Bewildering Stories welcomed me as one of their authors and gave me my first publication for 2023. “Second Chance” began as a character study with no redeeming characters. Kip told me what happened in an interview.
Kip a criminal serving time collecting trash in space is given an opportunity to mend his ways…or not. See the story by K.A. Kenny.
http://www.bewilderingstories.com/issue987/
The story begins twelve hundred years earlier with Vikings concealing a mystical trunk to keep it out of the hands of Frankish heretics. (See “Fool’s Cap”)
By the time Ernest Woerth reached the lab, the trunk had arrived, and Lisa Svanetti was signing the paperwork. She was a graduate student in medieval history and an expert in Nordic runes. She had read his paper on the Jestercians and come to Nimueh College to work with him.
“Excellent,” Ernest said, checking the trunk’s seal and general condition. The oak trunk was twenty inches long by twelve high and wide, and bound with brass hinges and fittings. The boards were caulked and seams sealed with pitch and pine tar, like ship hulls in the ninth century.
“Is this the Dorestad cache?” Lisa asked, pointing to the tar-stained seal. When Ernest nodded, she squealed and danced around in a circle.
“They should make for an excellent thesis,” Ernest said. “I want you to take the lead.” She jumped to embrace him. “But before we celebrate, let’s make sure there is something inside.” He went to the tool cabinet for a chisel.
While they talked, a young man came in, plopped himself in a side chair, and swung his legs over the arm. “Hi, Ernie. I see my project arrived. Uncle Scott said you needed some help.”
“Indeed, I do, Bryton,” Ernest said, drawing a thin smile and regretting his promise to Dean Gilders to keep his nephew Bryton busy.
Bryton scratched his patchy beard then pulled the smiley-face emblem on his tee shirt to free it from sticking to his body. The smell of fried potatoes and stale sweat wafted into the room. Ernest glanced at the unopened trunk then at Lisa, who covered her mouth with her hand.
“Hi, Bryton.” Lisa nodded in the young man’s direction. I’m Lisa Svanetti, Dr. Woerth’s graduate intern.”
“Nice to meet you, Liz,” he raised his hand as if to wave then ran fingers through his matted hair. “Yer kinda like the formal type, huh? And real booky.”
“Yup. And you’re a quick one.”
“My mother always told me that.”
“Enough chat,” Ernest said. “Time to get to work.”
“Sure ‘nuff, Ernie.” Bryton slid one leg off the chair arm and shifted his body to watch. While Lisa softened the pine tar with linseed oil, Ernest worked the seals. The last one parted a half-hour later.
“You superstitious?” Ernest asked Lisa.
“About the curse? I’ll risk it to be the first to lift the trunk lid,” she said, and Ernest nodded for her to go ahead.
The stale odor of desiccation overwhelmed the smell of French fries coming off Bryton. Lisa inhaled deeply, and Ernest motioned her to continue. Inside she found six scrolls, each individually bound with a leather strap and sequestered in its own pigeonhole.
“Those the doorstops?” Bryton asked, leaning forward without shifting a leg. “They look like rolls of old newspaper.”
“The Dorestad Scrolls,” Ernest corrected, turning one in his hand. “Sheepskin vellum, ninth century. Paper didn’t reach northern Europe until the 13th century. The Franks never found them when they overran Dorestad—probably the last Viking stronghold in Germany.”
Lisa transferred the scrolls to plastic sleeves then prepared the lab table to re-hydrate, unroll, flatten, and repair them: spatulas, surgical knives, magnifiers, ink, brushes, fountain pens, oil, leather preservative, sprayer, steamer, document spreader, all tucked in bins along the lab table.
Bryton stretched his body across the arms of the chair and yawned. “You know, dudes, I’m not big into crafts. Think I’ll get a bite in the cafeteria. No rules against lunch, right?”
“None at all, Bryton,” Ernest said without looking up. “Go ahead. We’ll be along.”
Lisa lifted the rough-hewn trunk to clear space then set it back to complete her examination. “They wanted this watertight. It’s makeshift but solid. Look at the hinges.” She lifted the lid wide, and Ernest brought headlamp magnifiers for the two of them. Feeling inside, Lisa detected another seal and tapped the lid. Hollow.
Ernest reached for the chisel. “Looks like there’s something the Jester didn’t want found—a treasure perhaps,” he said. Lisa’s eyebrows arched. The panel came free in one minute, and with it, a stack of wedges, alternating red and green and sown along the edges.
“Leather?” Lisa wondered aloud as she turned the stack under the light. “
“Give it a little Neatsfoot oil and let it soak.” Ernest checked his watch. “We missed the cafeteria.”
“I’m too excited to eat. All I can think about is reading the scrolls.”
“Very well,” Ernest said. “I’ll help you unroll them. Tomorrow we can work on the leather stack.”
“What do you think it is?”
“What I hope it is.” His eyes shifted wistfully upward. “According to legend, the Jester gave her apprentice mage a device to help him master the scrolls, a fool’s cap. It designated his training status and bestowed immunity from punishment should he screw something up in his training.”
“Like Mickey Mouse’s cap in ‘The Sorcerer’s Apprentice’ in Fantasia?” Ernest nodded.
Lisa cocked her head and asked, “So why do we only think of fool’s caps being worn by court comedians?”
“When the Franks and later medieval kingdoms couldn’t get any of the Jestercian incantations to work, they made fun of them. The fool’s cap became a sign of derision, the same as the Jester. They wore replicas to mock Vikings and Druids. We might have found the original fool’s cap or one of the replicas—or it might just be a leather purse.”
Will the Fool’s Cap be a blessing or a curse? Next week’s blog post.
In last week’s blog post: At the clan council fire, bird-like warriors discussed how to deal with the invaders from space. Leal suggested that they might be trying to communicate.
It had been five hundred years since Galactic Phoenix left Earth for a distant star system. Peter Odanoff hadn’t uploaded until just before the landing, but standing on the deck of the lander and viewing the deep orange sunrise made him nostalgic for home.
Wispy clouds on the western horizon indicated a summer storm building. The undulating string of winged creatures flying just ahead of the storm could have been a flock of migrating geese. He imagined his actual eyes squinting and the warmth of sunshine on his face. He swept an open-fingered hand over his head then jerked it back. He’d forgotten. No hair. Only contoured metal and the memory of hair.
After surveying the landing site, they’d spent the first day cutting and splitting cane stalks to build the deck. Its ramp was the only way to access the lander other than the telescoping ladder, which was difficult for Julia’s and Jeninne’s engineering chassis and for their dog Chloe.
Julia Rabkin the physical scientist had selected the landing site, a bare, level spot beside a gorge with access to potable water. The mountain-ridged horizon meant possible mineral resources. Jeninne Sobek the life scientist had started a research and vegetable garden. Our robot chassis required no organic food or medicine, but if things went well, soon there would be children, real children.
Peter was the pilot and chief technician. Though he missed Earth, he had no regrets. Interstellar travel had fascinated him from his youth. He knew his real self had lived a normal human life and been dead for centuries. How many children and grandchildren did he have now? Maybe they’d sent pictures along with software updates. He’d check when the day’s work was done.
The Russian engineers had done an amazing job, but Russians are known for their no-frills practicality. They put optical and aural sensors in his head, and thermal, tactile, and chemical sensors in his hands—so Peter’s hands could smell. He held one up to the morning light. To keep him sane, they’d reproduced his old physiognomy wherever possible. He flattered himself that he was strikingly handsome and was pleased the humanoid chassis reflected that image with a few cosmetic touchups.
Suddenly self-conscious, he pulled his hand down. The last thing he wanted to do was stir resentment. Until they manufactured other humanoid chassis, Julia and Jeninne were stuck with the engineering frames the Russians had given them—more practicality.
“Amazing sight.” Jeninne’s voice came from the agro-planter below the deck.
“Yes,” Peter said and pointed. “If not for that second light, the illusion would be perfect.” Beside the sun was its yellow dwarf companion star.
Peter leaned over the rail as Jeninne’s gimbaled sensor whirled to look up. “Did Julia leave? I asked her to wait.”
“She took the geo-rover up the ridge.” Jeninne extended a pruning hook to the horizon. “She said that area tested radioactive. We don’t have feed materials, and the fabricator needs heavy metals.”
“I’d planned for us to scout that area together, but I know she’s been anxious. Any predators about?”
“There’s a man-sized moa-velociraptor-thing stalking the compound. I’ve only seen one, but there could be others. So far it’s kept to the forest. I’m more concerned about that pack of six-legged predators. Two dozen were sniffing the perimeter last night and pooping. They stayed out of the light. Each must weigh about fifty kilos. Julia calls them devil-dogs. They’ve got some vicious fangs and claws. If they go after her on the ridge, she has the laser stun gun, but it only gets three shots to a charge. Until we know what they’re after, I don’t want Chloe running loose.”
Hearing her name, Chloe barked. She was the only live member of the crew. The Yellow Labrador Retriever would soon be the mother of their first children. The nano-implants had already corrected Chloe’s cryo-damage and reset her gestation time.
Jeninne’s lenses swiveled back to Peter on the deck. “Need help with Chloe?”
“No, but would you unhook her tether?”
Peter called, “Chloe, come.” The big, yellow dog bounded up the ramp and, without slowing, made a hard left into the lander’s open bay.
“I don’t imagine Julia’s rover will attract any devil-dogs,” Peter said, “not for food anyway, but they might defend their territory.”
“I’ll try not to worry,” Jeninne said, rotating on her ball-base and rolling to the garden. “I’m testing the seeds we brought from Earth along with some local tubers and seed cases, also a few fern fruits and fungi for possible medicinal applications.”
The base station lab resembled a twenty-first-century, camper trailer kitchen. Peter lifted Chloe onto the white, MechMed counter. He stroked her ears, checked her pulse and breathing, then inserted the anesthesia needle.
He took a rack with four embryo tubes from the incubator, placed one tube in the MechMed, and hit scan. The timer bar glowed soft blue, ninety seconds, eighty-nine, eighty-eight.
Peter pressed the queuing button beside the comm switches above the examination counter. His preferences flashed by—Bach, Beethoven, Dvorak, Sibelius—as they had every morning for the past seven days. He liked starting the workday with the final movements of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, “The Choral” in D Minor, Op. 125.
A bell chimed once and the panel beside the timer bar flashed CLEAR in soft blue. Peter removed and examined the tube, restored it to the rack, and placed a second tube in the scanner. He hummed then whistled along with the music. This time, after ninety seconds, the bell chimed three times rapidly. The panel flashed ERROR 0.07% alternating with CORRECT? Peter touched the panel. A fraction of a second later a single bell chimed and CLEAR displayed. Quantum deterioration could be expected after so long a time, even near absolute zero. He removed the second tube, switched it, and placed a third into the MechMed.
When the “Ode to Joy” began, Peter sang along, Freude, schöner Götterfunken. He had sung in the chorus at Swarthmore and felt a familiar thrill rising. Suddenly, from the open hatchway behind him, he heard the sound of a melodious flute accompanying him.
“Wonderful, Jeninne, how are you doing that?” A bell chimed and CLEAR displayed. As he removed the third tube, Peter continued singing.
The flute accompanied the melody flawlessly.
“Magnificent,” Peter said, turning to the hatchway. “How do—”
A six-foot, bird-like creature blocked his exit. The creature rocked on its powerful haunches, its black tongue vibrating in its hooked beak like a silver flute. At the end of the musical phrase, the creature lowered and widened its horn-ridged, purple eyes, and centered its beak on Peter’s chest.
He stumbled back against the counter almost dropping the embryo tube. Without thinking, words tumbled from his mouth.
“That … that … that was pretty good … you just do the classics?”
The creature folded its scale-like feathers and opened its beak. “All I hear,” it said in a chime-like voice. “Come for know.”
Peter pulled erect. “You speak English?”
Leal dipped his beak. “Music better.”
“Ski’i,” Leal cawed to the clan council as he entered the cane forest clearing. Curls of sparks and flame twisted high into the clear night sky above the council fire. Seven warriors returned, “Ski’i,” and dipped their beaks. Firelight flickered off their ridged brows and beaks and set shadows dancing against the forest gloom.
The clan elder swept a wing to the spot beside him. Leal fluttered and folded his wings then rocked down upon the bare ground. It was the place of honor he had earned for driving the Jab-Ron clan from their land.
Leal leaned toward the fire to relieve the night chill. The scent of burning cane and spicy Chen Doe root stirred his nostrils. The incense bound all warriors to speak only the truth in council.
No females came to the fire this night for it was brooding season, and many warriors bore the scars and torn feathers from having been driven from their nests. One of the clan elder’s wings hung limp. The warrior beyond him reflected shining bald spots in the firelight. Leal displayed the short feathers and stubble on his right wing proudly, for his mate was strong and fierce. Ree had also given him a deep gash with her beak that left a blood crescent dried on his breast.
“Ski’i,” called another joining the circle.
“Ski’i,” returned Leal and the others, dipping their beaks. The newcomer Tarii extended his neck and pulled upright before sitting. A young buck porod squirmed in his beak, kicking and scratching with its six, sharp-clawed legs. Tarii tossed and caught the porod by its neck then gave a quick shake. He set the fresh kill before the clan elder then backed to the opposite side of the circle.
Impressive show, Leal thought. Porod are savage fighters, and this was a strong, young buck. Too bad the fledged females weren’t here to see the display: Tarii might have had his pick.
Unlike the mated warriors, Tarii’s feathers were full, combed, and unbloodied. Leal knew that next season they would not be. Last year Tarii had challenged him for the right to mate with Ree. It had been no contest, and there was no bad blood between them. Adolescent warriors were expected to strut and challenge, and Ree was as beautiful and intelligent as she was formidable.
“Brooding season goes well?” The elder counted only bobbing beaks. “Game plentiful … water flows … mates and young ones?” More bobs. “Good, then to our main concern. There has been another incursion in our realm.”
Tarii and two others pointed and bobbed three times, indicating three valleys to the southwest.
“Your sector again, Leal. Have the Jab-Ron returned?”
“Not Jab-Ron, of that I am certain. I saw their disk fall from the stars and settle on the cascade overlook as gentle as a twirling Chen Doe blossom. I also watched them set up camp.” All beaks turned toward Leal.
“How many?” the elder asked.
“Four, and they are all quite different from one another—each specialized for a different task. Some have interchangeable claws, limbs, and mouthparts. But none resembles the Jab-Ron or any of our species.” Leal said. A cane log cracked and collapsed, sending a spray of sparks arcing up from the fire. The scream of a lallow pierced the night air then ended abruptly, no doubt a night-stalking aglak had caught its dinner.
“One of the intruders stands on two legs as we do and is nearly our size. It has neither wings nor beak, and its body is made of metal. Two other creatures are also made of metal but have boxy bodies. One has six articulated legs like the web-spinning hindergoss, and spends its time roaming our hills. The other has rolling feet and claws that dig in the dirt. The only intruder of flesh is less than half our size. It has four legs and is covered with downy, tan fur like an adult porod. This one spotted me and alerted the others. It bared its fangs but did not pursue when I backed away.
“Weapons?” asked the elder.
“Only one. The roaming, hindergoss creature carries a weapon that shoots burning light. Other than that, they and their camp appear defenseless.”
“Have any porod packs attacked them?” asked the elder.
“No, but they’ve marked the camp with dung piles and scented a path for a night attack. Tracks indicate that several packs are working together. I believe they’ve held back for fear of the intruder’s sound shield.”
“Sound shield?” The elder rocked and stretched its long neck and head toward Leal. “A defensive weapon? Have you seen it in operation?”
“If it is a weapon, it causes no harm to us,” Leal said. “I find myself curiously drawn to it, and that may be its true purpose—an attempt to communicate. The sound shield has structure, and I’m certain it carries coded information. I am able to replicate some of the sounds and believe I may soon be able to understand them.”
“Very interesting. Continue your investigation, Leal, and report back at the next council.”
Conclusion next week.
“Professor Davis, is it time to play?” Charese stepped from the closet, tossed her shimmering blond hair, and unbuttoned her white silk blouse.
Joel Davis lifted the retinal projector onto his forehead just in time to see Charese’s bra drop to the floor. As she approached, she peeled away her tiny, black leather skirt to reveal scanty, lace panties.
“Not tonight, Charese. Maybe tomorrow night.”
“Yes, sir.” Charese pouted her lower lip then scooped up her bra and skirt as she stepped back into the closet.
Joel’s eyes followed his dolly playmate wistfully. He loved being addressed as Professor Davis and sir. Maybe one day, when he got a job. Right now the idea of playing with Charese seemed like a lot more fun than keeping his appointment with Ilyena. Meeting in person was his idea—to take their relationship to the next level. Now he felt nervous.
He gestured to Ilyena’s animated image on the wall. She waved back, dipping a bare shoulder and tossing him a kiss. Her stunning dark beauty stirred him as much as Charese’s pale rosy glow. But unlike Charese, Ilyena was a real person.
They’d known one another online for two years as teammates and bedmates. They shared the same passions: for music, protesting climate change, and raising money to save the starving children of Sofaragway. After making virtual love the first time, they’d stayed awake all night sharing their dreams, like getting jobs as online gamers or becoming social justice warriors. Liberating FDs (freedom deprived, no one calls them criminals anymore) was their favorite cause, along with insisting the government provide … well, everything, whatever anyone wanted. True freedom meant everything was free, right? Wasn’t that in our Constitution? And anyone being told they were special or getting a special reward just made everyone else feel bad and less equal.
Joel and Ilyena made virtual love every time they met online, and he was sure they would for real, in person—almost sure. Thinking about it twisted a knot in his stomach. He didn’t look exactly like his avatar, a few inches shorter, more heavy in the middle than top-heavy, kinda jowly. He suspected the real Ilyena might look a little different, too, and maybe wasn’t as good with a bow or long sword as she was in the games.
Joel inhaled quickly to catch his breath. He scratched the top of his forehead then pulled the retinal projector down over his eyes. He blinked to scroll the selection then winked up Dark Warrior Ilyena. Her image came up quickly. Long raven hair framed her wide, shining eyes and flowed down one shoulder to curl below her low-cut, red leather bodice.
“Hi there, my beautiful princess.” His athletic persona struck a bicep pose as it ran fingers through its long blond hair and squared its chin. Joel hoped his nervousness didn’t show.
“My Lord Jacquard, hi yourself,” Ilyena said then dropped her gaze. “You know I’m not feeling—”
“Me neither,” Joel said quickly. “Maybe it would be better—”
“Better to meet another time?”
“Yes. When we’re both feeling well,” Joel said, hiding his relief. “Why don’t you get some rest now. We can play tomorrow.”
“That would be wonderful.” Ilyena’s full-lipped smile returned with her upward glance. Joel felt a stir all the way down. “See you tomorrow, my lord. We have dragons to slay.” She nodded, and he winked to disconnect.
Joel lifted the projector and looked toward the closet. “Charese,” he called. “If you expect a good grade on your philosophy exam, you’ll come to your professor now.”
A bell tinkled above the door, announcing Kaylee’s entry to Georgiana’s tiny shop (Kaylee also features in the story “Opening Soon”). Counters with artistic displays lined the walls and pressed into the long aisle. The scent of jasmine and ginger floated on the air along with the soft strains of a Spanish guitar.
“With you in a minute, my dear,” a grandmotherly voice called from the rear counter. The stooped shopkeeper handed a palm-sized package to a smartly dressed, young man. Kaylee noted the iridescent green wrapping and fancy red bow and guessed it was something romantic.
The man thanked the elderly shopkeeper and passed Kaylee as he left, his treasure nestled in a small, cloth-handle bag. Georgiana wore a bright, frock dress, flower-printed with purple cloth buttons. Wisps of gray peeked from the edges of her white, lace cap.
The only other customer in the shop was a well-dressed, middle-aged man. His shifty movements caught Kaylee’s attention. He palmed a cinnamon candle without interest, sniffed it then set it down quickly and looked away when he saw Kaylee noticing.
The shopkeeper ambled toward the front smiling then turned to the suspicious man. “Ahh, Mr. Blighter. Everything is ready.” She looked back and called, “Todd, Mr. Blighter is here for pick up.” A spectacled young man, rail-thin, hastened down the steps from the back loft, a bolt of twill fabric under one arm, a tape measure draped down one shoulder.
Glancing about, Kaylee thought she must be in the wrong shop. The near wall had incense and burners, candles and candle paraphernalia. Fairy- and animal-themed mobiles hung from the ceiling. On the opposite wall and counters were greeting and note cards, small books with artistic covers, bauble key chains, colored pens and pencils, and small-framed watercolors. At the back were costume jewelry, porcelain and glass figurines, and materials for all manner of art projects, hobbies, and crafts.
The shopkeeper smiled at Kaylee, her gray eyes twinkling above her silver-rimmed bifocals. “How may I help you, young lady?”
“My manager sent me. He told me Georgiana’s carried a line of persuasive cajolery. But I don’t see—”
“Are you interested in light persuasion or something stronger?” The elderly woman gestured to the candle and incense wall. “Something to set the mood, for dinner perhaps, or,” she cleared her throat and dropped her voice, “a seduction?”
Kaylee matched the old shopkeeper’s whisper. “Yes. Something like that. I want people to believe me and trust me, hang on my every word and be drawn to me, but not hold me personally responsible if things don’t turn out exactly the way they want.”
“Oh, I see.” The old woman touched Kaylee’s arm. “You should have said that Tom sent you. We get a lot of his people.”
“Tom?” Kaylee’s eyebrows rose.
“Tom Parlous, Trusting Tom, the used car dealer at the corner of Smarting Place?”
When Kaylee winced a sardonic smile, the old woman blurted, “Well, I hope you’re not a prostitute, the requirements are similar,” then quickly covered her mouth.
“No, of course not,” Kaylee said, chuckling at the thought. “I’m a stage actress, and I have to be believable on stage. Our director sent me over. I’ll be staring in Life Goes On. We open at the Paramount in two weeks.
“I’m so sorry.” The red-faced shopkeeper pursed her wrinkled, gray lips. “We get so many different requests. What sort of role do you play, and how much are you willing to spend? We carry everything from duck calls and fulfillment transponders to heart renders and agent provocateurs.”
Kaylee looked confused, so Georgiana elaborated. “Everything from making every man in the audience want to father your child to sending him off to righteously defend your honor.”
“I would prefer something very short term,” Kaylee said, eyes wide. “The effect only has to last until the play ends, maybe after the audience goes home. I don’t want any stalkers or fights breaking out.”
Georgiana’s head turned toward the fitting room as Mr. Blighter stepped out. “Or until the voting polls close?”
Kaylee thought him very distinguished and intelligent looking, a true leader in his trim gray suit — quite unlike the sly schemer she had seen earlier.
Georgiana frowned. “Mr. Bilious Blighter is running for State Senate.”
“Will I be issued a human chassis?” Djix pulsed.
“Your configuration will be humanoid, but clearly mark you as alien. For this mission to succeed, humans must see you as an alien. Otherwise, they will dismiss you as a hoax.”
“Alien? Isn’t this alien enough?” Djix exuded and waved a scale-lined appendage in the ammonia brine.
“Too alien,” Kalig pulsed. “Psyops was very clear on this. To get humans to cooperate, they must see us as advanced versions of themselves. In addition to studying humans, our abduction and probing missions have prepared them to accept this design.”
Kalig extended a pseudopod, inflating the end to form a bulb with two prominent blisters mounted atop a stick-limbed torso. “These blister sensors respond to electromagnetic radiation in the 450-800 terahertz range.”
“Humans will accept that?” Djix creased and pulled in like a folding accordion.
“Our research indicates very positive reactions from our captives. An older couple we examined even invited our scientists down for a Texas-style barbeque.”
“Barbeque?”
Searching for a sensitive way to put it, Kalig eventually rattled, “Humans consume organic materials.” When Djix’s folds tightened, Kalig added the rest. “Their bodies are composed of loosely adhering bags of dihydrogen monoxide solutions.”
Djix pursed a scaly dimple. “I know, I know, I have to go. You’re going to tell me I was specially selected … the only one you trust to handle this sensitive mission … my special skills—”
“I won’t twist your hooley,” Kalig interrupted. “You are expendable: the only one we could spare.” Djix’s receptors narrowed. “Despite their primitiveness, humans are extremely dangerous,” Kalig continued. “If you are to survive, you must appear not only intelligent but also frail and childlike. Humans must respect you but not fear you, especially since your message will not be welcome.”
Seeing Djix study the alien chassis, Kalig paused a beat. “After some discussion, we decided it best not to give you any reproductive organs—”
“Reproductive organs? They don’t let the robots … I mean they still … with their bodies … together—”
“Human lore abounds with stories of gods, aliens, and mythical beasts seducing, impregnating, or abducting their women. We don’t want to play into that narrative.”
Djix’s scales shuddered then contracted in resignation. “Okay. Brief me on my mission.”
“You know the electromagnetic interference, the jamming that’s blocked our communication and given everyone such a core-ache.”
“The deviant pulsar emissions?”
“That’s from humans trying to make contact. They’re the ones stinking up the galaxy, spraying their e-mag pollution, trashing every frequency, begging us to come and give their life meaning. They call it their search for extraterrestrials, and they feel very smug about it.”
“Absurd,” Djix pulsed.
“Nevertheless, you’ve been selected to contact them.” Kalig paused to let Djix recalibrate. “Tell them we’ve put up with their neediness and caterwauling long enough. No one wants to contact or encourage them, and no one wants them in the galactic neighborhood. We tried to ignore them, but they just go on and on and on. The community finally got together and drew straws. We drew the short straw.”
“You mean, I drew the short straw,” Djix pulsed.
“Tell them we’re not going to solve their problems. We will not make them get along with each other or tell them how to cure cancer. If we solve their problems, they won’t get off their hind-joint sockets. The answers to all their problems are in front of them. They just need to purge their organic memory bins, stop conjuring fabulous fears, and stop worrying about who gets credit or has more of something.”
Djix oscillated so hard it almost rocked over. “I miss the ones before them, the dinosaurs.”
“A worthy species. Alas, asteroids do happen. You know, Djix, before dying out, the last thing the dinosaurs did was to restore the planet to its original condition. They dropped all their trash and technical devices into volcanoes and leveled every city. They wanted the species that came after them to have a fresh start. I’m glad they aren’t around to see this crazy bunch.”
FOX NEWS, Jodie Winsome: “Here we are, on the Mall in Washington D.C. on Independence Day. It is a perfect day, too, sunny and clear, with a slight breeze, and only eighty-five degrees. Hey Thomas? Where are you Thomas?“
Thomas Greyling looked up into the camera and smiled then shouted over the raucous crowd. “I’m beside the Reflecting Pool, Jodie, between the Washington Monument and the Lincoln Memorial. Picnickers showed up early with coolers and blankets; some camped out last night to save the best spots. Spaces are filling fast. We all know—this is the place to watch fireworks.”
Jodie: “I hear music warming up. The rock group, Crowd Control, is supposed to be here and country singer, Molly Doorham.”
Thomas: “They’re setting up between here and the Capitol. Fans are milling, children playing, parents shouting. Everyone’s really excited. I think they’re calling for half a million on the Mall and another million in surrounding areas, along GW Parkway and in West Potomac Park.”
“Sweetie, you hear the size of that crowd?” I shouted pointing to the portable TV propped on the orange crate. Carole and I watched the festivities from lawn chairs in the parking lot of Big Ed’s Car Wash. “And those millions of fans have cameras, and there’s full media coverage. We might never have to pay for another TV ad.”
Carole stood and started pacing, clipboard in hand. Dru rocked nervously from his seat on the curb. Carole pointed to her checklist. “The media team should be here setting up. It’s almost noon. Ahh, finally … Here they come. Dru, get ready.”
FOX NEWS, Thomas Greyling: “Was that a sonic boom? That’s the loudest—Those Air Force or Navy jets?” He pointed. “No, wait. Oh my God, Oh my God, OH MY GOD … LOOK.”
Cameras swung to the air above the Capitol building, to a white light that bleached the blue from the cloudless sky. The sound rose in pitch to a deafening scream then dropped low and began a slow pulse, rmmm, rmmm, rmmm. Eyes shot up. Guitars swung on their slings. Hot dogs, footballs, Frisbees and plastic beverage bottles bounced on the turf.
It was right out of Day the Earth Stood Still, and I loved it. A brilliant disk dropped from the white glow to descend on the Capitol. Gliding slowly down the front steps, it followed the Mall, straight and low, then headed down the center of the crowd-lined Reflecting Pool. Cameras large and small fixed on the disk. Eyes glued to what everyone hoped—or feared.
We watched the entire scene from Big Ed’s, and I swear my eyes teared. It was better than I’d expected. “Sooo good. Carole, that sound clip is excellent.” I shot my right hand into the air and called, “Dru!” He jumped from the curb and slapped it high. We laughed and danced pointing at the precariously perched television.
FOX NEWS, Thomas Greyling: “What are we seeing? I can’t believe it. The saucer, it’s—it’s over the memorial, the uh, Lincoln Memorial. Now it’s crossing the Potomac, ahh … the Pentagon, it’s heading toward the Pentagon.”
Jodie Winsome: “Sally? What are you seeing at the Pentagon?”
Sally Campbell: “Jodie? … Yes, sorry. No one here is moving or talking. What does it mean?”
“Can you tell us what’s happening, Sally?”
“The saucer, I-I don’t know what else to call it, it hovered over the Pentagon—a hundred feet up. Stayed ten maybe fifteen seconds. Now it’s over the south parking lot and moving south toward 395. It seems to be following the highway. I’m going with the mobile unit. We’ll try to keep it in sight—leaving the parking lot right now. Now it’s left of the freeway, turning east toward Van Dorn.”
I shifted my lawn chair to face our camera crew. They were glued to the TV set. “Hey, guys, let’s get going. When … I mean, if that thing comes this way, we … ahh, we might get lucky. Hey, Ms., Ms. … Kerry Kline,” I read the announcer’s name from her contract. “It’s coming this way. It’d be a good time to get ready!”
Channel Five’s mobile camera unit tracked the saucer cruising past Landmark Mall and the Duke Street exit, still following Van Dorn. Just before reaching the stoplight at Edsall Road, the saucer dropped almost to eye-level and slid left. Crossing the grassy median, it entered Big Ed’s parking lot and aligned with the central bay.
Dru stepped nonchalantly to the front of the car wash and gestured for a low and slow approach. He looked like a flight line director guiding a plane to land on an aircraft carrier.
“You fellows catching this, right?” Twisting around, I saw my two cameramen glued to their cameras, faces glistening, hands shaking.
The saucer engaged the tractor ramp and slipped into the car wash. Eighty-three seconds later, it passed out through the service bay, glowing noticeably brighter thanks to Dru’s instruction. The dramatic pulse sound, subdued during the wash, grew deafening as the saucer rose eighteen feet. It rocked in the summer breeze then shot straight up and out of sight. Our camera crew, aglow with sweat, followed its flight.
When the camera view returned to the parking lot and Kerry Kline, she broke from the script with an impromptu, “So another satisfied customer came a long way for a great car wash, a Big Ed’s Car Wash.” She ended with a wink at the camera. Her spontaneity would cost her $60,000 in legal fees.
I hugged Carole. “I guess we kinda upstaged the band and fireworks.” She beamed a smile and buried her face in my chest. I felt like a hero and had visions of all our debts flitting off like butterflies. Dru celebrated our marketing coup by pogoing in place. Fortunately, our announcer and camera crew were too stunned to notice our joyous celebration.
Kerry Kline dropped to her knees, hands pressed to her face. “Yes! Yes! Thank you. My big break.” She then stood, smoothed her dress, patted her hair, and checked her makeup.
Our cameramen replayed the sequence, then again, then again. “There, see, we got it! Oh, look at that!”
Crowds streamed in from the apartments across Van Dorn and the Giant Food parking lot across Edsall. A convoy of trucks, emergency vehicles, police and military, campers, and cars filled with screaming tourists skidded down Van Dorn, ignoring the lanes. Some cut the curb and bounced into our lot. Vehicles and pedestrians converged from all sides.
“What? Who? How? Did you?” Microphones swung and thrust into everyone’s faces. Reporters, police, and onlookers blocked the crossroad, backing traffic as far as we could see. It continued until early the next morning.
CNN LATE NIGHT, Barbara Bleakly: “First Contact?” She shook her head and exaggerated a swallow. “Feared by doomsayers, prophesied by religious cults, discussed by scientists. Has it really happened? At an obscure car wash in Northern Virginia?” She narrowed her sculpted eyebrows and glared at the camera. “Questions remain but, strange as it seems, the first aliens may have come to Earth – for a car wash?” Her tone rose sharply on her last line.
Dru had shown up on our doorstep six months earlier—an interstellar traveler in need of star-side assistance. To deter suspicion, he had taken the persona of a destitute youth from Appalachia. To pay for materials to repair his starship, he proposed building a car wash—his field of expertise. Carole and I needed to make the arrangements, pay upfront costs, and provide cover for the repair process. Once Dru was on his way, we could keep the business. Until he explained the wash process, I was dubious—the cost would consume our entire retirement fund and exhaust all our credit.
‘Washing’ to interstellar standards was done with atomic-level precision. Extraneous materials such as dirt and rust were removed and reprocessed then used to replace materials lost: paint, plastic, metal, wear to valves, pistons, belts, gaskets, tires, everything. Cars came out shiny and showroom new. When we tested the process on our old Honda Accord, the gas mileage improved thirty percent over what it was new.
Suddenly everyone wanted a forty-dollar car wash at Big Ed’s—the price we needed to charge to cover costs and to repair Dru’s starship. Cars lined up. Days ran into nights ran into days. Reporters refused to believe our tale of wide-eyed innocence and made life difficult.
“Ms. Ed—?”
“It’s Carole, please, Big Ed is just the name of the car wash.”
“Carole then, why do you think the aliens chose to visit Big Ed’s Car Wash?”
“Good advertising?” she deadpanned. “We spent a lot on TV ads.”
“Ed, how do you feel about the aliens choosing to visit your establishment?”
“Name’s Keith. I don’t know. We sure can use the business, but they left without paying. I figure they owe us forty dollars.”
“I understand you and your wife were completely unaware—but when did you first find out about the alien visit? Have you been visited before? No? How many times? What do they look like? How advanced are they?”
And so it went. They grilled our announcer and camera crew. Poor Kerry Kline told the truth and believed we had too. Thanks to her improvised pitch, she drew the severest interrogation.
Ironically, Dru—the only human-pronounceable syllable in his name—got the least attention and almost no questions. His Appalachian guise and I-just-workin’-at-the-car-wash routine became our little joke. His vacant smile and slow drawl put the reporters to sleep.
Despite the media harassment and insistence on an investigation, the money kept flowing. Soon we had enough for materials for starship repairs. We shut the car wash down for the weekend to give Dru the time and privacy to fabricate the components. Then late that Sunday night, we hugged, wished each other well, and tearfully parted company. Dru said he’d stop by when he was in this system and would put in a good word for us. I didn’t ask with whom. Everyone was happy. I thought our problems were over.
After Labor Day, Channel Nine ran an exposé on Big Ed’s Car Wash using mic’d up actors posing as customers.
“Ed, my car’s beautiful. Runs great. All the dings and paint cleaned up. Do I owe you extra for the radio? Why’d you fix my wife’s cell phone? She wanted an updated one. I should get a deduction.”
“Stanley Steamer parts? Those were rare eighty years ago. I keep a machinist on call. But what’d you do with the originals? They’re antiques. I want ’em back.”
“Those pots in the trunk were headed to Good Will. Look how they shine. And the clothes stitched, cleaned, pressed and re-dyed. They’re out of fashion, but now my husband won’t let me get anything new.
WASHINGTON POST, Page A-1: “Saucer Washer, Big Ed, Sued for Illegal Repairs. Local Congressman Jim Mertano to investigate parts counterfeiting, patent infringement, smuggling, and possible labor violations—” The Post article failed to mention Mertano’s ties to the mechanic’s union.
Minus the money we gave Dru, we were again deep in debt. We hired attorney Marsha Elliot of Elliot and Elliot to protect our assets. I assured her nothing untoward was going on: checking serial numbers would show that all the parts were repaired originals, not replacements.
ABC NEWS, Karen Storm: “Questions continue over Big Ed’s Miracle Car Wash. What kind of miracle do we have here? I asked EPA investigator Charles Hale. Mr. Hale?”
“Karen, Big Ed’s has yet to file with the EPA on their processes. We’ve taken air and water samples. Until the report comes back from our lab, we need to evacuate those apartments,” he gestured, “there across Van Dorn Street.”
NATIONAL ENQUIRER: “Muscular Dystrophy Cured? Mother testifies, ‘We left Butch in the car, accidentally, of course. I was afraid he’d be dead. We were planning to sue, but look at him! He’s all cured.’” Before-and-after pictures showed a sickly child then a tearful mother hugging a handsome youth in perfect condition. “’It’s a real miracle, God bless you, Big Ed!’”
FOX AM NEWS, Roger Durban: “Crowds have been gathering at Big Ed’s since midnight. Everyone is carrying either a candle or a pitchfork. Chief John Adams is here from the Alexandria Police Department to keep order. Chief?”
“I’ve never seen anything like this, Roger. Fear, anger, hope. It’s scary, and it’s getting out of hand. I called Franconia Station for backup.”
“Thanks, Chief Adams … Oh, what is this?” Sirens and shouting drowned out Durban’s broadcast. Half a dozen helicopters WHOP, WHOP, WHOPPED over the scene. Spotlights swept the parking lot. Rappelling lines dropped followed by troops in SWAT gear. A column of black security vans, bounded across the grass, passing backed up traffic. Police directed the crowd to clear the path.
Roger Durban waved for the camera to scan the scene: a sea of placards and hopefuls, “The Truth is Out There,” “Only Jesus Saves,” “Stop Global Warming.” Adults milled about in costumes: Star Fleet uniforms, Vulcan ears, Hobbit feet, vampire fangs, longhaired proselytizers. Mothers hugged emaciated children. Young and old slumped on crutches and in wheelchairs. Police took Carole and me into custody while hazmat-attired workers streamed past us to dismantle the car wash.
When we got home that evening, we found crowds gathered to pray or protest. A couple windows were broken on the house. Police drove the people away, but they kept returning at all hours.
Government lawsuits began a few days later. When Big Ed’s ‘washing’ technology wouldn’t work at a secure government facility, officials claimed we’d sabotaged it. Another suit claimed the entire episode was an elaborate hoax and all our customers paid shills. A few of them even took money from news networks to confess. After that our attorney stopped answering our phone calls.
Late that October, when we were getting up to walk the dog, a knock came at the door. It was 4:45 A.M. I swallowed hard and looked at Carole. Knock, knock, knock, it came again.
She turned on the porch light and reached to open the door. I held up my hand. “No, let me this time.” The cool, pre-dawn breeze floated in over a smallish Indian woman standing in our doorway. She wore a plum and red sari with one panel draped over her arm.
“My pardon, Mr. Keith?” The woman looked up with large dark-highlighted eyes. “I am Lishktrkdnlyschandra. I hope my appearance is appropriate to this planet.” Lifting folded hands before her lowered face, she bowed politely. “Our dear friend, you call him Dru, he spoke well of you. He is sorry he cannot come. He said you might be in need of our assistance. We cannot let you suffer on our behalf. Sanctuary lists you, your kind wife also, and your home as refuge for travelers.”
It took me a moment to register the woman’s message. “Excuse me one second.” I raised a finger and called back into the house. “Carole, we have a visitor.” Returning to the young woman, I said, “Please come in. May I call you Chandra?”
All us kids knew the beast lived in the old shed on Lander Knoll, but we never talked about it, not for long anyway, and then only in whispers. It was as if the beast might get angry and come after us, kinda like my second-grade teacher Miss Jaspers, only worse. The beast would come to your house to get you, your brothers and sisters, and your parents.
Then came the Scout Jamboree in October, where everyone was suppos’ to tell a scary story ‘round the campfire.
Fridge got booed when he said his scariest story was about finding an empty ice cream carton in the freezer. Like some ghost had snuck in late at night and eaten it all. Fibber, who was older than the rest of us and almost eleven, said the ghost was prob’ly Fridge’s fat sister, and all the scouts laughed.
Cowboy told the story about finding some animal’s missing foot in the forest, and the animal had really long teeth that dripped drool, and it couldn’t rest ‘til it came and got its foot back. I heard it before, but Cowboy told it real good.
I told one my grandpa told me about a crazy old man that lived on an island who told such great stories, boys ‘ed come to hear ‘em. The boys kept disappearing, but they never figured out it ‘as the old man what did it. When the old man’s voice got real soft, boys ‘ed lean in cause they wanted to hear. Then the old man, he stabbed ‘em with his cane that was really a spit for roasting wild bears and boars and such, then the kids got roasted, too, and the old man ate ‘em.
At the end, I whispered so they had to lean in, then shouted and held my hiking stick up like it was a spit. All the boys’ eyes were big as owls’. Kip fell off a log. “True story,” I insisted. “Really, it’s true.” I felt all warm after telling that story, like maybe I’d win a prize or somethin’.
Fibber frowned at me hard. He pressed his lips tight, nodded, and ran a finger under his nose. Then he broke our unspoken rule: he told about the Beast of Lander Knoll. We all got sudden quiet. As he spoke, I felt a chill on my neck, like monster breath. I checked behind me at the forest of shadows shifting in the campfire light. Cowboy and Fridge looked scared, too.
Fibber said it was Indian legend from long before white men walked this land that the beast lived in an ancient tree on Lander Knoll. The Indians told the pioneers not to cut the tree down, but they didn’t listen. They made a shed out of the wood and put it right where the tree was before. Nobody knew what the beast looked like, ‘cause no one ever lived that had seen it. People just heard that someone was gone, and no one ever spoke their name again. No one ever asked neither—cause they were all scared the beast might hear ‘em.
Far as Fibber knew—which was a lot more than the rest of us scouts knew, cause we kept lookin’ at each other and back to the woods—the monster never left the shed. Just kept pullin’ people inside, mostly kids. Maybe it didn’t live there at all and only came at night for its dinner, like steppin’ out of some gate to hell or somethin’.
After the Jamboree, kids all started talkin’ about the beast and the shed on Lander Knoll. Zeke the groundskeeper kept tractors, tools, nails, an’ stuff in it, so maybe the beast only came at night like Fibber’d said. Zeke used to go to Growler High School in town and played football. Last year when he hurt his knee, he decided he’d had enough school and took the groundskeeper job. Though big as my dad, Zeke acted more like a kid, and he joked with us, too.
When we asked him about the beast, Zeke gave us a funny smile and said it was true, all of it. “Don’t never go up there late, not after sundown, no matter what you hear. Bad things happen when boys come to the shed at night. ‘Cause if you do an’ the beast catches you, you know what it means?” He shook his head and grimaced. “It means I got a mess to clean up.” He laughed then said that’s why he keeps a big lock on the shed—to keep the beast in and small boys out.
That evening, Sally came over while my mom went to the wives’ club meeting. Sally was starting high school and trying out for cheerleader, so she still had all her cheerleader clothes on: a white sweater with a big green ‘G’ on the front, a green-and-gray pleated skirt, and saddle shoes, white on the toe and heel with black running up across the laces.
We ate supper on the bare, wooden, kitchen table: my sister in her highchair, me on a tube-metal chair with a red plastic seat. I watched Sally open a can of SpaghettiOs and boil two hot dogs. Her short blond hair bounced when she walked, and her skirt pleats shifted and pulled along her bottom. When she turned and caught me ogling, I got embarrassed. So I kept my eyes on her black and white shoes while she brought us our SpaghettiOs.
Later Sally practiced cheerleading in our living room. My sister and me sat on the sofa. Every step, hop, kick, and turn came with a shout. When she shouted for us to give her a ‘G’ or ‘O’ we’d shout the letter back. Every cheer ended with a hop and a kick and a big smile, and we cheered and clapped for her.
When I asked Sally if she knew about the monster, she looked a little scared. I showed her out my bedroom window how close we were to the shed, the closest house in the development, about as far as throwing a baseball from second base to home plate. Sometimes at night I heard strange sounds, something knocking inside the shed, and saw things moving, ‘specially after sundown.
Fibber said that’s when the beast came. It was hungry and needed to satisfy a terrible hunger, and it was good Zeke kept the shed locked. I didn’t tell Sally that I’d seen the door open: like last night and once last week.
“The beast won’t come for you,” Sally said. “It won’t leave the shed, so you mustn’t worry. Have you told anyone else about this?” No, I said, she was the only one, ‘cause I knew she wouldn’t laugh. Mom and dad were too busy to listen.
Next morning I decided to talk to Fibber and the boys. “Why ‘nt you go up an’ see for yourself?” Fibber sneered. “Just maybe you’ll learn somethin’.”
“And maybe you’ll die a terrible, bloody death,” Cowboy chimed in, nodding.
I looked Fibber in the eye. I wondered if I backed down, if Cowboy and the rest would still talk with me or laugh.
Then Fibber raised the stakes. “Good thing Zeke keeps the shed door locked to keep little kids like you out,” he said. “In a full moon that might not matter much—‘cause the beast is strongest then and it could break the lock.”
I was tired of being the little kid in the scout pack and tired of being the scaredy-cat, even if no one said that out loud. No one ever went up to Lander Knoll at night, not in a full moon. But I had to.
My shadow in the silvery moonlight reached out in front of me. Beyond it, the weather-worn shed glowed a soft gray. As I climbed the bare slope, a hundred reasons rushed through my head for not going up there. No one would blame me. Later would be a better time. I could wait for Cowboy and the others but knew they were more scared than me.
The chilly fall air smelled dry and dusty. A shiver ran through me. I swallowed and tried to keep my knees from shaking. My sweaty, yellow, scout t-shirt stuck to my thin body, and my wet belt scraped at my waist.Ignoring all the good reasons to not go, I swallowed again and took another step, then another.
Something stirred in the long dry grass then scurried quickly away. A single faraway bird gave a lonely twitter. I stopped to listen and breath then continued. Setting each foot down as quietly as possible, I worked around to the locked shed door.
Something clattered inside then scraped as it dragged or got pushed. I heard a long moan and a groan then a slam as the shed door kicked open, letting out the stink of fertilizer and gasoline. Inside the shed, on the floor beside a riding mower, a dark lump rose and fell as it breathed, rocking slowly like a rowboat alongside a pier and gaining momentum. The rocking became violent as I watched. I shook all over and wanted to run, but my feet were frozen to the ground.
A high-pitched cry suddenly split the air, and a human foot kicked out from the lump. It wore a saddle shoe, white heel and toe with black across the laces. I jumped back and my eyes caught a flash of white in the moonlight, a white sweater with a ‘G’ hung on a leaf rake handle. I gave a shout and the lump stopped rocking. A face emerged, a smiling face, then an arm grabbed and pulled the shed door shut.
“Who was it, Zeke,” said a familiar voice.
“Just some kid,” Zeke said.
I stumbled down the hill fast as my wobbling legs could go, certain the beast was right behind me. Soon as I got to my house, I ran inside, slammed the door, and leaned hard against it.
My mom yelled at me for slamming the door, and I said I was sorry. While catching my breath, I tried to remember everything what happened, as many details as possible, so I could tell it at the next campfire.
When I got to the part about the saddle shoe and the white sweater with a ‘G’ and the lump with the face and arm, I was stumped. “Why were Zeke and Sally in there?” As I heard my own words, the reason became suddenly clear.
Sally never came to the house again, and I never let on when I saw Zeke. I never told the story at the campfire, and not to Fibber, Cowboy, or the other scouts. And they never asked.
To avoid prosecution, I have to confess everything before midnight—that’s when the Artificial Justice Law goes into effect. And since litigation is still pending on Thought Crimes United v. Humans, I’ll go ahead and get a few things off my chest.
The AI judges don’t understand this, but crime is a kick—all crime. That’s right, I just said that crime is fun. If you’re not eaten up with fear of getting caught, it’s a very heady experience.
So, let me say at the onset, I am NOT sorry for any of my virtual crimes. Not a thing. Not watching VR porn. Not stealing others’ virtual stuff. Not sabotaging avatars or jacking the program to make them perform obscene acts. Am I the only one who can admit this? Do I hear crickets? Is everyone out there posturing righteous shock while they jack or otherwise abuse non-player-characters and avatars in a closet?
Let me point out some advantages. Besides entertainment, I get material things. Okay, they’re virtual, but I don’t have to pay or work for them: extra lives, magic artifacts, cool weapons, complicit bed partners—more or less, at least after I tweak their settings.
Taking arrogant assholes down a peg is also very affirming—very ego boosting. You know the ones I mean: the rich Dudes and Duch-asses that buy status without actually solving or slaying anything, the ones who take Tiger tanks to fight cave-dwellers, or who bribe the tech to open a backdoor to level 36 then wait to ambush you with a pawnshop-purchased Nuke-A-Mega-Power-Wand that would make Lord Voldemort proud. You can only imagine the horror on the too-beautiful face of #my6y* when my submission tool bent her into full bondage posture and flipped her over. Ooo baby!
Yes, I used her real tag. That’s so you can contact her and tell her what a pussy she is. Unlike a true online warrior who would have demanded a rematch, she ran to her rich daddy and got him to bribe, I mean lobby, Senator Pokesnout to pass the Artificial Justice Law. My creative programs became Exhibits A thru H for artificial abuse and thought crimes.
I confess I may have been a little arrogant myself. While I played with #my6y*‘s pneumatic avatar, I hacked her friends and made them watch. Okay, so I programmed them to jump up and down, clap, and shout encouragement.
The new law is crazy. What is virtual? The Artificial Justice Law is pretty vague on that point. Are crayon trees virtual trees and finger-painted houses artificial? Looking at naughty pictures of Elmer Fudd carries the same penalty as sexual assault. If your daughter draws stick figures, make sure she puts pants on them. And your five-year-old boy should know that the alphabet building block with the “L” on one face looks like an automatic, high-powered, .45 caliber, assault pistol that will turn him into a school-clearing serial killer.
Ahh, I feel so much better. It’s still a few hours to midnight, so I’m going to play every game I have that’s on the forbidden list. Then I’ll work on my virtual stealth program so I can get around their Artificial Justice Law.
Catch you later in my XXX virtual dungeon.
Strange Things Done 