sanemagazine: wonderful rubbish

And the first person he saw back out on the street was a little old man leaning against a booth, sleeping. Or dead.
Either way, probably not suitable shooting material. And besides, when he said he just was going to shoot the first person he saw he hadn't really meant it; prosthetic appendages often had that effect on him, especially when they were the ones serving his drinks. And he was a professional, and professionals never, ever just went out and shot the first person completely at random, not even when they were in a country different to the one they were supposed to be in, being smiled at constantly, and had the sneaking suspicion they were being followed.

In fact, in instances like this the follower often became the handiest target for shooting, and quite easy to legitimise to anyone who might ask (later, of course, as no one does much asking just after you've shot someone, most people see fit to leave it lie in cases like those).
He paused by the old man, who apparently had either died or was sleeping whilst waiting for the booth to free up so he could make his call or get some cash or get some of that nasty leathery sort of edible stuff the 'phone/cashpoint/food things dispensed ever since some idiot had demanded the city 'modernise'. He didn't know the city at all, but he knew the circumstances; cities weren't all that different and the fact that the leathery edible-ish stuff at some horrible point in history became everyone's idea of the perfect food for the future, that the future should be equipped with, despite the fact that no one found it edible in the least, probably led to them installing, at great expense, these metal things with plastic edges that dispensed cash, had some sort of phone hookup, and the nasty leathery stuff for eating. Around which congregated dead/sleeping old guys, inevitably, in almost every city you could strike up the energy to visit. The fun and funky space-age texture and quality to the food (which was, in a stunning coincidence, if you cared to think about such things, remarkably similar to the texture of the old guys' skin who tended to fall asleep or die by the dispensers) was supposed to be a scientist's rendition of what the next age after the space age (as it was at at the time) was going to serve for food, with the requirement that it be mass-produced and flat, to fit in people's pockets, which seemed to be an idea that had haunted the human race throughout their history, and didn't seem to be letting up anytime in the near future.
As it was, he stepped gingerly around the old man, who did nothing, reinforcing his initial diagnosis that animation was not the first and foremost adjective he'd apply to this particular guy, and looked at the leathery food portion of the machine, which had two tone diagrams explaining how to put your newly acquired leather food stuff in your pocket in five easy steps. He leaned back, shaking his head as if in dismay that they only had leathery food things, right, which were called "Coffee-tastic Gibbles" in this particular country, he saw, and took the opportunity to look up and down the street.

There wasn't any sound, not the slightest movement anywhere in the streets. What litter there was lie flat in the gutters or against the walls, as if settled in for the night, as presumably litter settling in for the night would entail pressing out of the path where they might be trodden upon, which wouldn't count as settling for anybody or anything, really. And there wasn't a lot of litter, either. It was a very respectably clean city, with just the proper amount of grime in it's pubs, properly faded crystalline dust posters on the buildings and lampposts that were all the rage a few years ago in a few countries he travelled to regularly, and he could see many many outlets for the mechanised cleaning machines were housed in, and the odd socket for connecting your portable vacuum cleaner to. The portable vacuum cleaner socket idea he'd seen before, some time ago in Philadelphia-Taipei, where they set this thing up to take advantage of the cities large number of obsessive compulsives, and he'd always liked the economy in it's set up. And it seemed they had the sense not to use the electrical loop transport system where you'd hook your buggy on to a handy wire loop that ran around the city and you'd be off and about with access to most areas in the city, as several incompatibilities were found when you used that system with the public vacuum cleaner power points, and quite a few cities had horrific accidents and traffic-failures due to a slight lack of due diligence. Hell, that bug came into his technique for one of his older jobs involving a Senator and certain other diplomats of a certain bent.
If it weren't for the people constantly smiling at him earlier in the day, the freakish, unworking television set, and the prosthetic nose experience, he might even find this a palatable city to settle down into; something he hadn't thought of for some time, since beginning to buy that place up on the lake (he was quite close, too, he was in the third phase of approval for his second mortgage and had had the blood samples and a small clone of himself made, to be kept by the estate agency until the first few payments had cleared, and it was only a matter of a few more months before he was able to hold a piece of paper that gave him rights to the house). And he still wasn't sure where he was, exactly, which was causing him no end of annoyance. So he wasn't too keen to reconsider his plans, not at the moment.

A can clinked on the pavement.
He whirled, and the mists and shadows whirled with him and he remembered feeling vaguely stupid pulling out his gun which he'd earlier confused for a cigarette lighter, which he did not want to be his last thought ever.
A goat stood non-chalantly by a lamppost down the pavement. Which was different, to be sure. And it was that which was his last thought.

disclaimer:
The serial will still be back, just not this week, either. Wait. No, forget that, this is the serial. Sorry, force of habit.

So, past issues of this thrilling thing of surprise-itude can be found at:

Don't you love it when stuff like that happens?

Will the serial be continued next week? How shall our hero ever escape? Not a very exciting story, if he has no thoughts! Tune in next week, or perhaps the week after that, or maybe even the week after that, for the thrilling continuation of our serial!

NB. You'll possibly proudly note the continuing of our quest to get the world to stop the extreme prejudice shown inanimate objects when attributing things to them with an apostrophe in a different place than it is for animate objects.



		archives horoscopes accessories contacts theatre fables home Search Sane: [A Note on My.Netscape.Com]		Untitled No. 8, Spelled Wrong And the first person he saw back out on the street was a little old man leaning against a booth, sleeping. Or dead. Either way, probably not suitable shooting material. And besides, when he said he just was going to shoot the first person he saw he hadn't really meant it; prosthetic appendages often had that effect on him, especially when they were the ones serving his drinks. And he was a professional, and professionals never, ever just went out and shot the first person completely at random, not even when they were in a country different to the one they were supposed to be in, being smiled at constantly, and had the sneaking suspicion they were being followed. In fact, in instances like this the follower often became the handiest target for shooting, and quite easy to legitimise to anyone who might ask (later, of course, as no one does much asking just after you've shot someone, most people see fit to leave it lie in cases like those). He paused by the old man, who apparently had either died or was sleeping whilst waiting for the booth to free up so he could make his call or get some cash or get some of that nasty leathery sort of edible stuff the 'phone/cashpoint/food things dispensed ever since some idiot had demanded the city 'modernise'. He didn't know the city at all, but he knew the circumstances; cities weren't all that different and the fact that the leathery edible-ish stuff at some horrible point in history became everyone's idea of the perfect food for the future, that the future should be equipped with, despite the fact that no one found it edible in the least, probably led to them installing, at great expense, these metal things with plastic edges that dispensed cash, had some sort of phone hookup, and the nasty leathery stuff for eating. Around which congregated dead/sleeping old guys, inevitably, in almost every city you could strike up the energy to visit. The fun and funky space-age texture and quality to the food (which was, in a stunning coincidence, if you cared to think about such things, remarkably similar to the texture of the old guys' skin who tended to fall asleep or die by the dispensers) was supposed to be a scientist's rendition of what the next age after the space age (as it was at at the time) was going to serve for food, with the requirement that it be mass-produced and flat, to fit in people's pockets, which seemed to be an idea that had haunted the human race throughout their history, and didn't seem to be letting up anytime in the near future. As it was, he stepped gingerly around the old man, who did nothing, reinforcing his initial diagnosis that animation was not the first and foremost adjective he'd apply to this particular guy, and looked at the leathery food portion of the machine, which had two tone diagrams explaining how to put your newly acquired leather food stuff in your pocket in five easy steps. He leaned back, shaking his head as if in dismay that they only had leathery food things, right, which were called "Coffee-tastic Gibbles" in this particular country, he saw, and took the opportunity to look up and down the street. There wasn't any sound, not the slightest movement anywhere in the streets. What litter there was lie flat in the gutters or against the walls, as if settled in for the night, as presumably litter settling in for the night would entail pressing out of the path where they might be trodden upon, which wouldn't count as settling for anybody or anything, really. And there wasn't a lot of litter, either. It was a very respectably clean city, with just the proper amount of grime in it's pubs, properly faded crystalline dust posters on the buildings and lampposts that were all the rage a few years ago in a few countries he travelled to regularly, and he could see many many outlets for the mechanised cleaning machines were housed in, and the odd socket for connecting your portable vacuum cleaner to. The portable vacuum cleaner socket idea he'd seen before, some time ago in Philadelphia-Taipei, where they set this thing up to take advantage of the cities large number of obsessive compulsives, and he'd always liked the economy in it's set up. And it seemed they had the sense not to use the electrical loop transport system where you'd hook your buggy on to a handy wire loop that ran around the city and you'd be off and about with access to most areas in the city, as several incompatibilities were found when you used that system with the public vacuum cleaner power points, and quite a few cities had horrific accidents and traffic-failures due to a slight lack of due diligence. Hell, that bug came into his technique for one of his older jobs involving a Senator and certain other diplomats of a certain bent. If it weren't for the people constantly smiling at him earlier in the day, the freakish, unworking television set, and the prosthetic nose experience, he might even find this a palatable city to settle down into; something he hadn't thought of for some time, since beginning to buy that place up on the lake (he was quite close, too, he was in the third phase of approval for his second mortgage and had had the blood samples and a small clone of himself made, to be kept by the estate agency until the first few payments had cleared, and it was only a matter of a few more months before he was able to hold a piece of paper that gave him rights to the house). And he still wasn't sure where he was, exactly, which was causing him no end of annoyance. So he wasn't too keen to reconsider his plans, not at the moment. A can clinked on the pavement. He whirled, and the mists and shadows whirled with him and he remembered feeling vaguely stupid pulling out his gun which he'd earlier confused for a cigarette lighter, which he did not want to be his last thought ever. A goat stood non-chalantly by a lamppost down the pavement. Which was different, to be sure. And it was that which was his last thought. disclaimer: The serial will still be back, just not this week, either. Wait. No, forget that, this is the serial. Sorry, force of habit. So, past issues of this thrilling thing of surprise-itude can be found at: Untitled No. 4 in Black Untitled No. 5 in Black-ish-Grey Untitled No. 6 with a Title (Attempted Seduction) Untitled No. 7, Untitled Again Don't you love it when stuff like that happens? Will the serial be continued next week? How shall our hero ever escape? Not a very exciting story, if he has no thoughts! Tune in next week, or perhaps the week after that, or maybe even the week after that, for the thrilling continuation of our serial! NB. You'll possibly proudly note the continuing of our quest to get the world to stop the extreme prejudice shown inanimate objects when attributing things to them with an apostrophe in a different place than it is for animate objects.


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