a short story by Dave Brosius
Strands of night filtered through the sleepy streets of Dale, New Mexico. The air carried the iron scent signaled arrival of a much needed rainfall. Dusty roads absorbed the first drops eagerly. The end of a recent drought brought hope to the fields. The rumbling clouds brought with them hope. Hope for all but one anxious soul.
Loose asphalt and lingering dust scattered underneath the roaring wheels of an aged brown sedan. As though possessed, the car boomed down county road eighteen. Behind a cracked windshield sat a panicked young man.
Tad Walker was once Dale’s favorite son. But in the span of a few desperate minutes, he suddenly found himself on the wrong side of the law. Confusion put him in the driver’s seat, and chaos pushed the pedal. Anger, rage, panic, fear–his emotions spun as furiously as his battered tires.
He was at least twenty miles from civilization before he stopped to really notice the rain, feeling loose drops pelting him through a broken side window. His fingers ached as he pried them from the wheel to sweep the rain and sweat from his forehead. With a snap, he set a pair of squeaking wiper blades into motion, squinting as they smeared the distant lights into a blurred arc.
Murder.
He wasn’t capable of actually killing someone. The whole town knew him as a gentle soul, a good kid who would never have even considered something so… foul. He obeyed the law like every other decent human being. Hadn’t he?
Click here to download the full story in Word document format.
Today’s Themesong:
Song: “Paranoia in B Major”
Artist: The Avett Brothers
*****
The art of the e-mail subject is lost on… well, all of you people. I’ve got words for you subjective extremists out there. Listen up! Or put another way: Learn How You Can Save Yourself from a Brutal Death at Dave’s Hands. Yes, I’m talking to the microminds that apparently have no idea why this “useless feature” exists in the first place. Unless you actually are one of these RE:jects, you know the type. The ones that send messages with a blank subject line. Or the less-than-clueless ones that change topics a million times in the chain, yet leave “Donuts Downstairs!!!11 1″ as the subject. Or worse, these collapsed-craniums that think it’s a real time saver to start a new message to you by responding to an old message (with aged subject) from the depths of their inbox instead of just suffering the nanosecond it takes to search their contact list. Some people sort and search their e-mails by topics. No, of course not you… you hunt-and-peck, eating-over-your-keyboard, whiteout-on-the-monitor, spellcheck-skipping, spam-opening, virus-passing, help-desk-choking, comic-sans-enhances-everything kindergarten dropouts.
In an average day, you might cough, hiccup, snort and even let out a small burp without really rousing bystanders. But when one microscopic particle finds its way into your nasal cavities, what could be just another innocuous bodily function is met with the urgent blessings of those in earshot (snotshot?). Why is it that this one involuntary act is enough to require that the Almighty be petitioned on your behalf? Turns out, it dates back to a centuries-old superstition that a sneeze signaled the soul’s attempt to escape the body. Hence the epic drama: you sneeze, the spiritual alarm is raised by your loved ones, resulting in a nine-one-one for divine help to keep you earthbound a little longer. As this procedure is strangely supported by neither science nor scripture, it’s my advice we discontinue this policy right away. Sure, I’ve seen the Seinfeld episode (so save your quotes, bastards). I know some people think it’s rude to let a sneeze go under the radar, so I’ve come up with a new alternative. It’s a simple “I-hope-you-feel-better-now-that-you’ve-sneezed.” Preferably said as quickly as the sneeze itself. No feelings get hurt, and we no longer have to question how spirit-cidal our sneezing friends, family, co-workers, subway neighbors and pets might be. Heaven help us if we start drawing public attention to people’s other expulsions!
Unlike chess, freeze tag and live action vampire roleplaying, not everyone on the planet rabidly enjoys video games. I get it. But when you “occasional gamers” pick up a controller, there are unwritten rules you should keep in mind. I’ve watched you. You giggle and laugh at how quickly you fail, die or explode. It’s cute, and it gives us real players a chance to righteously stomp you out like a campfire. Then you get a bright idea that all of mankind has at least considered since the dawn of the first pre-historic stone-based gaming systems. You begin button-mashing with the silly abandon of a kid swinging a cat by the tail. And just like that little brat, you have no idea how many of us are awestruck by your offense. There’s a name for this evil, panicked pushing, it’s called buttons of rage, and it’s the only unpardonable sin. It’s tantamount to cheating. And while on the surface, sure you will undoubtedly pull off a miraculous combination of special moves that even pros haven’t perfected, but at such a terrible cost! This must be how real, legitimate painters felt when Jackson Pollack came and threw up on a canvas. Perfect your craft, or lay down your virtual arms in surrender. Note: Random button punching is protected for serious players only under the Gamer Constitution Amendment 11B: “Boss Fights”.
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