charity work... ok, that's probably doing something good for the world, but the work done by the various institutions who demand a tithe instead of ask for a donation, or the ones who have credit card machines to take donations, I see them as godless corporate swine who will burn in hell along with all other capitalists, celebrities, corporate puppets and anyone who writes, produces, directs, stars in or watches reality TV. And advertisers. And politicians, the ones who I don't vote for. Skinhead, fascist neo-nazi idiots. The nazis lost, you idiots, you deserve to burn. Whoever's responsible for this latest rash of speed cameras to pop up around my home city. It's the most blatant revenue raising tactic I've ever seen. And hasn't done a thing for the accident rate, even in the "Black Spots" they've put the bastards. Here's an idea, you walking corpses, why not put more police on the roads? Only dickheads speed around them and anyone who's stupid enough to speed in front of a marked copper deserves damnation. Satanists, too. You wanna burn, fine. Yeah, he's an alternative to God, but he lost, too. And didn't even get to take on the big man. Got kicked in the arse by a lackey. What a tool. Fine, you want him, you got him. And his pitchfork waving goonsquad. And lakes of fire. Biblethumping doorknockers. Door-to-door God salesmen. Anyone who combines religion and capitalism in any way, shape or form. You're all going to burn. Hell, I'll even stop by with a canister of napalm, just because I'll probably burn, too. Scientists who spent their time working out the correct Ph balance for healthy skin. BURN! Cosmetics sales people. BURN! Hell, the whole fashion industry. BURN! Barbers, hairdressers, hair stylists, anyone who cuts hair and charges for it. BURN!... except the dude next to where I work. Who hasn't screwed up my boringarse haircut ever, unlike the other twits I've had the misfortune to try. You get salvation. Along with the hot chicks in tight black uniforms you've got working for you. People who listen to rap, hip-hop, techno, rnb, pop, etc at full volume through some kind of subwoofer that takes up the back of their car while driving anywhere. Oh, there's a special place reserved in hell for you. It involves bolted down plastic chairs, straight out of your worst primary school memory, with spikes all over it, in a hall with perfect acoustics, where the great maestros of the ages play the finest music for eternity. The ones who were damned, anyway. And, yeah, you'll be on fire the whole time. The entire Ford corporation. BURN! Insurance companies of any kind. BURN! French, or any other nationality, chefs who are extra snooty. BURN!! Telemarketers, especially for charity. BURN! Televangelists... well, you're all burning anyway, but you deserve it moreso. George Lucas... you get murgatroid. Because I know you're going to screw up the third one. So that makes three alright, three that suck. The three people who own most world media. BURN BURN BURN!!@! The paparazzi. God, you're burning so bad I can taste it. Anyone affiliated with women's magazines. You're all damned, they're calibrating their thumbscrews in anticipation, you whores. People associated with men's magazines... well.. umm... ok, you're fine. At least people get what they paid for. Anyone who's ever goatse'd anyone. You're burning. Same goes for tubgirl and lemon party, you sick bastards. Eternal exposure is your only reward, you losers. Script kiddies. There's no redemption for you, you little turds. Counterstrike players. The ones who take it too damn seriously. For you there's an eternal server, where everyone but you is a cheater and you never get any money. Anti-globalisation nerds, anti-cloning idiots, anti-rock tools, anti-violence morons, anti-sex fiends and anyone who thinks censorship is really necessary. Oh, there's a spikey pit of burning, itchy, icky hell waiting for you annoying bastards. People who say Clerks was better than Mallrats, then justify their choice with "Oh, you hated clerks because it was in black and white." You losers. You deserve to have your eyeballs pecked out and rectally inserted before you burn for that one. While we're on stupid comparisons, people who argue Startrek Vs Starwars. You get reincarnation. As the same stupid nerds you were before. Fanfic writers. Yeah, it's a can of worms on a writer board, but I'm of the opinion that using someone else's characters/setting without their express permission deserves death and damnation. Moreso if you include yourself in the story, have the characters in erotic situations, turn them into furries or all of the above. Hell, anyone who writes, reads or fantasises about furries, you're all going to burn. You're destined for a pit full of blowtorches. Videos stores who don't have Evil Dead in stock. BURN! Music stores who don't stock This Is Serious, Mum. Australian ones. It's understandable for anyone else on earth, seeing as they're really only relevant to anyone who lives here. BURN!!@# Commercial radio. All of them. BURN, you bastards, BURN. Well, not FBI. That's sorta commercial, even though they keep telling us it's a sponsorship deal. They play good music, so they get salvation. People who drive Lancers, Civics, Mirages, Excels, Pulsars or anything else with excessive rice. You're all burning. Anyone over the age of 10 who owns a razor scooter. BURN! Anyone who submits their own quotes to bash.org. BURN! Animal activists. BURN! Militant vegetarians who complain about my 90% meat diet. BURN! People who say anything is "Against God" BURN! People who say I'm going to hell. BURN! Anyone else who states the bleeding obvious. BURN! Anyone who is going to leave a pile of debts to their offspring when they die, medical and unpaid mortgage excluded. Unless you only pay interest. BURN BURN BURN, you yuppie wankers. Feminists. BURN! Wifebeaters. BURN! Psycho ex-girlfriends EVERYWHERE. BURN! Stalking ex-boyfriends EVERYWHERE. BURN! Paedophiles. Oh, there's a circle of hell reserved for you, you sick bastards. Especially the ones supposedly in God's service. Along with rapists and molestors, you pathetic dickless little bastards. You're all going to burn and burn well you shall. People who insist I fix my terrible diet. Well... no, ok I take that one back. They're right. I think that's it. That's gotta be a sizable chunk of the world's population burning right there.

The door to the bathhouse hung loosely on it's hinges. The lock and a chunk of wood from the door were currently in the capable hands of Snr Sgt Cowell, who was studying it intently. "I'm thinking this is the point of entry." he said to his offsider, Detective Black "What makes you think that?" Black, annoyed at actually having to do real police work, replied. "Door kicked in, lock found twenty meters away, inside. I'm thinking the door was struck, quite possibly with considerable force, from the outside. You there!" Cowell shouted at a rather pale young constable. "Front and center, Sonny. Sharpen up, suck in that gut. And get a little sunlight, boy. You're white as a ghost's bedsheets." The constable, one Constable Goldsmith, was still queasy from the sight that he and his partner had been greeted with upon responding to the emergency call. His partner had been carted off by medics, the sight of so much blood, guts and severed limbs being too much for him. Suddenly hearing this voice of authority snapped some life back into him. "Sir!" He answered "Calm down, Sonny, don't get excited, loosen up a little, willyah. This isn't the army, Kiddo. Christ, how old are you? Don't answer, I don't really think I want to know." Cowell's mouth went a mile a minute on most days. This was disconcerting for anyone who didn't know him well enough to interrupt. "Sir, I..." Goldsmith attempted "Well now, I see here we have a murder scene... multiple murder..." Cowell began "Closer to Genocide, I reckon." Black chimed in "Yes, quite possibly... dead bodies... lots of them... all of one race. Yes, dear Sir, you appear to be on the money with that one. Right, younggun, get out a pad and paper. Take notes." Cowell turned to the rookie "But sir..." Goldsmith tried again. "Too slow, soldier, here take mine. Always have a pen and pad on hand. Good lesson, that one. Makes you look like you care if people think you're taking notes. Makes you look important. Anyway, take notes. Suspect could quite possibly be an nazi. Also take a note, get the sketch artist to whip up a mock up of Old Adolf. We may need it." Cowell circled the front room of the bath house while he talked, avoiding the medics carrying out bodybags. "Do we have a count, Black?" Black looked over the notes he'd been handed upon arrival. "Not too sure on that one, they're still trying to sort out some of the bodies. At least thirty." "Thirty dead japs in a bath house. Sounds like it was racially motivated. Sonny, take a note. This new hitler may very well be from a nation with anti-japanese sentiments. I'll need three mockups, a chinese hitler, russian hitler and an american hitler." Never one to respect people's feelings, Cowell continued prattling away as he studied a series of bullet holes in the wall. "Our man used a gun, Black old son?" "So far all signs point to a knife of sorts. Quite possibly a sword." Black stepped over a severed hand and into the next room. Cowell followed and soon after came Goldsmith, but not with an encouraging, "Move it, soldier!" from Cowell. "A bath. In a bath house. Who would've guessed." Cowell studied the bodies still floating in the red bathwater. "What about the girls, have we interviewed them?" Black, fighting the urge to question Cowell's knowledge of the staff, replied, "They're fairly shaken. Being exposed to genocide and all." "Hang on, they're all japanese, too. Well, some are chinese. Vietnamese.... indian... pakistani... hell, I'm sure one's name was Pocahontas or something. The point is, they all looked the part. Why didn't our hitler touch any of them?" "Maybe Hitler's the honourable type. Gladly slaughter every single man of a race, but won't touch the women or children?" "Hmm, right you could be. Sonny, less retching, more writing. You'll need these notes to write up my report when we all get back." "But I don..." Goldsmith tried in vain "Sure, sure, you should listen closely before volunteering next time." "When did..." "Never volunteer, that's my motto. But thanks for the offer, Sonny. It'll take a load off my mind. And remember, they have to be in triplicate. I give you permission to forge my signature, too." Goldsmith gave up. He shook his head, sighed and started jotting down anything Cowell said that sounded relevant. A commotion from another room made Cowell pause mid-spiel. "Be a good lad and go see what all that kerfuffle is about, will you?" Cowell carefully prodded a headless corpse with the toe of his shoe, just in case. Black pulled out a camera and started snapping photos. If there was a need for hands to get dirty, Black always had a way for his to be overlooked. Goldsmith stuck his head back in, excited. "We've found a live one!" "Good show, old bean!" Cowell grinned back, "Now, what's he got to say about this?" "Umm... no one speaks..." Goldsmith began. "Wait wait, let me guess... you responded to a call from a japanese bath house, right?" "Yes." "In Little Tokyo, right?" "Umm... yeah..." "And you didn't think to request someone who could speak the local language?" "It didn't occ..." Goldsmith felt a knot of fear and guilt in his stomach. "Son, write this down. Note to self: Put Constable Goldsmith on report. Now, have we found a possible murder weapon yet?" "I'll know soon enough," Black said, seeing an opportunity to duck out. Goldsmith, still knotted, sealed his fate in ink, resisting the urge to hope Cowell just plain forgot. "Good. Right. So we have thirty dead japanese men. All in business attire. Hmm... we could be looking for an activist here. One of those uni students who protest everything business all the time. Maybe one went postal." "With a sword, sir?" Goldsmith said. "Well, why not? I mean, even my youngest has his own sword." "All these men had guns." "Hmm... I don't believe a collage git would have the dexterity to dodge a bullet. Maybe you're right. So what have we got so far?" "Hitler, possibly american hitler, who can dodge bullets..." Goldsmith read aloud. "Ninja. He's probably a ninja. Ninjas do that, you know. Dodge bullets. They're good at the old bullet dodging, your typical ninja." Cowell said, in the classic know-it-all tone everyone seems to perfect by age 3. Goldsmith jotted it down. Black returned. "We've found it. This way, gentlemen." Cowell and Goldsmith followed him through a back corridor, stopping outside a pair of double doors just past a sign that probably read, "Staff only. Violators will be violated.", which no one could read, as it was in japanese. The bodies of the fallen had already been carted off, but at least seven chalk outlines could be seen. A few in pieces. "So our ninja hitler was quite good at a little bit of the old genocide." Cowell said. Black looked at him as if he'd grown a third head. Goldsmith jotted it down, just incase. They opened the double doors to reveal a grand chamber beyond. Silk curtains were drawn back to allow sunlight to flood the room. Antique furniture was positioned in a circle around the corpse of a rather fat japanese man. Protruding from the man's stomach was a fine japanese blade with a white cloth tied to the handle. "There goes the ninja theory." Cowell said, disappointed. Blacksmith fought a laugh. Goldsmith scribbled out the note. "Possible motive: Revenge." Cowell said after several minutes contemplation "What makes you think that?" Black, slipping back into his role of smartarse offsider, chirped. "Dunno, just a gut instinct. You gotta have them, rookie..." Cowell started, but stopped when he saw Goldsmith scribbling down notes furiously. Ahh, keen as mustard. He'll go far in this man's business. As long as he calms down and loosens up a little, Cowell thought to himself. "I'm through with this. We'll let the boys clean up and we'll read about it later in the funny pages. Besides, I'm suffering caffeine deficiency." "I'll drink to that," Black said. "But damn, if that isn't a whole load of paperwork ahead of us." The two senior policemen turned to Goldsmith. Goldsmith dropped his head in surrender.

Stress is in the mind. If you don't let yourself become stressed, you won't become stressed. Simple. Now try to remember this small piece of advice while stressed

Guilds: A schism within the Pen caused the membership to split off into three factions, each hellbent on destroying the others. In the past, vast tracts of land were rendered uninhabitable, millions were slaughtered, entire cities leveled in various battles in the War of the Words. In recent times, exhausted from millennia of fighting, the three factions have come to an informal truce, while all hone their skills in preparation for the next offensive.

The lights brightened a little, then died suddenly. Along with every light outside. The small apartment was plunged into gloom. The sole occupant sighed. He'd resigned himself to this eventuating. He opened a draw in the desk next to him and withdrew a chemical glowstick. Cracking the old-fashioned device, a viridescent glow bathed the room. He went to the window. Darkness outside, with the exception of the distant glow of a fire. He'd expected as much. It was the last thing anyone expected, but the thing they feared the most. On this planet, the planet humanity spawned from, he was among a handful of human beings who were pure. 100% flesh and blood. Most other people had at least a few implants. Most people didn't make it through childhood without a couple. What parent could resist giving their pride and joy a membooster before starting school or an enhanced logic processor to help with those nasty finals. They come with a lifetime guarantee and every other kid has one. Then there were cybernetic replacement limbs and organs. Natural ones could be cultured to suit the subject perfectly, but they took time and were expensive as hell. A robotic arm could be sprayed near-perfect and be a boon to the unfortunate amputee at a fraction of the cost of a flesh arm. Having never lost a limb, he'd never had to make the choice, but he knew few who were ever in a position to refuse a cybernetic replacement. He kitted up, the way he'd trained himself to do at least once a week for the past four years. In almost total darkness, he knew where every single tool he'd need was. He knew how to calibrate them, run necessary diagnostics on the more advanced and ensure the most simple of them were loaded, just in case. Most people were walking computers, these days. Between the schoolage education boosters and useful personal organiser chips, there was everything from enhanced retinas, muscular boosters, immuno-plus packs and the ever-popular Girl's Best Friend implants... for the guys. Every biological function had a bionic implant available to enhance, improve or just plain take over the function. Even things nature hadn't provided for, mankind had developed something. Corporate execs, meeting eachother for the first time, with just a simple handshake, would know every last scrap of detail their opposite number wanted them to know, complete with every last scrap of detail their corporation had compiled on them. People were linked to vast information nodes, which were in turn linked to other nodes and other people. With a thought, two people from different continents could link up and share ideas. As long as they could think in the same language. Which was no longer a problem, he remembered. He feared for those unfortunate few who had invested in the Babel implant now. He ran a mental check. Surgical kit, pliers, wire cutters, screwdrivers, knife, club, tazer, diagnostic tool, implant-deactivator, neural inhibitor and Colt .45. He didn't know what to expect out there, but every electric device in the city had just been turned into expensive paperweights. Most of these objects resided within people. And most of these people wouldn't remember life without them. Which was where he came in. He was a Silence Councilor. In a world where people have electronic thoughts to remind them of important events, read them the news and tell their horoscope, there needs to be people who live without them. People who, in the event of an emergency, can function in silence and help others recover from it. He was in demand a lot, even before today. EMP weapons were used by police all the time. What better way to apprehend a criminal than to shut off the device controlling his legs. Or enhancing his breathing. Or telling him exactly where he's going. And there were always accidents. The world of tomorrow still relies on AC current and electronics are still as frail as ever. Just now, they're linked to nerves. With more and more radical groups emerging, it was only a matter of time before this happened. Groups who claimed God was on their side and who wanted an end to the abomination that was implants. Who's membership comprised of your standard John Q Implantpatient who accessed the same nodes as everyone else, but argued that he should've had the choice. Who were probably regretting whatever small part they played in the procurement of an EMP bomb large enough to knock out the city. And knock out the city it would. Everything. The lights, the signs, the cars, even the people. Everything. The power wouldn't remain off for that long, the lights could be fixed, the cars repaired. The people, on the other hand... He threw on a coat and slipped on his glasses. The HUD appeared in his field of vision as soon as they touched skin. He'd learned early on the best way to live implant free. There were always ways. There are always people who didn't want their eyes touched. Even after their skeleton had been hardened, their muscles enhanced, their blood changed to an oxygenated nutrient liquid and all their internal organs replaced with superior cybernetic models. The glasses hooked up to a CPU on his belt. Using the water content of his body as the medium, all his devices and gadgets were able to communicate, as long as he was touching them. Going glove free in the middle of winter was a small sacrifice, he kept telling himself. He opened the door of his apartment to the sound of crying, wailing, groaning in pain. Too many people, he knew. But protocol clearly stated, women and children first. Well, children first. Age preference. Sedate, deactivate, rehabilitate. Barely enough for most people. But all he could offer. He stepped over the body of a service droid and out to his neighbour, fixing his earpiece as he went. Shielded as his apartment was, it would all be working fine, as soon as the networks were up and running again. Then he would be called to where he was most needed. But for now... Before the door had hit the floor, he knew what to expect. He knew his neighbours too well. He knew the children had brain implants. They were both unconscious, the lucky devils. The wife was weeping over the body of her husband. He knew she couldn't hear him as he entered and got to work on her children. The husband... he was beyond help. His lungs, heart, liver, spinal column.... the list was near endless. All junk. But all necessary for his survival. And his backup biogenerator was in much worse state than him. Hours later, the building was finished. The situation repeated wherever he went. Seven casualties. Four criticals, unlikely to survive. The rest would recover in time. Most were sedated. He thought it better than them going deaf from silence. The lights had repaired themselves and were illuminating the streets. The parking bay under the building was shielded from the effects of old fashioned fission bombs. A paranoid architect was to thank for that. The next task was to rehabilitate the emergency response teams. Scattered and unprepared as they were. As he got in his car, he wondered what the zealots who had planned this whole thing were thinking right now. Then he remembered, most of them probably didn't make it out of childhood without a membooster. They weren't thinking much, right now.

I don't believe in atheism

As he went over the coroner's report, Detective Stern tried to piece together the scene in his head. Two murders, one in cold blood, one revenge. Both perpetrators were dead, but there was something wrong with the whole thing. Something bizarre, out of the ordinary. He knew this one would stay with him until he figured it out, or at least came up with a theory that happened to fit the facts at hand. Numerous puncture wounds, fractured bones, ruptured organs, the kind found in any cadaver that comes complete with twenty odd bullet wounds. Standard for any John Doe who was just hosed down with an automatic weapon. Cause of death, ruptured ventricle. But there was something else. Heart and lung trauma, bruising that couldn't be explained away by the event or by the victim's medical background. As if someone had tried to crush his heart and lungs with their bare hands. The motive for the crime also eluded him. No links had been found between the two victims. One was a small time thug, one was a convenience store attendant. Why anyone would just kill a shop assistant without taking anything was puzzling. Why anyone would do it with an automatic weapon and so much apparent prejudice when no obvious link could be formed was disturbing. The ballistics report had confirmed what the crimescene report said. Victim two had fired upon victim one twice during the incident. Once in the store, execution style, once out on the street, in self defense. Thirty rounds left the barrel of the machine pistol. Enough of them found their mark the first time around that there shouldn't have needed to be a second. Blood marks on the weapon suggested he used it as a club in his final moments. Obviously to ill effect. So a smalltime thug comes into a convenience store and guns down the clerk. Who somehow survives, despite having half a heart and an extra pound or two of bronze lodged in his torso. Normal people would've had survival in mind in that situation. Keep still, hope the sheer will holding their tattered remains together would hold until someone could come and patch them up. Not this chap. He decided it was better to, in the shape he was in, vault the counter, run his assailant down a good twenty metres from the store and throttle the life out of him, despite taking several more bullets in the process. Well, that was the story that made the press. Minus the half a heart bit. Gotta make it slightly believable. Stern scratched his head. He couldn't swallow that. Not with the full report. Witness statements confirmed the story going to press. But they all said the same thing about One's movements. Jerky. Almost falling over himself. Zombi like. As if he'd come back from the dead like in one of those old black and white horror movies. Back to reek terrible vengeance upon his murderer. He shook his head. He was way too old to believe in stories like that. He looked over the two background files of the two victims. The only real connection was One worked in the area Two lived. It was possible that Two might've been shortchanged once by One, taken exception to it and decided to come back later and make an example of him or something. He had a few boys going over the store's surveillance tapes to see how often, if ever, Two frequented One's store. He finished the report of One and moved to Two. Six foot two, a hundred and twenty kilograms. Built like a tank was the only thing Stern thought as he saw the estimated muscle/weight ratios. Cause of death: Asphyxiation. His windpipe had been crushed. By One. Stern knew this. He'd been there when they pried One's fingers out of Two's corpse. He looked at the file for One again. Five and a half feet, roughly, small build, healthy, but not very athletic. He couldn't believe that a kid that size could run down a monster like Two, knock him down and choke him to death. Well, maybe he could under normal circumstances. But not riddled with bulletholes. He put down the files and decided he needed some coffee to help him think. --- Black and gray images were all he saw. Himself, on the ground. Fading away. His killer, glowing brightly, walking off triumphantly. He felt nothing but burning. It wasn't fair. Life wasn't fair. All his life, picked on for weakness, finally killed by someone who probably couldn't spell his name. No. He wouldn't let it end like this. But he was drifting. The scene was fading fast. He reached out a spectral hand and grappled his heart. Through force of will alone, he pulled his essence back to his body. He could still feel, he still had his memories. His brain hadn't given up yet... there was still time. The corpse jerked. Blood started flowing out of the wounds faster. Fingers were twitching as electrical signals were fired down fast-dying nerves in an effort to get the body moving again. The body flipped, pushed itself up and tried to stand, managing only to fall onto the counter. Still viewing the scene from an outsider's perspective, the essence willed each action, each heart beat. It pulled itself over the counter and almost fell on the other side. Barely holding itself up, it unsteadily ambled in pursuit of it's killer. William White. Old Willy White. WW. He told 'em he'd do it, he did it. He had killed. Not only that, but he had killed someone on a whim. How dare that pipsqueak ask him for ID before selling him cigarettes. Everyone would respect him now, no one would try to talk him down again. He was smiling to himself about how easy it had been, not giving the several witnesses a moment's thought, when he heart something large and wet fall to the ground behind him. He turned. Forcing his corpse up again, the essence that had once been Joshua Smithson focused his ethereal rage on the lummox ahead of him. He saw his killer turn and he felt his corpse shudder as more bullets sunk into his deceased flesh, but he surged on. The killer was moving now. Trying to escape. He forced his legs to go faster, taking larger paces, using any and all objects near him to balance. He was gaining. And fast. If he were still alive, he would have marveled at how he'd never been able to run this fast before. But dead people have one track minds. William fumbled to reload as he ran. He couldn't believe it. Somehow that kid had survived. He'd emptied the machine pistol into him, yet still he surged on. And now the thing wouldn't reload properly. At last he managed to slam the magazine home, cock the weapon and turn to fire. He never managed to get a shot off, as the corpse of Joshua Smithson lunged at him and knocked him down. He could almost smell his killer's panic, even in his disembodied state. He forced his fingers around the ogre's throat and squeezed. He could feel the gun hitting his side, each blow losing strength. It wouldn't be long. He forced his corpse to take a breath, then release it through a vocal cavity shaped by a dying instinct. The last word William White heard was a raspy, gurgled "Die" from the corpse of someone he'd never even thought about until five minutes ago. There was no last thought, no life flashing before his eyes. There was nothing but sheer terror. --- Stern shook his head as he filed everything away. Technically, this case was solved before it began. Two murders, two murderers dead. Justice doesn't get any cleaner than that. He sat down, shaking his head more. Grabbing a pen and paper, he wrote down his zombi theory, stapled it to the case report and sent it off to be archived. He was fairly certain that no human hands would ever touch that file again.

Gives english teachers something else to harp on about to fill a lesson or two

One guy sitting in a car, suddenly another guy jumps in, points a gun at him and tells him to get out. So he pulls out his gun and points it right back. The two sit in the car, pointing their guns at eachother, taunting eachother. After several hours, one of them mentions his hand is kind of sore, the other agrees. They decide to switch hands at the same time. So they count to three, then they both go for the other guy's gun. In the ensuing chaos, the guns manage to switch owners. One of them says "Well, we're back where we started." the other goes, "No we ain't. My gun wasn't loaded." So The first one just gives up and gets out and is then followed by the other guy. It's night, several hours later and all the windows are fogged up. The guy who tried to carjack the first guy looks at the car as they walk off and spots something. A parking ticket that was given to the car while they were inside, pointing guns at eachother. Ok, what movie is that from? That's all I ever saw and cannot remember what it was from. Damnit, I need to know

When Joseph first learned how to distort reality, he marveled at the potential of the human mind. What a work was a man, he would say to himself as he saved thousands on airfairs by slipping into another place. He knew there must be a creator who gave man this much power, for it was hidden well, but it was still there. When he'd first discovered it, he thought he would be able to change the way people look at themselves. Several years later, he knew humans were nothing more than gullible fools and the creator, whatever his original intentions, really screwed things up. He had tried to pass on his gift, but very few were able to comprehend the ability, let alone learn it. And the ones who did learn it immediately went off to make themselves rich or to settle old scores with seemingly untouchable people. Joseph had killed the last one of his successful pupils two weeks ago. Being able to distort reality gave a murderer countless ways to take life without leaving evidence. Seeing as he'd never have to worry about the inside of a gaol cell, Joseph had left enough evidence to convince a grand jury he was guilty of genocide. If they could ever figure how he made the wall strangle his victim. Or how he managed to melt the words "JOSEPH DID IT" into the television. Police never did come and question him, despite having ample DNA and fingerprint evidence to identify him. Having never given fingerprints or DNA samples really was a kick in the teeth for the investigating officers, who thought this one was in the bag. Even if they couldn't figure out how the lamp had managed to break the victim's legs in three places. So he sat back in his leather chair, bought with the ill-gotten gains of one of his pupils, smoked a cigar, drank a bottle of scotch, then leeched the alcohol, tar and nicotine out of his system, through the pores of his index finger, into a waiting jar. Joseph had always enjoyed drinking and smoking. He just didn't enjoy cancer. He knew he could cure himself if worst came to worst, but he just didn't want to run the risk. Distorting your immediate reality was uncomfortable. Not painful, which surprised him. Just uncomfortable. Your body knows your arm is a foot away from the rest of you, even though all nervous signals are getting through uninterrupted. And it won't let you forget that. Channel surfing was another little pleasure he still indulged in, despite having the capacity to make whatever he wanted to watch appear on the box. Hell, he could make it appear on the fridge, if it suited him. He'd mastered altering reality and it saddened him at how easy it was. Manipulating the flaws in the work of a being you were brought up to believe was all powerful and infallible made a person rethink the whole religion thing. His latest execution was on every news channel. Bizarre, ritualistic, satanic, all words used to describe the indescribable and be understood by the target audience. He briefly considered reverting the room back to normal before the red-headed news woman entered the scene for the live exclusive. Then he had a better idea. Sarah Taylor, a junior field reporter for channel 8, thought this would be the break she needed. She'd managed to use her winning personality to convince the crimescene officer to let her and no one else film the scene. She stood proud before the camera, hiding her revulsion at the twisted scene behind her and waited for the light that meant they were on air. As the small LED lit up, she suddenly felt cold. Joseph couldn't help himself. He doubled over with laughter when he saw the newswoman's clothes fall off. As the network anchor explained the lost live feed with the usual "Technical difficulties" line, Joseph wondered if it was an executive decision to allow the public a brief peek at the naked newswoman, for ratings purposes. Then he smiled as he realised he'd probably given that woman the biggest break she could hope for on national television. He lit up another cigar, shaking his head at the sheer simplicity of it all. Physicists on a science channel were trying to explain the building blocks of the universe. String theory. They were so far off the truth, they could've spoken of pottery and been closer. Just as he thought of this, one of the TV boffins picked up a potplant and tried to explain something. Ahh, cartoons. The old portable hole episode. His favourite. He always got a kick out of Satan returning the man's wife. He shook his head. God, Satan, what did it matter. He knew the whole world was held together by the cosmic equivalent of post-it glue. And that was all anyone had to know. It was so simple that he was surprised that only four people out of the fifty or so he'd tried to teach were able to do it. And those four forgot everything he'd told them right before he killed them. They'd all been able to move through solid matter, yet he strangled every one of them. Well, not personally. Usually whatever was onhand at the time strangled them. Carpet, cutlery, walls and toilet. All twisted and warped around the victim's throats. Far too easy. Hours later, he passed out in his chair, an overflowing bowl of black alcohol on the table next to him. While he slept, he dreamed. Of a world of superglue

Down here, it's "Hey Liberal government, where'd those several billion dollars go?" "Those pro-government ads which are in no way a thinly veiled attempt at getting in campaign ads before we call the election later this year, thus giving us an unfair advantage on the opposition don't pay for themselves, you know."

Dude, if you had a gun to your head, you could render the thing inoperable with an earflick

Assuming the spouse is the genetic parent, then he/she has already passed on his genes, therefore are expendable But there's always another way out of a situation. Even a gun-toting madman can't stand up to an adrenalin charged angry mother

The large hand of the antique clock settled over XII, the small pointing at III. He'd been anticipating this meeting for some time now, but was feeling ill at ease now it had arrived. As the old clock struck the third hour of the afternoon, he heard the familiar footsteps of the assassin echo through his spacious abode. One of the reasons he'd picked this villa. The acoustics were perfect. Even a terrible singer would hear himself a tenor in these halls. In his head he counted down. Three times he had met with this man. Three times, each time he was told the fourth would be the last. He would never see this man again after this. But he didn't mind. He only had one more job left for him. The assassin carried himself at ease as he strode in. He nodded politely at each guard as he passed, satisfied with the knowledge that he could kill every single one before they'd even found their triggers. They never tried to search him, they knew he was no threat. His long coat billowed as he passed, despite the stillness of the air. He was proud of his ability to manage this under all situations. It was all part of The Look. The Look everyone tried to accomplish. Few ever succeeded without the help of Hollywood magic. The General rose to offer his hand, but took no offense when it was ignored. Three times this had happened. Some habits were hard to break. He watched the Assassin take a seat in the black leather chair he gave guests. Returning to his seat, he cut a cigar and was about to light it when the Assassin reached into his coat, exposed the grip of a pistol and asked a simple, "Do you mind?" "Not at all, my friend." replied the General, lighting up. This man always amused him. A man who quite literally had all the time in the universe, but would never waste a second of it. As the General smoked, the Assassin proceeded to dismantle and clean his pistol. Another thing that amused the General about him was his weapons. He had access to the most advanced weaponry ever to be invented, yet he used bullet weapons. As always, he shook his head at this thought. "My friend, you know why I summoned you." Not an accurate statement, the General knew. Upon first making contact with this remarkable individual, he had been informed of the exact dates and times all their meetings would take place. He'd been surprised, at first, when each date coincided with the discovery of a threat to his power. Since then it had merely amused him. "Of course I do, but you know I have to hear it from you." The Assassin never looked up from his work, meticulously scraping carbon build up from the various rails and ridges in the weapon. "Very well, very well. It appears I have a rival to my position. Even in this corrupt democracy, my position is still dictated by the masses, more or less. They are unsatisfied with how I'm doing things, they vote in blood." The General remembered the bloody coup that had led to his ascension roughly a decade ago. That was the last revolt he ever wanted to see. "Your system works, I take it?" A toothbrush had appeared from nowhere and was being used to sweep out loose bits of carbon. "Indeed, my friend, indeed. No matter how well paid my guns are, they can't stand up against the great unwashed, united. Which is where you come in." The click of the pistol's hammer being pulled back sent a shiver down the General's spine. He was unable to shake it until the hammer was detached from the weapon. Even though he knew this man could still easily kill him with his bare hands, the pistol still filled him with unease. "And who do I kill this time?" He couldn't tell if the Assassin was apathetic or just plain bored. A pipe cleaner was being used to clean out the barrel at this point. "Hey, kill, discredit, kidnap and dump on an island, I care not the method. Just get rid of this man. People call him Carlos. A name so common in these parts, I'm sure it is nothing more than an alias." An oiled cloth was being applied to the internals of the weapon. He respected a man who respected a weapon enough to take this much care. And feared one who could manage it so quickly, yet thoroughly. "I'll take the first choice, thanks Bob." Neither smiled at this attempt at humour, but the General winced when the cover was slid back on with a loud click. "Very well. Everything about him you will find in this file I have provided you with." Once more a lie. The Assassin already knew everything about the contract. Timetravellers were a difficult lot to deal with. The General was glad he only had to deal with the one. "Carlos, real name Chad Schmitt. Born of Brazilian and German lineage, emigrated here, blah blah blah," The Assassin began to recite. "Can be found at some scumpit in the middle of the jungle, lots of guards, the usual." "Yes, I see you know the type quite well." He watched as the killer began to give each round a light brush with the oiled cloth, before clicking them back into the magazine. "Too well, old timer. How much?" Matters of money with this man also amused the General. He imagined the only thing of value to a timetraveller would be gold, but this one worked for cash. He would've disbelieved the man's claim to timetravel, had he not seen the time vessel with his own eyes. Through dark shades provided to protect his eyes from the intense energy emissions from the machine. "Standard rates apply, half now, half upon return." He held his composure as the Assassin aimed the pistol at his forehead. He shuddered as he heard the weapon click. This man knew how to unsettle him. And seemed to enjoy doing it. "Signed, sealed and will be delivered. Where's the cash?" The General lowered his head under the desk, momentarily forgetting which side the briefcase was on. Seeing it to his left, he gripped the handle and hefted the case onto the desk. The Assassin opened the case and visually scanned the contents. "Perfect, as usual." He closed the case, then slapped the magazine into the pistol. "Oh, just one more thing. Adios" Before any of the guards could react, the weapon was cocked, leveled at the General's chest and emptied. None of them went for their weapons. They all watched the black coated killer holster his weapon, take the briefcase and walk out of the villa, as easily as he'd entered. With their paymaster dead, none were paid enough to throw their lives away for some petty notion of hot blooded vengeance. Besides, they had more important things to worry about. News of this would travel fast, even if they tried to hide it. And they knew that when peasants with pitchforks were looting this place, they'd rather be elsewhere. The Assassin drove for the first time in a while. A machine capable of transversing the dimensions of time and space never really gets used for road travel. It was a change from the usual instantaneous journeys up and down the timeline. He drove into the deep jungle, passed hundreds of armed revolutionaries and to a scummy little pit in the middle of nowhere. There he retrieved another suitcase from a man named Chad, known as Carlos. A man whom would be found dead in ten years, scattered over a wide area, for reasons unknown to all who lived in this time.

5) When encountering a hostile goblin for the first time, you A) Draw your trusty sword, axe, mace or other weapon of trust and have at him Pull out your trusty longbow, shortbow, crossbow or slingshot and take him from range C) Cast "Magic Missile", knowing that anything more is overkill D) Use your ninja skills and fell him with a boot to the head E) Charge in screaming and headbutt the creature to death F) Cast Meteor Shower, knowing it's overkill G) Run away H) Drop everything and run away I) Throw everything at him, then run away J) Drop to your knees and beg for your life K) Bribe him L) Use your superior size to extort money from him M) Attempt to sell him high quality goods at low low prices N) Attempt to sell him low quality goods at high high prices, but tell him they're low low prices, honest O) Do your best impersonation of the Gobbo king and hope he buys it P) Run him down in your combine harvester Q) Challenge him to a game of dice R) Challenge him to a game of twister S) Challenge him to a game of strip poker T) Use freudian theories to prove he does not exist U) Try to recruit him into your unstoppable army of Doom V) Have him killed by your unstoppable army of Doom W) Feed him to your giraffe X) Belt him to death with his own arm Y) Belt him to death with a live fish Z) Belt him to death with a killer whale, then make some ironic statement about greenies claiming them to be harmless NOW) Race him I) Hypnotise him and make him think he's a chicken KNOW) Stab him with a chicken MY) Drown him in egg batter A) Caffeinate him to death Sweeten him to death C) Gourana him to death WONT) The above three, then sic Minta onto him YOU) Recite an epic tale until he falls asleep COME) YOU, and you steal his shoes AND) Get him high PLAY) Paint him bright red, then unleash the bull WITH) Paint him black, draw a white stripe down his back and unleash a horny skunk ME) Give him a ticking treasure chest with a radioactive symbol on it in return for him giving you enough time to reach a minimum safe distance

Most of the best poetry and most the best music are written under the influence of some chemical substance or another. The rest are written by people who are out of their mind.

I never knew I had life insurance until I got a booklet and a letter informing me of my smoker status and how I had to fill out a non-smoker declaration form to get a cheaper rate. Imagine that. Apply for insurance and get told, "Well, we automatically assume you're a poet, so we're charging you more unless you can write us a short story on this topic that satisfies these criteria." The only problem is this study didn't compare them to the age of the average joe blow in the streets who couldn't structure a sentence, let alone a piece of literature. It'd be nice to know I'm going to live longer than the people whom I pay for insurance

Low? Meh, when you hear about a research grant blown on something so trivial, how can you not write an article on it? Either to bitch about the wasted money or to quote the statistics at parties, people will read and digest these little nuggets of joy as long as news outlets provide them. Suddenly, I feel proud of my inability to structure a poem

You could take a famous painting and write an essay on the artist... which, when printed out, arranged in a certain pattern and studied from a distance, bares a striking resemblance to the painting itself. That'd be cool

I just saw Etermal Sunshine of the clear minded... endless sunshine of the empty mind.... endless summer of the... jesus, I only just saw the thing and I can't even remember it's goddamn title. Jim Car... no, I'm not even going to try and remember how that one is spelled... using his acting ability for good instead of for slapstickevil. All about memory loss. Man, it's so beautiful, I need to see it again to remember any more details

From that point, for several months, his life would be one long fight. Because of her. For her. He loved her enough to give his life for. Fortunately, he merely had to give his health and will. But he would give it all again in a heartbeat. She called him her guardian, her defender, her knight in shining armour often. Always there to keep her in check before her temper took her off the rails, she thought the nickname suited him. Only of average build and non-confrontational in nature, she never knew of what he was capable. Then the fight. During his hospital recovery, he'd replayed the sequence of events over and over in his mind. He had every instant of the.... minutes? Seconds? To him it was an eternity. An eternity before his mind fragmented. He never saw what hit him. When the red haze cleared, he was surrounded by paramedics. He was average physically, exceptional mentally. Which was all she needed. He played no sports, went to no kickboxing classes and watched wrestling merely because he appreciated it as an undervalued form of comedy. Her one attempt to talk him into changing the channel resulted in a lecture between bouts, detailed analysis, deconstruction of the inane entertainment which left her shaking her head, for it made such perfect sense that it left her conflicted. Over something she despised. He cared not for his physical, but he was rather fit and healthy. Which suited her just fine. Still, she never knew how far his vow of his life would go. Now days, he needs her. He cannot live without her. Once so calm and collected in all situations, he'd been left unhinged by his experience. He was still there, she could tell, behind the broken speech and emotional outbursts he seemed plagued with at times, he was still her knight in shining armour. More pawn than knight, she sometimes mused. His recovery and rehabilitation had involved more exercise and strength building in the few short months than he'd ever done in his life. Now fueled by a seemingly unquenchable anger, his body swelled and hardened. His body balancing out his sudden mental deficit. Medical staff gave up warning him against excessive exercise when they realised he was recovering rapidly. She knew they were merely glad he'd be out of their hair sooner. They'd been close before, but they were inseparable after. During initial examinations and routines, she was often called upon simply to calm him down. His temper now dwarfed hers. It frightened others. And the only thing to stay him was her soothing voice. If she didn't love him as he did her... He'd saved her life, her health. He'd defended her. Her knight in shining armour had fought off her attackers, those heathen bandits who saw her as another trinket in the night, one more thing they weren't worthy of which they desired nonetheless. A quartet. All gym-buffed, all ego-inflated, all with a classic case of male penis envy. Most would turn and run. They would've, too, but the area they'd been followed into wasn't designed with alternate escape in mind. He'd saved her life from them, now she gave hers to him. She spent most days with him, sharing as much time as she had to spare. Eventually, she took a leave to be with him. He needed her now. And she owed him. Why did he have to be so brave? When their intentions became clear, he'd wasted no time. This surprised them. They never expected their victim to fight back. They certainly never expected him to lunge at the ringleader, knock the wind out of him, then proceed to bash his skull into the pavement. As number two was set upon, number four found a metal pole. Applying it to the back of his skull seemed like a good idea at the time. What shamed number 4 the most was afterward. Trying to explain to police that the broken, bleeding, battered, half dead carcass who was being loaded into an ambulance was, only moments beforehand, a hell-sent demonspawn. None of his broken bones, shattered organs or cracked ribs seemed to stop him from defeating all four. He'd been the luckiest. He'd been able to give a statement. They spent their whole lives together. They never swore until death, they'd already given their lives for eachother.

There is no balance. Anyone who seeks balance is merely holding themselves back. Whether in material, social or mental success, you're holding yourself back. Realise that the world is not abuot balance and equality, but about equilibrium. It's not that a feather and a stone weigh the same, it's that they exist without disrupting one another's existance. Anything that is detrimental to the existance of something else, quite possibly out of equilibrium. Your false sense of worthlessness, for example. Not in equilibrium with yourself. Holding you back. Strangling you. Do away with it, become one with yourself. Know your strengths and weaknesses. Understand them, ensure you know how they relate to yourself. Don't compare or contrast with others, it serves no real purpose. Once you understand and accept yourself, then you can work on either improving yourself or elevating your place in society, whichever is your will, weaknesses be damned. Now that you've read to hear, you should know that there inside me resides the best part of a bottle of black sambucca and that I haven't been a drinker for many many months

There's a running joke among me and a few mates about our local, the Tollgate. Wonderful little bar with enough pool for all, smack bang in the middle of about forty biker gangs' territories. So it's a biker bar. The joke is about a massacre that probably never happened which resulted in the destruction of the old Tollgate and the new one was built on the corpses of the bikers who weren't killed in the massacre that never happened Now the ghosts of these bikers have nothing to do but haunt anyone who cheats at pool. Sometimes these biker ghosts wear pirate costumes. That is all

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH Sorry, what was I saying?