Ok, I’m usually reluctant to post stories here unless I feel they’re complete and convince myself I can’t keep arsing endlessly with them, but this one’s been sitting on my hard drive for too long. It is unfinished, and I’m trying to come to terms with it. I’d love some feedback/suggestions.

Since the story isn’t finished and it may be unclear: It poses the question “what would happen if some people could materialize thoughts?”. I figure most obsessive types would be the ones putting weird shit on the streets on a daily basis. Thus…

The situation was slowly increasing in tension as the landing crew surveyed the empty street and eyed the SPAC Squad with suspicion. The men were squatting behind their cars. A few snipers were taking spots atop nearby roofs further down the street.

Some cops were stifling a laugh.

A car screeched to a halt behind the barricade and a man who looked like a 6-feet tall leprechaun dressed in full riot gear came out of the passenger seat.

“Captain! Over here!”
“What’s the situation, Burke?”
“See for yourself”

He glanced over the barricade. Down the street, there were four men dressed in pastel colored, oddly anachronistic shirts waving what looked like clamshell cellphones around. One of them kept pressing his chest and talking to himself.

“Shite. Not another one of these!”
“Knew you’d love it, cap’n”
“Fuck you, Burke” — He removed his shoulderstrap and checked that the gun in his backstrap was aimed upwards — “Any red shirts?”
“Two beamed down. One stuck his hand in the wrong end of a garbage compacting truck. Bits and pieces are over there” — He motioned towards a red splotch on the sidewalk near the burning truck.
“Dammit. They’ll be frisky, then. Put the team on standby. I’ll take the leader. Have Jones, Harris and Moll take their pick of the ones in back. No one comes close and no one shoots until I say so. If one of them has already died, they’ll have upped the phasers’ potence” — Phasers. He hated that word — “I’ll go in alone”

As he approached the front of the barricade, he scoped the one leading the group. Wasn’t he too… muscular? Didn’t he use to have a beer gut? A quick glance at the massive groin area sufficed to convince him that this was one seriously deranged fanboy they were dealing with. He cocked his head towards the closest cop:

“Mate…”
“Yes, sir?”
“Target’s a woman?”
The cop shot him an incredulous glance — “Yeah, right…”

Seriously deranged, alright.

He took point and motioned the front men to move aside. Measuring his step and holding both hands in the air, he walked up to William Shatner.

William fucking Shatner, by god!

Shatner motioned him to stop — “I am captain Kirk, of the Starship Enterprise! We are on a mission of peace. We are here representing the Federation! We mean you no harm”

Yeah, they never do…

” ‘ello, Capt’n! Name’s O’Brien. I’m with the SPAC Squad. These are me boys over ‘ere!” — He made an ample sweeping motion towards the cops behind the barricade. A few waved nervously — “We’re here to welcome you to Earth!”
Leonard Nimoy’s clamshell started beeping — “Captain, he’s carrying what appears to be powder based firearms!”

Crap.

O’Brien reached for the gun on his leg strap. Shatner moved with inhuman speed and grabbed his arm, twisting it. O’Brien let out a grunt as he fell to his knees facing back to the barricade.

They always do that.

In one quick motion, O’Brien palmed his backstrap gun with his left hand and shot without looking. He smelled burning hair (his) and got smeared with a spatter of blood and brains (Shatner’s). A loud thump behind him confirmed that Captain Kirk had kicked the bucket.

He shouted onto his earpiece — “NOW!”

Three shots were fired simultaneously from the rooftops facing the street. Nimoy moved fast, but he still got hit good in the shoulder and dropped his phaser. O’Brien stood up and faced him.

Nimoy stared at him in disbelief and started mumbling.

“This is highly…”

O’Brien shot him — “Illogical, yeah, tell me about it, mate”

The captain spoke on his earpiece — “Burke, what’s the latest word with COMSAT? Any ships in orbit?”
“No, sir. Apparently it has not come to yet”
“Well, let’s get the bloody tosser before it does, shall we?”

The starships were always tricky. When left to their own devices, they tended to develop a nasty habit of shooting photon torpedos that could level ten city blocks each. Luckily the dumb bastards were in the habit of sending the whole of their command structure on sightseeing trips, so it always took them a while to get their bearings after all the officers had been shot.

If the ship hadn’t shown up yet there was a good chance that it wouldn’t show up at all. It meant the target didn’t have enough strength. O’brien looked at the bloody remains of the Enterprise crew. He knelt and dipped his finger in one of the wounds and then took it to his nose.

Real blood. Remarkable. Must be at least a level 3.

“Cap, are you alright?”
“I just blew TJ Hooker’s ‘ead off, Burke. What do you think?”
His lieutenant blushed — “Sir, we’ve got a positive on the target’s location. House on the corner. He’s holed up in the basement”
O’Brien inhaled deeply — Why didn’t that surprise him?
Burke got out of the way. The captain was obviously having a bad day, and it was usually a great idea to let him sort these things out himself.
“Movilize the squad. Have three people move in an secure the collaterals. Parents?”
“Only the mother”
“Ok. Get her first. Don’t let her scream, or we might get secondary breaches.” — God knows the last thing I need is a goddamned Klingon bodyguard showing up for the party.

— sergio at 01:55 PM  

I have a folder in my computer entirely dedicated to Stuff™. I say that in the loosest possible sense of the word. It’s chock full of weird internet videos, unfinished posts that never were, little notes to myself that I completely forgot about and whatnot. It’s my very own personal blackhole (first one to take a potshot at this gets banned).

Today I was rifling through it and found a few amusing things.

From a “is blogging journalism?” post that never saw the light:

There’s a trend that’s been ticking me off lately: Blog journalism. Blournalism, if you like. There is a quick and easy way to become a blournaler:

1. Start blog (duh)
2. Grab stick
3. Insert stick up one’s ass
4. Instant internet journalism!
5. Profit?

Seriously, is it just me, or are people taking this way too seriously? This is what I can’t take about most of the blogosphere: People tend to think that they’re bre

Random pictures:

• My impression of a facehugger from Aliens
• Starman shirt that was out of stock when I ordered it online (If someone can hook me up with a vintage of this, I’d be most grateful — I’m talking sexual favors here — ok, I’m not but still… grateful).
• Images from the infamous image puzzle we solved all together (nothing like multiple hours of community-wasted time)

And the pièce de résistance — I can’t even fathom where the hell this one came from. I don’t remember writing it, either:

How, oh, how can I write something funny? I asked the big blue bunny.

The bunny looked at me, scratched its head, patted patiently on the ground for a few seconds, and proceeded to take a dump.

That’s funny.

What is in your Stuff™ folder?

— sergio at 10:45 AM