Excerpt


“You misunderstand me, madam,” said Schloss. “The Ungenießbar collection of the Kochenarchiv serves as a documentary record of the worst cooking of all time. If you hope for your sister to be entered therein, you must prove to me that her dishes are as awful as the Concrete Cakes of Zurich, the 1000 Screaming Demon Death Fugu of Kagoshima, and the Six Day Colon War Latkes of Kibbutz Shlomi.”

“Here, try it,” said Hanna, carefully handling a normal-looking cupcake with a heavy welder’s glove.

“I’m sorry, madam,” Schloss said, raising a hand. “I can only gather documentary evidence, not first-hand accounts. We from the Kochenarchiv have been forbidden to taste possible entries since we lost Weiss and Braun to the Doom Salad of Vancouver.”

Hanna nodded. “Very well. Shall we step next door, then?”

The preschool next door had been converted into a makeshift hospital to handle overflow after the bake sale had gone terribly wrong. One patient, lashed to a cot, jerked madly about, floaming at the mouth. Another ran madly in circles, gibbering madly that “only the finest warrior goblins were fit to be chosen.” The patient closest to the door simply thumped his head against the wall, deliberately, endlessly.

“These are people that ate your sister’s cupcakes?” said Schloss, sounding both impressed and concerned.

“Oh no, herr doktor, said Hanna. “They just licked the bowl.”

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“I think this games of ‘Hunters vs. Infected’ may have gotten a little out of hand,” said Mikey.

“Oh, really?” said Jake. “What was your first guess?”

“Maybe the fact that we’ve holed ourselves up on top of Squibb Hall with canned food and Nerf snipers on the roof,” Mikey said. “It’s kind of spooky, but it’s just what Dr. Jonsen said would happen.”

Jake shrugged. “Well, I don’t see why we shouldn’t see it out anyway. We’ve got snipers in place, belt-fed Nerf machine guns, and the game ends on Sunday.”

“But they turned Kevin, and he knew your plans from the beginning,” said Mikey, playing with the green cloth tied around his harm that marked him as a ‘hunter.’ “He could gather up everybody and plan an assault that could overrun us.”

“Mikey, he’s a guy with a red bandanna tied around his arm, not an actual undead monster,” sighed Jake. “The rules of ‘Hunters vs. Infected’ are very clear: when a hunter is tagged by an infected, they become an infected, and they are not allowed to use any hunter weapons or knowledge in the game after that.”

“But what if he does anyway?”

“Then we shoot him between the eyes with this,” said Jake, brandishing his Nerf XP-7000 battery-powered, laser-sighted assault rifle. “We have enough darts to finish them off.”

“And these things can fire mini-screwdrivers if we run out,” said Mikey. He picked one up, loaded in his magazine, and blasted it off; it landed with enough force to bury itself in the weak and crumbly concrete of the abandoned dorm’s rooftop.

“Mikey!” Jake cried.” You know the rules! Modifying Nerf weapons to fire ordnance other than official Nerf-sanctioned ammo is strictly forbidden!”

Before Mikey could respond, one of the sentries cried out. “Infected!”

The Squibb Hall stairwell door crashed open, and a mob of students with red armbands began to pour out.

“That bastard Kevin! He must have used the steam tunnels to get in without being seen!” cried Jake. “Open fire!”

The two Nerf Dushka-138 automatic guns opened up, but the charging students ignored the rain of foam from the sky.

“Cheating! That’s cheating! You’re cheaters!” raved Jake, brandishing a copy of the official rules. “You have to lay down when you’re hit!”

“Uh, Jake?” said Mikey. He was looking at the students’ pasty complexions, vapid eyes, and torn clothes with some degree of alarm. “I don’t think they’re playing the game anymore.”

“They’re not?” Jake watched the horde overwhelm a sniper post on the far corner of the roof and tear the frat boy manning it to shreds. “Holy shit, they’re not! Quick, give me some mini-screwdrivers!”

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“If you gentlemen will just follow me,” said Thérèse d’Uturry, “I will show you where the Huns are billeted in our outbuilding so that you may surprise and capture them.”

Lieutenant Delacroix nodded, and motioned to his poilus to follow with bayonets fixed. They’d had put up with the antics of that crazy woman and her insistence on running her parlor as if she were in high society City of Lights Paris instead of in a ramshackle chateau with lines of combat trenches snaking around the heights it occupied. But soon they would be able to capture a store of prisoners and occupy that strong point as a fait accompli without any further fuss.

“Have I told you about my Paris season, in 1903?” said Thérèse as she led the French soldiers down a muddy and shell-pocked path to the icehouse where the Germans were supposedly holed up, their guard down due to the Uturry “hospitality.”

“Frequently,” grunted Delacroix.

“I would have made such a splash in the cabaret scene if I’d been allowed to stay,” sighed Thérèse. “Did I tell you that I was courted briefly by Clemenceau? I might have made an honest man of him had I not been called back to my chateau to care for my dear family.”

“I’m sure,” Delacroix muttered.

Thérèse slid open the icehouse door and gestured at the floor. “Run in when I open it up.” She gripped an iron ring in the floor and wrenched it up. The door thudded to the ground next to a canvas-covered lump that was the only other thing occupying the space.

Delacroix and his poilus rushed in, with the second man in line brandishing a light for the others to see by. The Germans were there, a scouting patrol’s worth just as Thérèse had said, seated on stools, huddled around the coals of a cold and dark furnace. There was no response to the lieutenant’s barked orders, in German, to surrender. His men looked at each other, bewildered.

The Huns were already dead, to a man. Someone had carefully posed their bodies, to the extent of even placing cigarette stubs and glasses in their hands, in the cool and dry environment of the icehouse.

“What is the meaning of this, Mme. d’Uturry?” demanded Delacroix. He turned to look up the steps…just in time to see that the canvas covering of the object upstairs had been swept away to reveal a loaded Hotchkiss machine gun. Grime from the battlefield still coated the barrel.

Delacoix began to croak an order for his men to open fire, but their full-length Lebel rifles with fixed bayonets were too unwieldy to maneuver in such a tight space…just as the Germans’ Gewehr 98s had been. The lieutenant tried to bring his own Chamelot Delvigne revolver to bear, but the sight of a bloodstained Luger on the floor told of a similar, futile action on the part of the German oberstleutnant.

Thérèse opened fire. These men would stay here, with her; they would join her ever-growing circle of admirers.

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“They say that I was beautiful once,” laughed Cog. “I have to admit that I don’t know if they spoke the truth, for I never saw it.”

Kid regarded the Queen of the Slums with a wary eye. A blindfold of metal covered both her eyes, with a large lens where one oculus ought to have been and a trio of smaller ones on a spindle in place of the other. A grill for what was presumably a microphone protruded, coin-sized, from the canal of each ear. Her skin was pale, blotched in places near her various implants, but her features very delicate and fine. Her hair was dishwatery if clean, and thrown back in a short mane. “I have heard many stories about you, my lady,” said Kid quietly. “I would be honored to hear the truth from your own lips.”

“Fair enough,” laughed Cog. “To satisfy your own curiosity, or to try and ingratiate yourself with me?”

“Both, my lady.” Kid’s answer was nothing if not truthful.

“I was rendered deaf and blind by the Red Plague as but a young girl,” Cog said. “I am told that my family cast me out upon learning of this, replacing me with a lookalike stolen from the slums. I do not know the truth of it, nor do I care to. All I know is that I was raised by a midwife and tinkerer amid the mounds of trash that make up the lowest and most base part of this supposedly grand city.”

Kid nodded, saying nothing that might interrupt or offend the Queen of the Slums, whose mercurial power could aid or cut down anyone as she saw fit.

“One day, my adopted mother was tinkering with a speaker and she brought it to my ear. I could hear the tiniest bit of sound through it–not completely deaf, I suppose, but only practically so. By the end of the year I had built myself a headset by feel alone that allowed me to hear what others said if they spoke into a microphone I had salvaged.”

“How old were you?” Kid asked.

“I neither know nor care,” Cog said dismissively, disarming Kid’s attempt to ferret out her true age. Based on her appearance, she could have been as young as twenty or as old as forty. “After my surrogate mother was murdered by the Guard, and her shop ransacked, for failing to pay protection money to a corrupt officer, I swore to have my revenge. It took years, but I eventually was able to piece together a very crude version of the eyepieces you now see, the earpieces that are my accoutrements, and fused them into my living flesh. It was crude, but effective enough for me to track the Guardsman down and spill every drop of blood in his body.”

The Guard no longer interfered with the Queen of the Sums. They were present, to be sure, but all were in her pocket or marked for death if they interfered.

“Through upgrades and compulsive tinkering, I now see better, hear better, than anyone without similar enhancements,” Cog continued, her eyepieces glowing green as they briefly switched to seeing in the infrared spectrum. “Some say that I have mutilated myself, trading in a flawless face for this power.”

“What do you say?” asked Kid carefully.

“I say that the visage I bear is as beautiful as any I have ever seen in the mirror,” said Cog. “And that if people say I am disfigured, let them say it to my face and bear the full brunt of my powerful response. For my rule over these slums at such a tender age could not have come about with the so-called beauty I once possessed.”

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“Go forth then, and seek ye the Oracle,” said the Automaton, belching smoke and flame. “For only in what remains of the natural world may ye find an answer that be not of cogs and wheels, soot and steam.”

“Where might I find this Oracle?” asked the Supplicant. “For I know only of the great city and its environs, and naught of the natural world but what I have seen in manicured parks and picture books.”

“Go thee many leagues hence in the direction of the setting sun,” replied the Automaton. “Cut ye through the City of Foundries, the Great Crater where ores be strip-mined, and the Desperate Warrens where rats and man live in equal desperation and squalor. Climb ye the Great Wall which shuts off the world of man and his creations from aught which remains of the world of the Deist and his works.”

“And then?” pressed the Supplicant. “And then?”

“Find ye a golden bough which keepeth its hue in summer as in winter,” came the answer in hissing and whistling, clanging and rattling. “Atop that bough wilt thou find an owl of purest white hue, being of two heads. That is the form which the Oracle doth choose to appear to those who would seek it.”

“And then?” cried the Supplicant, almost mad with anticipation. “And then?”

“Ask thine question of it, bearing first the offering of a small creature as repast and a token of thine respect. But be warned: for one head of the Oracle doth always speak the prophetic truth, whilst the other doth always speak its opposite and seek to mislead and waylay, to confuse and corrupt.”

“How shall I know which is which?”

“That,” said the Automaton, “is the final test. They who be worthy of the Orcale’s gift will puzzle out the truth; they who be unworthy will be led astray. I can speak no more to thee, for this be aught that I know.”

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Reports that a group of basketball players disrupted an open dress rehearsal of a musical set to open next week has sent shock waves through the Southern Michigan University community. Allegedly, the perpetrators used catcalls, thrown objects, sarcasm, and pathos to disrupt the University Players’ production of Penis! The Musical. Penis!, which was written in 1995 and has won every award for which it has been nominated since, is based on the true story of a Milwaukee gynecologist and plastic surgeon who performed their own sex change operation in 1987. The Anthony Award telecast called it both “a bitingly satirical take on the male member” and a “plea for tolerance of pre- and post-op trans-everythings.”

This is not the first time the play has attracted controversy; a student newspaper reviewer at the University of Northern Mississippi called the play’s centerpiece number, “The Scrotum Song,” “over the top and disgusting” in a 1998 op-ed. In turn, they were accused of “holocaust speech,” “insensitivity on a Novocain level,” and being a “‘lil Hitler.” Every issue of the offending newspaper was then stolen and destroyed by campus activists as a “response to the columnist’s attempt to silence free speech through intimidation.”

The SMU Guardian published a story on the disruption which soon became national news, with the students’ reporting and sound bites picked up and recirculated without any original reporting on the part of the other news outlets. In an attempt to head off a reaction, the SMU athletic department forced a representative of the players to issue an apology and attempted to suppress the Guardian article, calling it “biased and one-sided.” The apology, delivered by the assistant captain of the lacrosse team, was rejected by the SMU Theater Department, which noted that the wording of the apology, (“we are sorry that some students’ actions were interpreted as causing offense”) was “insulting.”

Eventually, the ensuing outcry, led by sarcastic Twitter statuses and angsty Facebook vagueboking, led to a more official, organized response. “We deplore these actions,” said university president Cynthia Mayfield in a statement. “We fully intend to spare no effort to release apologetic and self-flagellating rhetoric until this whole thing blows over. In addition, I have formed a committee of administrators who have no real function due to administrative bloat, and asked them to come up with a delayed and fully rhetorical response to the incident in six to eight months which will only serve to make things worse.”

Since the riots that led to the closure of the Southern Michigan University several times in its history, most recently in 2007, it has been under increased scrutiny by the news media, says Dexter Hauser, one of the many unnecessary VPs pulling six-figure salaries despite the core instruction at SMU being done by graduate students who are indentured laborers in all but name. “This is the kind of magnifying lens that is normally put only on southern schools that resisted desegregation or places like Kent State where there was some other traumatic event,” said Hauser. “Just like the mainstream media pounces on any incident at a southern school to portray them as a bunch of vicious unrelenting bigots, or calls any stubbed toe at Kent State a ‘massacre,’ any disturbance of any kind here at SMU is termed a ‘riot’ or a ‘new Days of Rage’ regardless of the actual facts of the case.”

The SMU Fighting Grizzlies, for their part, have promised a thorough investigation. “The Fighting Grizzlies believe strongly that athletes need to learn how to repress their natural instincts and learn not to say anything that represents their true feelings,” said head coach Austin Winters. “If these boys expect to go pro, they need to master the art of giving vapid, content-free interviews and press conferences about hustle and giving 110%. Sometimes, in the rush to recruit athletes who have been granted untouchable status and special privileges since middle school because of their top position on the totem pole, we forget that not getting caught in an embarrassing position is almost as important as catching the ball in the right position.”

Cynthia L’Overture, Grand Czar of University Diversity and Guilt, had this to say: “We certainly need to contain this issue as soon as possible with as much boilerplate diversity talk as possible, to plaster over the deep fissures it exposes in our carefully maintained facade–fissures which exist in every school but which the subsequent rhetoric from students, faculty, staff, and outsiders will paint as unique to SMU.” Every special interest group that can associate itself with the wronged party in any way whatsoever, she added, will attempt to twist the incident to their advantage.

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PetStation, a wholly-owned subsidiary of GesteCo, is pleased to announce the latest edition to our lineup of in-store pet purchases! Look for these exciting and always ethically sourced new companions in select PetStation locations beginning this spring:

Elvee-Fortoosixxian Huggfacer
These adorable and spunky creatures take your love of tarantulas, hermit crabs, and other quasi-arthropods to the next level! Able to move at 20 mph, jump 15 feet, and with a tensile strength in their eight legs and tail sufficient to crush a hippopotamus skull, the Elvee Fortoosixxian Huggfacer is sold with its own bulletproof lucite terrarium. All huggfacers sold by PetStation have been hatched from eggs laid by a queen on a special high-alkaline diet to minimize the corrosive effect of the atomic acid that serves them as blood. A PetStation huggfacer has had its proboscis surgically removed, minimizing the chance of any unplanned impregmentation. Best of all, these pets require no food or water! Due to the settlement agreement between GesteCo and Mankind for Ethical Animal Treatment, all huggfacers sold in the state of California have their proboscis intact.

Fancy Procompsognathus

The fancy compy is available in a wide variety of colors, from classic green to white to the ever-popular Clown Compy with polka dots. These turkey-sized creatures are an energetic delight, especially in groups, and will surely be some of the most popular lizardine pets in the diverse PetStation stable. Like snakes, fancy compys require live or frozen feeder species, exclusively available from PetStation (WARNING: non-PetStation live food will cause immediate death from septic shock and anaphylaxis). The fancy compy is a very affectionate creature, well-known for its love bites; its saliva contains a mild sedative that causes drowsiness, torpor, and sluggishness. Due to supply-chain economics, fancy compys are only available to purchase in groups or ten or more.

Kaadathan Zog
The small and highly intelligent zogs are celebrated as pets in their native home of Ull-Thar, City of Felines, as well as the eternal realm of Celefaïs. While regarded as treacherous by some like the googs, ghaasts, and nacht-gaunts, PetStation is confident that you will be able to navigate the zogs’ labyrinthine language and treacherous culture to find these sapient rodents of the dreaming nightscape beyond sight invaluable companions. They are endorsed as pets (and as a delicacy) by such experienced travelers as Rudolph Crater, Bertram Axeman, and Nyanyahotep (the Chaos that Crawls beyond the veil of insanity and ordered space). Please note that, due to circumstances beyond the control of PetStation and its parent company GesteCo, zogs are only available between the hours of 9pm and 6am, and are not available to residents of Rhode Island or students, faculty, and trustees of Muskatronic University.

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The Walker-Blount Computer Lab at Osborn University is proud to present:

The Five Stages of Computer Crash Grief

1. Denial — “My computer didn’t crash, the monitor cable is just loose. It’ll come back on in a second and then I can finish my paper on why the drinking age should be lowered to 12.”

2. Anger — “Why me? It’s not fair! All the other times I typed 75% of my paper without saving there were no problems!”

3. Bargaining — “You there, computer lab guy. I’ll give you everything in my student printing account if you can somehow reach in and get my paper back with your computer magic. It’s all in there somewhere, right? That program that wiped the memory clean whenever the machines restart doesn’t always work, right? Right?”

4. Depression — “Oh, woe is me. I have to retype the first two pages of my report, and integrate all two citations to Wikipedia back into it. I should just walk away and take the zero, or buy a counterfeit academic essay from Honduras.”

5. Acceptance — “It’s going to be okay. I can’t get my paper back, and it was probably going to be a C+ anyway. I can write a new C+ paper easily, and maybe this time I will save to an external USB drive as suggested literally everywhere in the lab.”

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Andrew Rumpfs, CEO and chairman of Rumpfs Equities LLC GmbH, had asked his secretary to forward calls to his office phone while she was on vacation. He may have been a ruthless multibillionaire tyrant, but he wasn’t below answering his own phone for a few days. By force of habit, he also forwarded his own calls to Donna’s phone whenever he left the office, as the few people important enough to know his direct extension weren’t the people who could be left on the line.

It wasn’t until he dialed into his own landline from his cell to leave a reminder message that Rumpfs realized his mistake. His landline phone was forwarding calls to Donna, and Donna’s phone was forwarding calls to his landline in an infinite loop.

He had crossed the streams.

They say that the tortured spirit of Andrew Rumpfs haunts the internal telecommunications infrastructure of Rumpfs Equities LLC GmbH to his very day.

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“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Jim. “You probably know me from these school board meetings if you had any viewpoint on the art program cuts last year.”

There were murmurs throughout the small crowd of parents and busybodies. Jim Vakian had been associated with the Deerton school district for years in one way or another. He’d attended the schools K-12, he had been a substitute art teacher until the program was cut, and his father James Vakian Sr. had taught social studies at Deerton High until he had died at his desk while Jim was studying at nearby Osborn University in Cascadia.

“I’m not here to argue for the program’s reinstatement, but I do have something I’d like to say.”

More grumbling. The school board meetings were open to the public, and he bylaws allowed anyone the podium for new business so long as there was time left in the two-hour allotment. But most of the people there were thoroughly sick of Jim Vakian; his lanky frame seemed attached to every bit of counterculture that Deerton could muster, and his attempts to make a living as an artist had drawn the ire of just about everyone in town. That and the fact that living on what an artist could make with the occasional substituting job gave him what Shawn Didier had called a “hippie stink.”

“As many of you know, I am an artist with deep roots in Deerton. I’ve done my best to try and make a living through my art, but since the art program was canceled that’s become impossible, even with the generous donations I’ve received from my public performances.”

Jim’s public performances generally involved posing, prancing, and shouting while covered with a garish mix of body paint and costumes of his own design, “sustainably sourced” from refuse. The hat he put out collected at most a soda pop’s worth of change each time.

“So, I have decided to embark upon one last public performance piece. I call it ‘Anatomy of a Suicide.'”

Jim reached into his bag and produced a wrapped parcel, and an item rolled up in a rag. Setting both on the lectern, he unrolled the rag to reveal a large-caliber revolver.

“I have here a means of ending my life. Each of you will make an argument as to whether you think I should end myself or spare myself, and I will respond. Our interplay will be chance art, found art, at its finest and most raw. When enough art has been made, I will–as my final performance–blow my brains out in front of you, or surrender to the authorities you are probably already dialing on your cell phones.”

Pandemonium. Jim silenced the screaming with a blast from his gun into the Deerton High library roof.

“The package in front of me contains insurance that the performance will not be concluded prematurely,” he added. “A powerful artwork of my own design, explosive enough to reduce this room to a book burning, equipped with a dead man’s switch.” Jim flashed a small something clutched in one hand. “I will deactivate it only when there is no more art to be made.”

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