Excerpt


The concept of Fat Tuesday is inexorably tied to that of Lent, specifically the Lenten fast. It’s a tradition of eating very well before a long fast that begins the next day, which later on expanded into having a lot of colorful fun (the “carnival season”) before a period of Lenten solemnity culminating in Easter.

It’s a contrast between the plenty of a large meal and a lengthy fast and a wild party before a time of asceticism and devotion, and it’s in that contrast that the power of the holiday is gained or lost. What does it mean to pig out if that’s what you do every day, before and after? What does it mean to throw a wild party if that’s the extent of your usual weekend plans?

Fact is, we live in a society of excess, of plenty, where gluttony and partying are expected if not celebrated (and the “we” I refer to isn’t just the USA but the entire developed world). That’s one of the reasons that Mardi Gras, traditionally a very Catholic and very Latinate holiday, has made massive inroads into other groups: it’s become little more than a flimsy excuse to get smashed. Or, in the case of people for whom getting smashed is a weekly occurrence, getting really smashed.

You see that same impulse in the adoption of many holidays that, important as they may have been in other cultures, were obscure to the Western population at large. Chinese New Year, Cinco de Mayo, St. Patrick’s Day…all observances with long and proud traditions that have been reduced to the status of Budweiser Holidays. In every case the underlying event–the lunar new year, the Battle of Puebla, the Catholic faith–has been rendered obscure by the haze of excess.

And, much as I’m loathe to admit it, I’m a participant in that milieu. I have never had the spiritual strength to give up anything for Lent, or to fast even in the midst of plenty. Even if I were Catholic and part of the tradition, the necessary duality between feast and famine, joy and solemnity, wouldn’t be there.

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“I still haven’t met the bride-to-be,” said Houston. “Knowing you, she’s got to be a little crazy.”

“Oh, pshaw,” said Pierre. “Have you even been looking at my Facebook? I’m settling down, getting old and boring.”

“I have a hard time believing that ten years would be enough time to file off those sharp edges,” Houston replied. “Plus, everyone censors themselves now that their grandmothers are on there.”

“Well, judge for yourself,” Pierre said, opening the dining room door. “May I present Ms. Jane Roe, the future Mrs. Pierre Delecroix.”

Houston stopped dead at the sight of the short brunette. Those eyes…that face…he hadn’t seen them in years, not since that terrible night. He could still feel the world tumbling beneath him, see the harsh lights, feel the cold clammy metal…

“Ah, so is that what you’re going by these days?” Houston said. “When I knew her, she was still going by “უცხოელის” but admittedly it’s hard to make a proper introduction when you’re being abducted and probed by ნეპტუნიians.”

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“Don’t you see?” Max’s glasses were fogged by humidity and excitement, his eyes glittering behind nearly opaque screens. “This is a chance to get even with everyone who’s ever pushed us around. It’s our chance to make things fair for everybody and make the town a better place. Hell, the world could be a better place.”

“I…don’t think you’d agree if you could hear yourself, Max,” said Sasha. The…thing…pulsed angrily behind Max, shifting colors from aqua to crimson, and the “veins” that twisted over its surface recoiled with what could only be described as anger. “We’ve seen what this thing will do when it gets bigger.”

“That’s with nobody controlling it, or with someone bad doing it,” Max cried. “With one of us, one of the geeks, in the driver’s seat…it’ll be different.”

“You can’t control it, Max!” Corrie said. “If anything, it’s controlling you!”

More red hexagonal “arms” crystallized from the central, but they were thinner, sharper, than the thick central core of the…thing. “You guys can either get onboard or get our of here,” Max said, a note of menace evident in his squeaky and occasionally broken voice. In school even he laughed at his voice sometimes; no one was laughing now. “If you try to interfere…you’re not going to like what happens.”

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“I’d like to provide a demonstration if I may. Here, write the first thing that comes to your mind on this slip of paper. Try not to let anyone see it.”

“Uh, okay. Here you go.”

“Thank you. Now watch this: I’m going to take that paper and burn it, right here. I hope this doesn’t set off the smoke alarm or we’ll be finishing our class outside today! There we go. Now, let me ask you: was any information irreplaceably destroyed just now?”

“Not really, no. The word was ‘elephant.’ I know what I wrote. I can write it again, I guess, or tell people what it was.”

“A not uncommon opinion, I’d wager. Let’s see a show of hands: who agrees that no information was lost? Looks like most of you. And who thinks that it was? Just a few. Why do you disagree with Margaret?”

“Well, usually when a professor phrases a question like that, they’re fishing for an answer and you can pretty easily tell which one they want.”

“Ha! Spoken like someone who’s been around the block a few times and knows how to use that information! Consider this, though–all of you. The exact strokes on that paper will never be made again, as the mental state Margaret had can never exist again. There’s all sorts of information encoded in that which a trained handwriting expert might be able to unlock. That ink–which a chemist could analyze–and that paper–same thing–are also gone. You can’t reconstruct any of it from the ash. And even if Margaret tells you what she wrote–even if she snapped a cell phone picture of it–some of that information would be lost.”

“So what’s the point of all that, then? Never destroy anything?”

“That wouldn’t work out very well, would it? But you’re right; a professor like me would often use this as a segue into a statement like that, and again you’ve used that information well. No, let me just say this: be mindful. Every action that you take brings information into the world, and you must be aware that the act of deleting it or changing its format inevitably results in data loss, in information loss. That information may be worthless junk, and it may not. But only be being mindful can you prevent the loss of something important.”

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AGENT SMYTHE: Hold on, I can hear something. Boost the signal.

[Static, followed by the sound of gag-muffled speech and heavy, panicked breathing]

FAUSTINO: I am going to kill you, my friend. It grieves me, as it often does, but I must not allow my feelings to influence my judgement. I would speak with you now, though, because it is my great hope that you understand my decision. I cannot ask you to agree with it, but I hope you will understand it.”

[Inarticulate gagged speech]

FAUSTINO: You see, I have invested too much of my family’s life and livelihood in my business to allow any threat, no matter how vague or remote, to endure. If I could talk to myself as a younger man, knowing what I do now, perhaps I would urge him to take a different path with his life. But I am in too deeply; the web that I have spun traps me as surely as any prey. Not just myself; it it were myself only, as an old man, perhaps I could not need to take such steps.

[Sharp metallic sound, perhaps a handgun being loaded or cocked]

AGENT DYLE: Should we do anything?

AGENT SMYTHE: We can’t, not without exposing the wire.

FAUSTINO: But it is also my family: my daughters, their children. Many of them have been shielded from the nature of what I do, but to risk destroying them, if not by prosecution then by the public…it is too much to ask of a man whose family is all that remains to him. I won’t–I can’t–let that happen. Like the sin eaters of old, I have gathered all the wickedness of my family into myself, and I will add to that burden to protect them.

[Frantic muffled speech]

FAUSTINO: I’m sorry to ramble on, but that is also the lot of an old man. I hope now that you understand. Perhaps, when you meet the Almighty, you can tell him what I said. I certainly will be in no position to do so when the violent retirement of my kind claims me.

[Suppressed gunshot; static]

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Graphic design was something you were either passionate about or not. And if not, all of it was completely invisible to you unless it was memorably bad. Not so for Carson Talley. His big break into that world had been redesigning his high school’s letterhead as an art project. Within a year, he’d redone the school paper masthead, the school cafeteria menus, even the one-sheets for the battle of the crappy bands.

But all throughout school and college, even as he excelled, Carson was racked with self-doubt and worry. He was a polyglot, a generalist, who loved all graphic design everywhere. From a box top to a pop can to a cigarette butt, all of it was, in Carson’s mind, exciting and equal. The idea of having to give up the possibility of designing anything, to specialize, was anathema.

Luckily, he was able to land what was essentially a dream job, a designer for the major prophouse Studio Properties LLC. Every production from theater to Hollywood needed realistic-looking graphic designs (without having to pay a major corporation); Carson and his team provided them. In fact, he was able to revise and tinker with existing designs in such a way that it would have a copyright violation in any other field. Some of his favorites included:

amazing.com – For productions that needed boxes from a certain online retailer. Carson deftly revised the famous “smile-arrow” logo into a lightning bolt.

Gurkha-Cola – A soft-drink in an off-red can and cursive font that looked similar enough to a sugar-water-selling behemoth (especially in cursive) to pass muster. Carson designed everything from cans to bottles to full-size ads featuring penguins. He also designed a fierce competitor, Parsi Cola.

O’Douls – A franchisee for fine fatty foods, from signage to discarded wrappers. The O and D were designed in such a way to suggest a certain set of golden-fried arches.

Talley’s – Perhaps Carson’s most sentimental creation, a faux liquor company. Responsible or everything from Talley’s Premium Dark Lager to Talley-Hauser Golden Ale to Col. Talley’s Private Reserve Brand Old No. 9 Tennessee Sour Mash Whisky.

Inspired by this very real business.

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The truest way to measure years
Is not in hours but in tears
We weep for others when part we must
For friends, for family, for those we trust
With joy-stained faces eye to eye
With bitter dregs when saying goodbye
No one’s lived who hasn’t wept
For the memories, the souls, the covenants we’ve kept

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PLAY-BY-PLAY: It’s the 2nd down and there’s 10 yards to go on the Chicago 30 yard line, with 6 minutes left in the quarter. We just saw Masterson tackled by Tennison on Chicago’s 26, 4 yards lost.

COLOR: Fitz is not happy about that, you can see it on his face.

PLAY-BY-PLAY: There’s Masterson back for the throw. And there go his boys, swept by Detroit. And there goes Masterson himself, sacked by Tennison for the second time in as many minutes.

COLOR: Good day for Detroit and Tennison out there. Man’s writing pure football poetry.

PLAY-BY-PLAY: Isn’t he just? Okay, I think that’s the warning siren I hear.

COLOR:
That’s right, Jim. Later than usual, but then randomness is part of the game. How long would you say they have? Five minutes?

PLAY-BY-PLAY: Maybe two. I’ve seen it as low as thirty seconds and as high as ten minutes for arenas with a lot of obstacles between the field and the gates.

COLOR: Definitely adds some spice to the game. Looks like Masterson is up again for Chicago.

PLAY-BY-PLAY: Yes, he’s in position to make the kick for the final down. Detroit has got themselves set up with Tennison again…there’s the snap. Masterson is through! He’s on the 20, the 15…Tennison struggling to catch up.

COLOR: Aaaaannnnd here come the zombies!

PLAY-BY-PLAY: Three of them between Masterson and the endzone, and two on the field to his right. He pirouettes, goes wide, can’t shake them. Clipped by Tennison, still behind him and, zombies closing in…he’s down! Masterson is down!

COLOR:
I count a minute thirty on the clock since the warning siren. One of the better performances by the “third team” in terms of hustle so far this season.

PLAY-BY-PLAY: Masterson is down and the ball is fumbled! Looks like Tennison’s going for it while the zombies finish up with what’s left of the Chicago offensive line. He’s got it, but the zombies are on him now…and he’s out of bounds.

COLOR: Looks like he decided to play it safe and settle for possession and twenty-five yards. The refs are clearing the zombies off him with shotguns and putting up the plexiglass. Looks like Chicago just took a time-out, stopped the clock, probably trying to regroup. Tennison’s on fire today.

PLAY-BY-PLAY: Isn’t he?

COLOR: He got that interception for the touchdown earlier, and here he’s got the zombies all over Chicago’s best offensive lineman without a scratch himself. I smell an NFC defensive player of the month.

PLAY-BY-PLAY: The month at least!

COLOR: That’s what every defensive lineman wants. Lots of sacks, lots of interceptions, lots of zombie-kills. Sack numbers, interceptions, those are good. But then, when you start getting into the zombie-kill numbers, and the opposing-players-zombified, now you’re talking.

PLAY-BY-PLAY: Oscar Earle is back to punt for Detroit. He’s done well against the zombies in other games. Any word from the field on Masterson?

COLOR: Well, to judge by the blood stains he’s probably…yes. Yes, you can see him rising from the grave right there, with that distinctive shambling gait. Masterson is taking the field again as a zombie, no doubt about it.

PLAY-BY-PLAY: One of the better draft picks by the “third team” this season. Looks like he and Tennison get a rematch.

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“And why should I care?”

“It’s an Oswald, man. An Oswald OS-1. They only made like 100 of these cars.”

“Then it can’t have been that good.”

“It was great! Ahead of its time in just about everything. Look: power windows, power locks, power steering…all before that stuff was standard or in some cases even invented by the Big Three.”

“So why’d it fail?”

“Why does anything that’s ahead of its time fail? The world wasn’t ready and no one wanted to buy one.”

“Mmm.”

“Come on, you’ve got to let me buy it.”

“Look, the junkyard regulations don’t allow it, okay?”

“But you’ve got to! You can’t just consign what might be the very last Oswald to the crusher!”

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There was nothing sinister about 1123 Adams St.

Once a private residence, it had been bought out by developers when Adams had exploded after the highway went in around 1995. But their neighbors in back refused to sell no matter the price, meaning that the builders had to make do with a thin strip of land–not until the occupant died in 2006 were they able to acquire the rear property, and even then their backyard neighbors refused to sell either, and there was no room for expansion on either side what with the other businesses that had developed there.

So you had a very attractive building with all its parking out back, an arcane arrangement that meant most people on Adams could never figure out how to get in at all. That, and its tantalizing location so close to the shopping district, the student ghetto, and campus, meant that every restaurant that filled the space inevitably failed.

The first occupant (sliding in a year after construction began) was 6 Dudes Pizza, which quickly became a campus legend due to their beer-battered breadsticks (served with a pitcher of beer and beer nuts). They didn’t deliver, though, so eating in was the only option; despite the efforts of a handful of devotees, it folded after a year and a half. Drunken freshmen with the munchies couldn’t be relied upon to figure out its tiny and arcane lot (or the parsimonious solution of parking next door).

Next was The Vegan Fork, which sought to capitalize on the tendency of those with extremely particular dietary wishes to orbit university campuses like asteroids around the Sun. Those who wanted to eat food that had never been, had never had the potential to be, and had never been produced by anything with motor neurons could surely be relied upon to walk or cycle there, making the parking situation irrelevent–right? Wrong. For all their pouring of blood on the fur-wearers of Sigma Qoppa Nu, they tended to drive the same Land Rovers. The Vegan Fork capsized after twenty-two months.

A college entrepreneur with a little venture capital remade no. 1123 next as Movie Eatery. Each booth was transformed into a mini theater with a big screen, and diners were able to select either a full-length movie or a TV episode or two to watch while they noshed (in theater-style seats no less). The rather slim selection of entertainment dinged Movie Eatery somewhat, as did a nuisance lawsuit by indie distributor Shutter Features. Dreadful advertising and amateur signage didn’t help, and Movie Eatery was belly up before the local annual film festival could come to its rescue.

Locals who had been providing barbecue to tailgaters at the university bought the location next and turned it into Big Jim’s University BBQ. The joint earned rave reviews for its sauce, which had long been an open secret among the ‘gaters, and its meats were locally sourced and slaughtered, which played well with the granola crowd. It earned less than rave reviews for cleanliness, though, and the state health department shut it down after a surprise inspection. Big Jim, without the capital to make the needed improvements, slunk back into the world of back-alley BBQ where there were no inspections.

And who could forget Hrvatska, the Croatian restaurant that occupied the site and expanded the parking lot? It was trendy for a time among the avant-garde who wanted to boast about a cuisine that the bourgeois had never heard of. The revelation that zagrebački odrezak was actually veal hurt their cachet among that demographic, and the overwhelming preponderance of lamb-based dishes eventually became tiresome to most.

Today, the site is occupied by a local independent maker of submarine sandwiches, and locals have begun taking bets as to how long it’ll last in what locals nerds have begun calling the “Defense Against the Dark Arts” building, as no restaurant there seemed to last much more than a year.

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