‘Murican Gods

It was a tall beer, tall and thin, with very little head to it. His sister had been like that, though she had been paler, generally speaking. He nodded thanks at the bartender, who had already turned to resume his conversation with a regular, a tubby man in his 50’s with a boxer’s nose and ears.

I could know everything about them, both of them, if I switched it on. I could change everything about them. I could rewrite their DNA like a programmer editing code, turn them into Van Goghs or Einsteins or whoever I like, teetotalers both, serial killers either, whatever would be the most entertaining. I’ve done it a million times. “Boring.”

“What’s that?” The bartender called over, thinking he might be ordering something else.

“Nothing. Sorry; talking to myself.”

“That’s the first sign, buddy,” the boxer joked. He raised his own glass, a mug full of Budweiser, probably.


His sister had tried for the Crown, and paid for it. He’d gone into forced retirement, it having been explained that he’d been a bit too neutral even given the circumstances. They hadn’t hobbled him, at least. There was still trust there, of a sort.

“Another, please.”

Saving Marco

He’s been in there for years. His years, not ours: for us, it’s been decades. The old place has been detached, adrift and out of phase for so long that time has slowed like a wheel slipped from its gears.

But we can get him out, I know how. I know where the house is right now, I know where it’s going to be in a week and in a month.  I know how many degrees of list and the rate the spin is increasing. The math wasn’t that hard. It’ll just be a matter of building the platform in the right spot and practicing.

He’ll have to be paying attention. It’s the one variable I can’t control. He’ll have to see the rope come through the window, he’ll have to realize what’s happening, and grab it. Maybe we should use something more visible.

I need help: are you in?