[quote]Fibinachi wrote:
Huh. That was a really good story, thank you. It made me think about a lot of things.
In return, I’ve written you this short fable - I hope you’ll find it just as instructive and full of wisdom as the tale you gave me 
“Where the hell am I”
In the distance, a faint explosion. Rattling staccato of gunfire. Screaming.
“And why the hell is everything so fucking dark”
Something crunching gravel.
“Aw fuck, did I get drunk again? Swear to god, Jim, if I?m stealth-drunk before 8 again I?m never having another drink this entire week.”
The crunching stops, pausing mid-rhythm. Footsteps, probably ? which is a good clue as to why a voice interjects after the initial grumbling subsides.
“Uh, excuse me? Who is Jim”
Sniff. Sniff. That smell in the air? is that lady scented body wash? You haven?t worn lady scented bodywash since ?Nam, and that was for camouflage. That?s your story, and you?re sticking to it, no matter what fucking Jim says.
Yeah. Definitively some fragrant shit here. Probably raspberries or something. It?s always fucking raspberries with these broads.
“Mister, your helmet is? It’s the wrong side around. I think you’re covering your eyes”
Figures, that. The Lord ain?t merciful enough to strike an honest man blind these days. Have to stare at all the overwrought metaphors that apply to reality. Or something. Maybe it?s overwrought analogies? Fables? Similies, maybe. Goddamn, in this hot piping mess you?ve lost track of your linguistic training. Hells bells.
?Look, I?ll just? turn it around. Okay? Don?t move. Just stand still. It?s stuck. And sticky. Why is your helmet stick?nevermind. Hang on?
OOoh, that one loosened up some knots. And the harsh glare of reality shines down like a bad, inefficient light bulb haphazardly screw into the ceiling. Which on closer, squinting inspection makes a lot since that’s exactly what it is. You shake your head and knock lose some cobwebs. The broad takes a few hurried steps back, almost tripping over a fallen ladder.
“So what happened down here? And how long can it take to screw in a light bulb”
No fucking clue what she’s yammering on about. Maybe it’s some Vietcong plot to trip you up. You’ve wisened up to those tricks a long time ago. No one?s getting the drop on you, except maybe yourself from a ladder. Because that’s how foxy you are - you’d need to be you to catch you unaware.
You may have muttered that last sentence out loud. The broad is staring at you, suspicious-like.
“I didn’t quite catch that. Sounded a little tautological. Is everything all-right?”
Damn wimmin’s intuition. She’s on to you. Quick, quick, say something clever!
“Issat allright. I’m all good. Bout as primed as napalm”
“You sure? Your voice sounds like two slabs of granite slapping together”
“Raw masculine deep-throating skills?”
“I’m not sure that means what you just thought you said”
“Course it did. I?m a killing machine with a doctorate in poetry on the side. Battle poetry.”
“I’m going to call security now. I think you might have hit your head with that fall”
“HAH! I’m invincible. No gravity going to outfox a sly old devil like me. No Chinese KGB–”
“Russian”
“What?”
“Russian. The KGB is Russ–”
“No Russians get the drop on me. I?m far too steely eyed and cool for that.”
Damn right you are. Greatest GI slash poet slash electrician slash rock quarry worker this side of the Moon.
Now all you need to do is exfiltrate this basement and reach HQ somehow, let them know the nefarious plots a-plotting in this wretched hive of scum, villainy and mildew.
Damne could be a liability though. Need to get her with you. Can’t hurt a broad. Unsportsmanslike.
“What’s your name, toots?”
“That’s really not appropriate and also it’s Stacy”
“Right-o. Well, I’ve got to get out of this den and back to base?”
“Base? This is a library. You were screwing in a light bulb. I?m telling you, you took a fall and I think you’re having some kind of flashback?”
“FLASHBANG! GET DOWN!”
You hit the ground with a meaty thud. The meaty thud of testosterone and muscle fed on protein and pain. Stacy, possessing all the survival instincts of a deer in the headlights stares at you for a while, then shakes her head. You think she might have sighed.
Damn wimmin.
Ain’t no place in a warzone for the sensitive sex.
You get off the floor, dust yourself off. Okay, so maybe that wasn?t a flashbang. Good news. The pounding in your head is not the effort of highly advanced NASA-Illuminati agents. Clearly these damn Russian imposters haven?t got the tech they need to constrain a man like you.
“Right, toots, we’ve gots to dash. Take me to the exit!”
“This is a library. The exits are marked with arrows. Just get out of the room and follow the arrows. It’s not that hard.”
“And leave you behind to tattle to some washed up drug cartel torturer getting his Sunday school certification in interrogation 101? Pro-tip. Use a blowtorch. No, you’re coming with me. Move it, hut hut hut”
“That was the most confusing sentence I have ever heard”
No time for words now. Gotta split. You grab Stacey and make for the exit, who seems overcome by equal parts your raw sexual charisma and confusion. The green arrows help you. Rows of book cases shield you from prying eyes (Vonnegut? Fitzgerald? Fucking commies), and you can hear the subdued whispering of plotting Nazis in the corner. This place is a bonafide opium den of misery.
“So what’cha doing in this Archive of Atrocity, Stacy? You some kind of womens libber”
“No, I’m a chemical engineer. And I was just checking up on you and the light bulb, since you’re the–”
“Hahah. Chemical engineer. Listen, sweetcheeks, I didn’t go to Korea and bleed just so some broad cold brew up meth in her basement!”
“Your flashbacks are highly inconsistent, you know?”
“Inconsistent… Or Incredible?”
You wink.
Stacy stares.
You wink again, raising your eyebrows even higher.
Eye contact is maintained for three seconds, and then she shakes her head once again and just kind of slumps. Hah. Never did get anyone to out-stare you ever since you had your eyeballs replaced with marbles.
You round another corner and come face to face with a man in tweed, reading a book on what appears to Jamaican poetry. Seeing your sweat soaked form and the woman you?re dragging along, he manages a momentary startled sound before you step forward and brain him with a copy of the tax code. He crumbles without a sound.
Damn hippies.
Never had a much of a spine.
“What the hell was that for?”
“He’d have yelled for the others. And those damn zombies would have been right on us!”
“Could you at least fucking stick to one traumatic flashback incident and not mix and match from I’m counting nine? Ten different movies?”
“So yeah, zombies. Gotta brain 'em before they flock on ya. Besides, he was reading poetry. What kind of zombie does this? Archive’s messed up, I tells ya!”
“Jesus Christ, Steve, get a grip.”
“Oh I"ve got a grip. On this tax code. My new favorite weapon. Only two things are certain in life. Death and taxes…”
You wait a beat.
“To the face!”
Stacy starts shaking.
“Because I hit people. With it. In the face. It’s a pun.”
She’s still shaking.
Women. Not a sense a humor in them. You grab her by the shoulders and give her a gentle squeeze. Up close, she smells of raspberries and terror.
“Don’t worry. I?ll get us out of here. No aliens going to outsmart me.”
“Ah? Al? What? What the? What?”
“Yeah, aliens. Figures, anyway, they’d be the only ones who could arrange all this. Damn Greys.?”
You take another deep breath of raspberry. Good stuff, actually, when you get used to it. Maybe you could find a manly deodorant with the same scent.
“Look, Steve, I want… Could you at least have tried talking to them? Rational discourse? Just say: “Step aside!” and that solves that? You can talk to other people without them getting, you know, unconscious.”
“Ah, precious sensitive folk. Talking’s for chumps and diplomats in fancy suits. Talking never solves anything. You think Abraham Lincoln built this great country with speeches?”
“Actually, yes, I’m pretty sure he…”
“You think Martin Luther King freed my people—?”
“That’s wrong. And racist. And silly. And fuck you, Steve.”
“You think Gandhi ever solved anything with speeches?”
By the time you finish talking, Stacy’s wrested herself lose and run in the other direction. Damn traitor. Guess you?re on your own now.
Just you, the unconscious zombie CIA agent, and all these books. With all that learning. Pressing in. You twitch.
All those words contained in pages written by other people who aren?t you saying things you haven’t read and can’t read because who reads these days and who has the time and thinking about all that wasted ink just makes you mad and suddenly you’re staring at the ceiling.
You black out.
Game over, man. Game over.
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