Archive | Skwibby fiction

A Robot Regrets

A robot regrets

Meeptron the Bio-Destruction Bot looked out at the wasteland that once was Peoria and thought that his work had actually made it look nicer. Of course, he was programmed that way, so he couldn’t really help it. He thought about that little Red Juggernaut he’d met on Robo-Leave that summer. Gloria.

Yes, sweet Gloria. She was the kind of destructive cybernetic entity that he could see himself settling down with, and perhaps starting a family Bio-Destruction Juggernauts of their own. Of course, they’d have to build the manufactory themselves, because his boss sure wouldn’t help.

And he’d probably have to give up his dream of becoming lead dancer at the Voltron Mega-Kill Ballet. Meeptron sighed, powered up his plasma-death-beam array, and vaporized the puny humans which had survived his initial onslaught.

Alltop is not populated by puny humans either. Thanks to Alan Trotter for the pic. Originally published March, 2009, and now it’s part of the Pirate Therapy and Other Cures collection.

Apocalypse Cow

apocalypse cow

Never get out of the boat. Absolutely goddamn right. Unless you were going all the way. Kurtz got off the boat. He split from the whole fuckin’ program.

And me? I was off the boat the same time as Kurtz. Sure, I’d been obeying orders, but my mind was gone. I was in fields of green and clover. With milkmaids.

Oh man, those bullshit milkmaids…

But I had a job to do, and there would be no welcome, supple fingers pulling on my teats when we got to the end of the river. Only charcoal briquettes.

The barbecue … the barbecue.

Alltop is the catastrophic cattle baron of humor. Originally published on Name Your Tale, 2009.

The five second rule

red buddhaIt was the best game of zenball ever, and the crowd was wild with excitement: the whisper of butterfly wings was deafening.

The Rotrovra Koan Kangaroos had just scored their first all-in kensho, and the Targenville Half-Lotus Lions replied with a double-satori. The Roos launched a full-out dharma walk, but they were unable to penetrate the Lions’ impressive grasp of paradox.

The Roos had to do something or the Lions would surely win. The hush of the field filled with the deadly susurration of arrows, as they invoked the five second rule.

Afterwards, only the voice of a bamboo flute.

Alltop is the sound of one hand clapping. Originally published on Name Your Tale as The five second rule. Buddha courtesy of Kim Denise.

An Open Letter to John Hodgman, Minor Celebrity

John Hodgman, dressed somewhat like Han SoloDear Judge John Hodgman,

I would normally never bother a minor celebrity, but I have a warning to pass along.

It may save your life.

Last night I had a rather disturbing dream. It felt prophetic, though I hope it was not. In this dream, the America we both know and love had been replaced by an atomic wasteland, yet, civilization survived in some forms.

For instance, you were still plying your trade as a judge. Post-atomic America was in desperate need of judges (and entertainment), so you were working your way around the country, helping bring justice back to the glowing embers of the Homeland, and where appropriate, reading from one of your works of All World Knowledge.

I ran into you in this milieu. What was I doing there? I am not a judge, nor a minor celebrity, but I too had found a place in this new and terrifying world. My adventures in post-apocalyptic America began as a hiking trip with my brother, but I discovered that I had hidden talents as a “frontier doctor”.  (I was especially good with irradiated ant bites.)

We crossed paths at the Best Western, where my brother and I were waiting in line to get a room. We had just escaped a nest of cannibalistic humanoid underground dwellers (CHUDs). I had been treating them for rickets (there’s just not enough vitamin C in human tissue), and once the therapy was done, they had decided we could be eaten. (Sprinkled with crushed chewable Flintstone vitamin, as I had suggested.) Lesson learned.

So there we were, waiting in line, and I noticed you, farther back in the line. I thought, “They’re making John Hodgman stand in a line? That’s not right.” I suggested that you and your companion take our spot in the queue. (My brother was not pleased by this suggestion. He desperately needed a shower, having spent some time in the CHUDs’ stewing pot, ‘marinating’.)

Best Western logoI should note what you were wearing, because I found it both strange and charming. I’m not sure what you were up to when the bombs fell, but my guess is some kind of convention where you had been cajoled into COSPLAY. Perhaps you had been doing a skit. In any event, you were dressed as Han Solo. A look you managed to bring off.  You had sensibly replaced your fake blaster with a 45 automatic. Your companion was not decked out as Chewbacca, though he was quite hirsute. I do believe it may have been Paul F. Tompkins, though I still don’t understand how his normally dapper appearance could have become so shaggy in just a few years of post-apocalyptic living. He did have a bandoleer, but instead of shells, it was loaded with artisanal sharpened pencils. They looked both beautiful and deadly.

When you got to the front of the line, they only had one room left, with only a single bed.  Worse yet, there was no parking spot available for your Winnebago/Traveling Hall of Justice.  I remarked, once again, on how it was strange that parking was at such a premium in post-apocalyptic America, what with the preponderance of vaporized buildings and empty stretches of desolate landscape. My brother sighed heavily as I said this — clearly this was a subject that I’d exhausted with him. You, however, agreed wholeheartedly and we had an impromptu seminar about the political-economic underpinnings of the situation. My brother and Hairy Paul F. Tompkins gave each other knowing looks, and rolled their eyes.

Thus a firm friendship was formed, and you suggested that if my brother was amenable to riding on the roof of the Winnebago/Traveling Hall of Justice — don’t forget he was still covered in CHUD marinade, and therefore somewhat odiferous — you could give us a ride to another Best Western, across town, where surely, there would be room for all of us, and the Winnebago too.

Happily we went out to your vehicle. You thought that a tour of the Hall of Justice was in order, and opened the unlocked door. Inside, a giant mutated ferret awaited.

I thought, at first, it was some kind of pet. Then it grabbed you by the neck, severing your jugular, and I knew, no: NOT a pet.

The hairy Paul F. Tompkins threw a perfectly sharpened pencil through one of its red glowing eyes, and I tried to save your life. Alas, this was not a wound where liberal application of duct tape and whiskey was a helpful treatment.

And at this point, I awoke, perturbed. Saddened. Cursing myself for my own (imagined) medical ineptitude, and I knew that I had to write to you. To warn you. If you’re going to tool around in the post-apocalyptic wasteland in a Winnebago — and I’m not saying you shouldn’t, though it wouldn’t be my choice — ALWAYS lock the door.

Good luck and best wishes,

Mark A. Rayner

p.s. I do realize this is a ridiculous worry, because as we all know, the world will drown, not burn, as predicted by Ragnarök.

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Learn more about John Hodgman at his website, where you can go buy compendiums of All World Knowledge.

Update: he also has Ragnarök Survival Kits for sale.

Paul F. Tomkins can be found here, and you really should check out his podcast, The Pod F. Tompkast, which is excellent, and not hairy at all.

Update: he has a new podcast, Spontaneation, here.

Alltop is pro-Ragnarök too. Originally published August, 2012.