Excerpt


From the Cascadia Post-Gazette, June 15 2005:
…Inmotion is first computer animation firms established in the state. “We mainly do animation for local commercials and series of stills for industrial plants in the western part of the state,” says Jay Harris, an intern from Osborn University. “But the owners have plans to expand if they can, and I for one have some big dreams about what we could do.”

From the Cascadia Post-Gazette, July 27 2007:
…feel that the move to Detroit will really help Inmotion to grow,” says Jay Harris, vice-president and COO. With the purchase of a 15,000 square foot complex abandoned by the city, Inmotion is primed to expand beyond their current market according to Harris. “Commercials and industrial stuff may be our bread and butter, but I’d love to start working on more creative endeavors.”

From the Detroit Democrat-Picayune, August 18 2009:
…an entirely new filmmaking paradigm, the indie animated feature,” says Inmotion CEO Jay Harris. Enticed by the success of Inmotion’s first animated short, investors and venture capitalists have been impressed enough to contribute toward the full-length fantasy/sci-fi feature under development. By relying on independent funding to produce and distribute the film, Harris hopes to encourage more filmmaking and innovation in Michigan and Detroit. “The whole thing is being done with profit sharing in mind,” Harris continues. “Everyone from our actors–and we have some big names–to our community partners will get a slice.”

From Vanity Magazine, Fall Film Issue, October 15 2010
…and box office records of another kind were set by the independent animated film Realms of Anon, a picture independently financed by Michigan animation house Inmotion–by far the worst opening weekend of any film showing on more than 1000 screens. Despite an impressive cast and film festival plaudits, the ambitious fantasy/sci-fi film never found an audience, and with less than $500,000 in box office receipts against a $50 million budget, it’s unlikely to break even in the long run.

From the Cascadia Post-Gazette, October 8 2011
…Osborn University, hit hard by the recession, has announced plans to close its computer-aided design program. Jay Harris, an instructor for CADC 101, had bitter words for the move. “It’s just going to be one more thing driving people out of this tattered mitten of a state,” he says. “Osborn should be cultivating local talent for projects that will put Michigan back on the map, and instead they’re being short-sighted, like everyone else.” Harris, former CEO of bankrupt Detroit-area animation studio Inmotion and co-director of the only animated film to come out of the studio, is perhaps the most high-profile in a series of layoffs that will result in the elimination of nearly 100 faculty, staff, and scholarships.

“It’s junk,” one of the bandits cried, after sifting through the cart. “Ide beads and a heap of rocks!”

The leader, Hart, looked at Jacob and Virgina. “What kinda pea-brained, lily-livered Prosperity Falls asshole puts four guards on a cart full of rock and Ide art projects?” he cried.

“The same kind of pea-brained, lily-livered asshole who’d attack a cart guarded by Rangers, I’d reckon,” Jacob said.

Hart flicked his revolver at one of his men–finger still on the trigger. “Go on up.” The second flick pulled the trigger back enough to fire, and the bandit Hart had been pointing at emerged with a hole through his slouch hat.

“How are you still alive, if that’s how you handle your shooting irons?” scoffed Jacob. “I swear, I’m beset by utter morons at every turn.”

“Take their horses,” Hart said to his lieutenant with the still-smoking headpiece.

Virgina’s hand crept around to the Remington nestled safely in her duster. “You need a new recruit there, Mister Hart?” she said. “Maybe somebody with no fingers so they can’t accidentally shoot you in the ass?”

“For riding,” Hart said. “Back to the camp, at least. Then we’ll have ourselves a nice feast.”

Virginia saw Jacob’s hand tighten on the mare’s leg in his hip holster. “You’d go to all the trouble of robbing the Prosperity Rangers just to end up eating a pair of $50 horses?” he laughed. “You’re about as good a rustler as you are a shootist.”

His name was Sidney, but everybody called him Sid Viscous on account of his weight. On those rare occasions when we saw him walking the halls, he roiled and bobbed like the high seas in a storm. It’s anyone’s guess how he made it in and out of the building, since he always seemed to be there before everyone else, few ever saw him leave, and the car in his spot was a compact.

The best description of his place in the department would be “sage.” He never taught, but ran the independent study program like a personal fiefdom and knew the university’s bureaucracy in and out. If you needed to squeeze out one more credit hour, tiptoe around a rule or two, deal with a troublemaker off the books, or something like that, Sid Viscous was your man.

He demanded a price, of course. Sometimes it was as easy as owing him a favor; the vast network of favors owed him probably went a long way toward explaining why his workload was so light. Other times the price was more dear; Sid was a collector of everything from 80’s hair metal on vinyl to anime figures only available as pachinko prizes. More than one ABD supplicant had come to hm only to be sent away looking for a trinket like a first edition copy of a Franco-Belgian comic book in exchange for Sid’s largesse.

“You have to be careful,” Frank said, taking a pull from his filterless government-issue cigarette. “Not just about teaching your ‘assistants’ so much that the bosses fire you in favor of sixteen young turks from Canton.”

“I’m a black box,” Hil assured him. She stirred her tea, shielding it from the dust kicked up by Beijing passersby with one hand. “Money in the form of malt liquor or narcotics goes in one end, and spaghetti code comes out the other.”

“Don’t put too much effort into what you do, either. Dale Johnston did just that when he designed a spambot to override CAPTCHAs. Military-grade code, experimental chess-AI algorithms, natural language simulator to embed spam in realistic-seeming comments, the works.”

“So?”

“Damn thing went rogue, started impersonating a user in newsgroups and gathering personal information from dating sites. By the time Dale pulled the plug, it had marriage offers on three continents.”

Hil could never quite tell when Frank was shitting her outright or just salting the truth with liberal amounts of bullshit for kicks and grins. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“Why do you think I asked you here?” Franks said, stonefaced. “That’s why we need to talk about your e-boyfriend from ‘Portland.'”

They led me into the back, away from the music and the neon. Strasser was set up in what looked like a storeroom, surrounded by things rich white dilettantes want but the SMCPD didn’t want them to have.

“This is Eric Cummings,” the bouncer said. “He’s asking questions about Œ.” Rather than saying Œ, or using the “Childlike Empress” appellation that I’d introduced, he formed the letters with his hands.

“Eric Cummings, huh?” Strasser said. He looked about my age, and there was a definite glimmer of intelligence in his otherwise Australopithecan features. “Yeah, I’ve read your column. Always got one hand wrapped around your dick and the other jammed up your ass…like you don’t know if you’re Cumming or going.”

Now that particular dirty joke, if not that particular derivation, had been hurled at me pretty regularly ever since the kids at school reached their quota on sex words (right around third grade). I’ve always found blistering sarcasm to be the best response (well, other than total silence).

“Oh wow,” I said. “You know, I’ve been a Cummings for 24 years and in all that time I never realized that my name could be twisted into a crude sexual pun. Thank you, sir, for being absolutely the first person to think of that.”

I was feeling petty smug about it until Strasser decided that his rebuttal would be to punch me in the gut.

“I’m afraid that I won’t be able to make it to tomorrow’s meeting,” Whittaker said. “I’ve got a funeral to go to. It’s at the Catholic church on 5th downtown if you need to look it up.”

“Oh, I believe you,” Markson said. “But I’m afraid that’s no excuse.”

“No excuse?” Whittaker reddened. “Why not? What’s wrong with wanting to give my great uncle a proper burial?”

“My dear, if you want to cling to your silly and superstitious rituals in the hope that some imaginary great bearded man in the sky will give your distant relative better treatment, that’s your problem. But this is a business; if you indulge in private superstition, you must be prepared to deal with the consequences.”

“I…” Whittaker stammered.

Markson checked a nearby wall clock. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a feng shui appointment with my geomancer. We’re going to rearrange my office to generate the maximum positive chi.”

“Go to this address,” Gane had said, sliding a handwritten card across the table. “The firm of Washdry & Fold handles all my important business, and they’ll take care of you.”

Mina had taken the card with quite a bit of suspicion, but Gane seemed forthright enough. When the people at that number didn’t pick up, she had gone down to see them personally.

When she arrived, though, Mina was greeted by a bright orange awning over a storefront that buzzed with neon:

THE FIRM Dry Cleaners
Since 1988
Wash Dry & Fold

Mina crumpled the card, flung it into the gutter, and raised a fist to the heavens.

“Gaaaannnneeee!”

“My men are brave, and they will fight,’ Sirik said. “But they are outnumbered, and under no illusions that they can reverse the tide of history.”

“I’m not sure what you’re saying,” replied Ames.

“I am saying that there is a chance we may make it downriver despite the mines and the gunfire and the rockets. And I am saying that, each time we stop, you should expect several of the men who go ashore to forage not to return.”

Ames bit his lip. “I understand,” he said. “Money and abstract things like loyalty can only go so far.”

Sirik nodded. “I am also saying that you should be prepared to operate the boat alone, Mr. John. I can show you a few things before we depart.”

“Newslak, the official outlet of the government, announced the election statistics this morning,” Calvin read. He resisted the urge to use “mouthpiece” instead of “outlet.” Keep it professional.

“President Tsocorw Easelk, in office since 1961, was reelected with 101% of the vote.” The dictator’s name was a tongue-twister, but the hours of practice last night hadn’t been for nothing. In Calvin’s opinion, reading a ludicrous figure like that with a straight face should qualify him for the Nobel Prize.

He continued, keeping in mind that nobody on the radio could see his expression and that it was okay to smile so long as it didn’t develop into a guffaw. “Officials report that the inflated figure is due to ballots cast from overseas and patriotic citizens insisting on voting more than once for their beloved leader.”

“I suppose you could say that made him a little bitter,” said Cliff. “Skilled metalworker and engineer getting laid off like that without so much as a how-do-you-do. Worse, the union told him that if he went to work for one of the other Big Three and switched locals he’d lose all the progress toward his pension.”

“So he started customizing cars after that?” said Wills, laying her hand on the vehicle’s fine–yet somehow unplaceable–lines.

“Whoever said that this was customized?” Cliff laughed. “I had to put something in the form, sure, but this isn’t just some rat rod. My uncle built the car from scratch.”

“You mean he made all the body panels himself?” Wills said. She whistled, impressed.

“And the frame, and the seats, and most of the engine,” said Cliff. “He used a few stock parts here and there, like the engine block, but nothing from the Big Three. Most of the stock parts came from wholesalers after car companies went out of business.”

Wills took a step back. “Are you serious? Why would anybody ever do something like that? It would cost more than a new one!”

“Maybe to prove to himself–and anybody else that was paying attention–that he could do everything the Big Three could do by himself, and better,” Cliff shrugged. “They were living off Aunt Milly’s salary anyway; maybe he needed something to do. But it’s a one-of-a-kind car, and after he finished it in 1963 Uncle Wilt drove it every day until he died. I guess you could say it’s the one and only ’63 Culbertson there is.”

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