[eastbay]

He hesitates briefly as he holds his breath while slowly squeezing the trigger and momentarily wonders if his new target is worth investing a precious and increasingly scarce bullet.

And just as that thought crosses through his mind he notices the unique antennae protruding from the roof revealing to him that this car is from the hated Department of Thought Crimes and is certainly driven by an armed agent. Knowing that spending one well-placed round is an excellent investment when it will easily be replaced by dozens more as well as an assortment of other valuable weaponry in less than a minute, he completes the pull on his trigger and hears that soothing and terrible sound once again.

[crossthread]

Hearing the Soothing sound,,, It makes my hair stand on end..... Whlie placeing a well aimed bullet killing the "thought Police",,,,,Redunant voices, sounding like Led Zepplins "Stairway too Heaven", I focused at the job at hand, while thinking, I need too quit smoking that shit.... It's really tripping me out here... Off on other planets and such.... Thinking of "better care free times".
Snapping back too reality; I looked though my SpecXXX made scope, planning my route of attack...
The Oil refineries were just below about 300 yards, and I'm running close to empty...

[Granny-May]

Makia must want to keep me alive for some reason. Everyone knows the Humanure bazooka isn't lethal without several direct hits to smother the victim. It's taken so long to clean this crap out of the controls that I'll never catch up with the squadron. They'll have to take Zeblon 5 without me.

But, I've got other things to worry about. One of my clones is running amok with his SpecXXXXLG. I never should have tried that turnip supplement when he was in the vat.

The second one is being processed. What has humanity come to when a man can't even pick his own nose? Gotta figure a way to get him out of there before he starts remembering Minneapolis. That unfortunate incident when the Space Mirror System malfunctioned and melted the city was tough enough to erase the first time.

The third is MIA. Should have known to implant the tracer a little deeper. That boy was always picking at his privates.

[PenultimateManStanding]

Yeah, they'll have to take Zeblon 5 without me, because I can't stand cleaning this damned Humanure Bazooka any longer. The sores on my nostrils from the clamp are beginning to fester. My fingers stink all the blasted time. I'm going AWOL, dammit! I've got three clones to find. Well, make that two. The last time I saw MIA, he was scratching himself and muttering something about neo-natal goobers. Best just write him off, because something fell in that vat! The others are solid and I've got to find them. It's a funny thing about clones. They seem strangely different and you can feel it. You can't see it, but intuition says they have their own sense, their own angle on things. Too bad there is only one specXXXXLG. And I have every confidence that the processing center is no match for any clone of mine!

[Andrew_S]

<outback>

Having left his saliva sample to develop in the VacciMate microlab, Miss Chambers escorted Gordon upstairs to an unoccupied three-bedroom dormitory. In her pretend officious manner (against her gentle nature) she instructed him to change and sleep.

Lying in bed, Gordon's head was rapidly clouding. "Shit, I'm feeling bad", he said to himself. As he lay wondering what the diagnosis would be, an ominous sense overcame him. As if in a premonition, he felt a distant, evil force dragging him. So distant, maybe on the other side of the globe. "I hope I'm not gonna die", was his last thought as he lapsed in unconsciousness.

</outback>

[PenultimateManStanding]

It is most peculiar. Something about Sweden or Finland keeps pestering me. I keep having these thoughts of some nurse and her skirt. hmm. . . Nevermind that, a real soldier doesn't let his primal urges detract from his purpose. The trainers told of the processing center, so that's where I'm headed.

[Andrew_S]

<outback>

The weekly conference at Goudhurst Hall had, as usual, been a frightful bore. Worth it for the lunch, though, smiled Matron Clutterbutt to herself. As she strode purposely towards the quaint, white, clapboard sanatorium a few small boys cowered away from her stout, six-foot frame clad in starched, matronly uniform.

Matron Clutterbutt: “Afternoon, Angela. Anything?”

Miss Chambers: “GG-137, high fever, flu.”

Matron Clutterbutt: “Subtype?”

Miss Chambers: “[A (H5N1)] 07/08”

Matron Clutterbutt (surprised): “Well!”

Miss Chambers: “Here, check the output for yourself.” She handed her the pocket VacciMate.

Matron Clutterbutt: “Now, that’s a blast from the past! Haven’t had a case of Kristianstad flu slip through in quite some years.”

</outback>

[PenultimateManStanding]

When did George Bush ever learn to play the guitar? Oh well, It's only a 150 miles to the processing center. I should be there in four days. Maybe by then my fingers won't smell so bad. Of course the police may get suspicious of clean fingers that don't reek of humanure.

An impulse to jump up and touch the light fixture. Counterthought: run for the door. Resultant: running in circles. Progress. . .

[Granny-May]

Will these fiends ever stop with the joy stick? How many times must I jump to the light fixture and how many circles must I run before their warped humor is sated? Got to get out of here and back to the community! Aargh, the door is so close!

For a moment I indulge in remembrance of my home and am briefly soothed as the gentle scent of humanure wafts through the room. Can it be that memories evoke olfactory experiences? Nah, that would reverse the well established madeleine theory.

[frankthetank]

Thats when i pulled down my pants to expose myself. The glaring white of my dimpled cheeks shown brightly in the incandescent light. I stared blankly wondering, "Why me?" of all people to do something so criminal in front of such caring, loving people. The expressions on their faces told me that the decision made was totally off base. I knew working with the elderly was a bad idea...

[Granny-May]

Gordon thrashes in his cot as his fever heightens. Feathers drift from the ceiling in a thickening cloud. He can't feel the weight settling on his tortured body. There is an urgent need to scratch his unmentionables, but he can't find them.

A strangely comforting aroma fills the room and Gordon is finally able to sleep.

The matrons watch and watch, reserving their opinions.

[Granny-May]

The Spec-XXXXLG proves it's fine design again. Thought Crime Patrol was using mongrel ammo for their own fit, but the powder works just fine to propel many types of matter down the mean barrel of the Spec-XXXXLG.

The dark figure pauses to collect the powder while cooking a fine meal of
burdock root with dandilion greens.

"Those dopes at the refinery will never know what hit em." He packs the barrel of the Sped-XXXXLG with stones and easily acquired animal/human excrement.

A familiar scent follows the breeze as he works and he is comforted for a moment.

[Andrew_S]

<outback>

All those days of rugby training rolling around in cold mud had finally come in useful, he thought to himself.

His throat was rasping as the merciless sun of the outback pounded down on him lying on the ground.

Through the piles of feathers around him he spied the corpse of one of the voracious, feral ostriches which had attacked him, its neck wrung. Maybe he would resort to drinking ostrich blood.

Barely having lifted himself from the parched, feather-strewn dust a massive red kanga layed a beauty of a left hook on him.

*****

Gordon (feebly regaining consciousness): "Granny... Granny...."
(He'd never known his real mother.)

</outback>

[Aaron]

It was perhaps fitting, but unexpected, that just then a massive asteroid impacted the Earth, destroying the entire planet. But even more unlikely, was that this devastating event happened only seconds before some unknown force accelerated the heat death of the Universe, extinguishing all life, and all possibilities of future life.
Even as I write this I can feel the

[Andrew_S]

<comeback>

Gordon: "No! No! No!"

Miss Chambers: "Calm down, you're okay now."

She gently soothed his pounding forehead with her soft palm.

Gordon: "But... but... I feel the universe is about to implode!"

Miss Chambers: "Don't be silly, now. It's only a dream. You've been delirious for three days."

</comeback>

[PenultimateManStanding]

There it is! The Processing Center! Soon I will bust out my clone. Wait. . . what's this?!! Blinding Flash of light. . .

Drifting through the ether. So this is the afterlife! I knew it! Yon Shining City. So beautiful!

[Omnitir]

Wow, I’m dead but I’m still alive! I knew there was something beyond. And yet, this all looks so different to what I was expecting…

Oh the poor world, after all the troubles we endured, it gets destroyed by a rock from space. Damn it, maybe I should have voted for the space elevator project. If it went ahead, they probably could have stopped this.

Now, where the hell am I?

[PenultimateManStanding]

A gentle and beatific soul approaches, floating through the ether. I know him! How, I don't know. He was a sage of long ago, in Earth reckoning. No, not Jesus himself. Hopefully I will meet the Sacred One. It is Aquinas, The Philosopher! So many questions. Who was better, The Beatles or The Rolling Stones? (BTW, I can't leave this alone, because for some reason I crave the sacred, like other earnest people. The question is where is it?)

[Granny-May]

As I regain my wits I realize that the beatific soul is not Jesus or Mohamed or Loa Tsu or even St. Thomas....It's Ed McMann assuring me that my entry in the PCH Sweepstakes is confirmed!!

Glory Be! It's not the end of the world, just a massive marketing campaign!

Finally assured that my time was not wasted in filling out those endless sweepstakes forms I can now focus my efforts on reclaiming the clones and saving whatever vestiges of civilization remain.

[Granny-May]

"Well this is finally it: Time to go"

My efforts to save the world and to give Gordon his first intimate encounter with a short skirted nurse have failed. Maybe he just needed the Mommy he never had.

Woe is me! I should have offed myself back in 05 and avoided this crap. I knew it would come to no good end. Here I am trying to round-up clones while ducking Ed McMahn and the Publishers Clearing House Sweepstakes' incessant demands. (I know he's dead, just proves his unrelenting persistance).

There's a cat, a white cat, traipsing across my keyboard. I take no responsibility for what cats may type while I sleep. No, the cats don't know my login info, but they are devious.


Ps: please feel free to correct any grammar and spelling that offends you/