C'mon in, take yer shoes off, and set yerself down. Here you will find comics, cartoons, musings, rants, . . . whatever strikes my fancy, or "Spins my Plush", so to speak.

Thursday, August 20, 2009


Age Unknown--It is with an indeterminate amount of sadness today that we announce the passing of nobody. While almost certainly Nobody had a name, no record could be found of it. Nobody accomplished nothing in his life. Professionally, his name appears on no published documents, replaced by more important individuals who read his work, possibly. Nobody, while determined to be of above-average intelligence, has no educational records, as all the schools Nobody attended no longer exist. Nobody can, however, claim the honour of having been called an idiot in at least nine languages.

Nobody had no athletic ability at all, and was unable to locate a single geocache in his single short-lived hobby. Nobody was unable to ever ask out a woman, and, in fact, was lucky to even be able to dial a phone. As such, Nobody has no family outside of his extended family, who would rather not acknowledge Nobody's existence. Nobody died of a self-inflicted blow to the head believed to be a combination of blood-alcohol content, abnormal temperatures, and the constant pacing of Nobody's upstairs neighbours. Nobody is survived by nobody. Donations may be made to the Conservative Party of Canada since Nobody could care less.

Tuesday, August 11, 2009

The Day After . . .

5-A Chance Meeting

"386 . . . 387! You're with me!"
The order barked by his commander startled Special Forces Officer 21-387. It had been close to a year since he had participated in the birthing ritual, but occasionally his mind still drifted back to the angel in the white room. It seemed worse whenever he was taking part in a civil action. The burning buildings and screaming citizens had never bothered him before, but now, standing on an abandoned street corner bordered on all sides by the ruins of tenements, still smouldering from the electromagnetic blasts that had all but levelled them, his whole being yearned for his little piece of heaven in the white room.
Not that he didn't understand why he had to take part in creating this personal hell. Central Intelligence reported that those damn revolutionaries were sighted in the area. He couldn't understand why those stupid women would not just accept Drakon's rule. After all, all goodness comes from Drakon, so without Drakon's goodness, why live?
"387, cover us. We're going to check the sewer. 386, you've got point. Go!"
Number 1 was a good soldier. He had lead countless legions of genies into battle against the enemies of Drakon, even after spending ten years in Routine Forces, policing the general populace. With most positions determined at birth, it was almost unheard of that a genie would be promoted to a higher battalion, but 1 had excelled to such a degree that it was determined wasting such a talent on common criminals--of which few remained--when the revolutionaries were such an ongoing threat, was a crime in itself. And so, the soon to be number 1 was there at the battle of New Jordan, when the old number 1 was slaughtered by the woman "Viper." The new number 1 stepped into the leadership role with ease, and lead squadron 21 to victory. Even now, only a week from his thirtieth birthday, when the ascension would take place, 1 actively led his squadron yet again to glorious victory in Drakon's name.
An energy blast from beneath the manhole cover snapped 387 to attention. "Resistance met! Officers under fire in sewer below manhole 12," 387 barked over his satphone." Drakon be with me, . . ." he trailed off as, with a gasp he dove into the hole. UV glasses kicked in quickly enabling him to see, but the tears from the fetid stench that invaded his nostrils still distracted him momentarily. The cold splash of water and who-knows-what-else that hit him as he landed at the bottom of the sewer snapped 387 back to his senses--just in time for a foot to send him reeling backwards into a hard concrete-and-steel wall. Neither blow being enough to stop a true soldier of Drakon, 387 dove behind the limp charred body lying in the cesspool before him.
A loud bang echoed through the cavernous sewer as 387 shot his natural energy back at the female attacking him. His hands tingled as they began to recharge, even as his ears tingled from the sound of the blast, amplified by the closed quarters.
Before him, a woman dressed in what appeared to be discarded bones, had lunged into the sewer water to avoid his blast.
"Wings?" 387 was a bit startled by the large body appendages apparently growing from the woman's back. So much so that he almost did not see number 1, chained and gagged, fall backwards behind the wings, his charred corpse now the only hostage the women surrounded him would have to torture.
"This is 387--1 has been caught in my crossfire . . . 386 down . . . require assistance NOW!"
387 knew that his fellow officers--the ones that remained--were on the next street, and would not be able to assist him for at least the next few seconds. He would likely follow 1 and 386 as martyrs, but if only he could hold on so that the females could not escape . . .
A soft touch on his shoulder spun 387 around in the muck, prepared to fire a second bio-blast. Unfortunately, he slipped on some feces and fell backwards, inhaling toilet water as his next breath. Choking on equal portions of water, vomit, and pride, 387 nonetheless shoved his body upward with arm outstretched to fire a killing blast.
"Wait . . .," a voice called out, a delicate, gentle hush, determined but not fearful.
His eyes, blinking to clear the cobwebs focused on brown-red waterfalls filling deep green pools.
"You . . .," his exasperated voice came, gasping for breath. But no sooner had he said this than he realized it was not. Although hauntingly similar, this was not the face of his angel.
This false angel then continued, "You said 387, and your uniforms are squadron 21. You're my sister's repro-partner!"
Startled by this revelation, 387 cursed the few words the angel had coaxed out of him. Words were not permitted during the ritual, but he could not refuse her whispered request during a moment of respite. He had said who he was, hoping that someday they may meet again, perhaps when the alien threat had been appeased.
"I . . ," he struggled for words.
"Soldiers above! We have to go!" A high-pitched voice cried out from somewhere behind or above him. It was hard to tell while lying in a pool of human/genie waste.
"This is the daughter she . . . my sister . . . died protecting," the woman standing over him lowered her gaze, opening her arms slightly. Clasped to her breast, a small child somehow familiar to him.
The child’s hands flailed and he saw the birthmarks of a genie on her hands--the same birthmarks that ran across his own knuckles. But this was a female! And she had an angel's eyes . . .

Sunday, August 2, 2009

Two Days in Paradise

. . . to be continued . . .