| Okay, thiscould be better. Whatever. 2006-06-17 21:47:29 ET |
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They dragged him outside, straight out of bed, onto the front lawn where they proceeded to tie his arms and legs to the giant, 4-foot tall candy canes sprinkled around the lawn, and began to dance lewdly upon his stomach. He began to struggle and yell but the ropes held on tight and one of them stuck his feet into the poor man's mouth in order to muffle his cries. After over an hour of attempting to scream his voice gave way and the lawn gnomes, taking that as their cue beat him to death with their candy apples.
Damn lawn gnomes.
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| Sleep...Need...sleep... 2006-06-17 21:21:57 ET |
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Well,I'm sleep-deprived so I think I'll write....
I gave my 2 weeks notice at my job on Wednesday. I'm going to Guitar Center tomorrow to get a set of drums and a new guitar (all for cheap, cheap, cheap.)
So so far I need to learn how to play the guitar, continue learning linux, learn Asterisk, Apache, Solaris, BSD, and programming. And I have 2 months to do all that. Hopefully it'll happen.
Uhm..
howabout some fiction?
I don't have any inspiration right now. So I'll just write. Usually it turns out to be crap but I might like it later down the line.
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Sitting in a dark room, with a rifle in hand, waiting for the righr time to open up the window and look outside. Cigarrette smoke fills the room but nobody smokes around here. Must be a nostalgic memory of things past.
The light streaming through the shades of the open window destroys the shadows of night with its rays. He gazes, with blood-shot, sleep-deprived eyes at the window. Separating him from the resto f the world, he will approach it soon.
The clock strikes the hour.
A chair is pulled up to the window. The shades are drawn. The gun is aimed outside. The barrel stick out like the stub of a branch cut-off from the building. He looks through the scope. His eyes adjust to the lens. He relaxes his arms. Takes a deep breath. Holds it. Exhales. Wait.
Target sighted. Aims. Fires.
JFS's head explodes in a curled ball of red splatter. For a brief second he is nothing but a Pollock painting hung upon the bust of the, now former, president. His wife just screams beside him. People screaming dead in the car ahead.
He moves back, away from the window, into the smoke-filled darkness. There's a certain dampness to the room. That's the sign that it's over.
It's all going to be over real soon. His mission is complete. From this point on he will start a new. Now he just waits for the signal.
The room lights up like a flare gun fired in a hall of mirrors.
Shattered awake sounds fill his ears. Followed by silence. Followed by a constant beeping welcoming him back.
"Welcome back, Sir. Did you enjoy your trip?" the guide is smiling, handing over the red box containing the assassin's personal belongings. The rifle and the spent cartridge are collected and safely put away for the next person up. They will be cleaned, polished, brought into mint condition.
The man pats the red suitcase with his hand. His wife was right to recommend this new spa to him. It really got the tension off his shoulders. He can go back into the office feeling like a new man.
Stepping outside of the main office into the lobby he sees the crowd of people awaiting their chance to go back. A man with a mustache recognizes him from somewhere.
"So? How was it?"
"It was good. You only get one shot but you can pay for as many angles as you want."
"But what if you miss?"
"They allow for a small percentage of error. Magic bullets."
"Yeah, I can't wait to try it. First time for me to go back in time. I'm trying to make it as exciting as possible."
"Yeah, it's exciting to be a part of history. Be in the same event with millions of others."
They wished each other well and parted ways.
Somewhere, sometime the sun was slowly coming up over the horizon. Jim Garrison was sweating in bed, having a nightmare of prophetic circumstances.
****
Yeah, I'll title it "The Dream Theatre of Jim Garrison". First draft. Dialogue's probably crappy and too straight forward.
I think it was my friend Ilya G. who had the idea for the whole "amusement park ride" of the future thing.
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| Weird spam. 2006-02-05 20:18:19 ET |
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There's only so much that I can fit into this email. I don't know whether or not I will be believed nor do I know if anybody will read this but I am writing this down either way to, I hope, keep my sanity and grip on what is real and what is not.
I am NAIROBU ATAWANI, son of the ousted former prime minister of Nigeria. In my entire life I have never set foot in Africa, the continent of my forefathers. I was born to a white woman who was seeing my father when he was staying in Londoun, avoiding those who wished not his former political power but his head as a means of revenge for the economic plague that had befallen upon the country during his rule. I now know that this economic recession was not caused by my father but by forces of darkness working against humanity. But I get ahead of myself. I must start from the beginning.
Barely over 2 years ago I had recieved news of my father's passing and of a meeting on the distribution of his inheritance that was to be held a couple of months later in an obscure town in Massachussetts called "Arkham". I have never heard of that town until then but a call to my father's lawyer surprised me with the news that I had a large concentration of relatives living there in a large colonial mansion barely in the outer edges of the town. The mansion was understandably known as "Atawani Manor" and I was to be flown there to split the wealth that was left not to any person in particular but to the entire family as a whole. The time for the trip came eventually and so I packed up a suitcase and took a flight to Logan Airport in Boston. From there I took a cab to the decrepit Arkham and that old manor that held an unknown branch of my family.
But I do not have time to go into specific details of the situation because even now I hear a scratching against the walls of this house and a pecking on the glass. I must write fast for fear of fates worse than death!
They were all seated around a circular table. Dressed in blackish grey, funeral wear for a lack of funeral. All strangely silent, barely moving, bones creaking like old arthritics. And the family lawyer. Black suited, with pincers on his nose, looking more like a funeral director than a man of legal action.
Their faces I could not see and I now know why.
The lawyer took his time reading the will and I glanced about the room taking in the images of my unknown relatives, sitting there, under the darkest clothes in dim lighting.
My father had left us all 250 MILLION DOLLARS to be split between us all. I tried to make them listen to me! To trust me with their shares but...
THEY WERE NOT HUMAN! THEY LUNGED AT ME FROM THEIR SEATS AND I, IN MY PANIC, STRUCK THEM WITH MY FISTS ONLY TO REVEAL THEM AS THE DEAD CORPSES OF MY ANCESTORS!
MY DEAD FATHER WAS NOW ONE OF THEM! HE WAS THE STRANGELY SILENT ONE SITTING NEXT TO THE LAWYER!
I BURNT DOWN THAT HOUSE AND EVERYTHING IN IT DOWN TO THE GROUND. YOU MUST UNDERSTAND THAT IT WAS FOR THE BEST. THEY COULD'VE COME BACK!
I think they alrady did. Even now I hear footsteps upstairs. I have locked all windows and doors and keep a revolver by my side at all times.
I need your help in acquiring the 250 MILLION DOLLAR INHERITANCE left to me by my father. I entrust you to pose as the family lawyer and to provide a 200 THOUSAND DOLLAR down payment for the bank transfer. For your actions I will reward you greatly with a handsome payment of 20 MILLION DOLLARS once my inheritance money is recieved.
But please hurry for my ancestors will not rest peacefully in their ashen graves. I fear I will not live before the next midnight!
Your truly,
NAIROBU ATAWANI
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| The warmth that you hold in your hand 2005-11-12 12:13:05 ET |
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I bought a six pack of handwarmers at K-Mart last week. It's actually cold now so I decided to test it out right now. So I'm now sitting here with a handwarmer in my hand, feeling it heat up.
More updates to come...
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| Monkey Boxen 2005-09-09 08:41:55 ET |
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So currently I have:
An old Compaq deskpro running Slackware 10.eh... 10.1 or 10.2. Whichever one's the latest release.
Another DeskPro (how do you properly capitalize "deskpro"?) runnnig Asterisk@Home. The actual OS is CentOS. I need to mess with that box more.
I also just got a Sun Ultra10 workstation off Craigslist. I'm going to install Solaris 9 on that.
I also have a Gateway 2000 desktop running Win2k on my table and I'm writing this on a Thinkpad t30 running XP.
I think I need a new machine for once.
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