Character Study No. 8 Bob Dobbs

Bob is an amoral man with possibly the emotional maturity of a young boy. Bob does things because they feel good. Bob does things because he can. Bob does things for praise and appreciation.

Bob is not trustworthy. Bob may have killed every noble feeling he ever had. Bob is the kind of person who walks through the world untouched leaving a storm of wreckage and ruined lives behind him.

Bob is not a nice person. Even Bob finds himself irritating, annoying, even cruel?

Bob has bad habits, Bob is a bad person, if anyone ever knew how many stupid, foolish, chemical-assisted or otherwise things Bob has done in his life, Bod wouldn't have any associates at all.

Bob is an animal, Bob is growing meaner with age.

Can anything stop, suspend or correct Bob's path?

This is the kind of character worth writing about.

Only trouble that appears to remain is this: with such an awful character as this, who would want to read about him?

He's a great challenge to write, but nobody could accept such a character at face value.

Bob is a destroyer. Bob will only betray his associates. Bob himself, in the introspective sections of the proposed narrative, would examine his own descent into, for lack of a better word, pedestrian evil, and be momentarily horrified; not because he equals the evil men who are his peers but because he falls so far short of them yet apparently remains incapable of being good.

Such a character would be heaven unchecked to write and worse than hell, a mediocrity, to read.

What am I to do with such a creation? For the sake of society I should make Bob disappear, move him to a villa in Tuscany near Sienna and solitude, so he can live out his fictional life removed from the major currents of other people's lives, perhaps for his sake too? Or is such a niche too good for the likes of what may be just another worn out stereotype?

In creating Bob, I wanted to create a character that I would find challenging and intriguing to write about, yet in so doing I have both succeeded and failed.

This character is not worthless, how much more the pity, a truly worthless character is endearing.

This character is stubborn and childish and a betrayer.

This character deserves nothing, but will get his story told in the end.

But no one will read it.

The day someone got written into a book

There was once an Unnamable Thing. It was something Inexpressible, only the vaguest generalities could encompass it, it had no definition, in any sense of the word.

Beyond the fact that it was, nobody could say very much about it.
It was strongest when it was weak.
It was the opposite too.

That everyone knew about it, that only made it more complex, more complicated.

At first it was simple, but how can something be an Unnamable Inexpressible Indefinite Thing and yet be simple?

The truth depends on where you're standing.

Somebody got written into a book today, but what its pages are made of and how you can read what they say is impossible to say.

Although it is possible to know, I have nothing to say.

Words can't express the rest I meant to say.

Overheard in Karmi Cafe Warsaw

"So get this, I walk into Karmi for a coffee and standing in line in front of me is this really attractive woman,"
"Yeah? What'd she look like?"
"Slim, firm, toned body, sporty, you know, my type,"
"So did you ask her out or what?"
"Hold on, I didn't get the chance,"
"What? You've gotta be kidding me,"
"No, Seriously!"
"What happened?"
"It's her turn to order, right? And she orders a large milkshake, and the server doesn't want to give her one,"
"What!?!"
"No, I swear, this server is a big guy, easily both of us put together, and he looks at her and says 'are you sure about that ma'am? I don't think you want the large milkshake, I mean look at me, I can't finish the large milkshake, wouldn't you rather have the small one?' and she just looks at him and says 'Yes, I want the large milkshake,' but I could tell she was surprised, I mean, who ever heard of a server who discourages customers from spending more?"
"That's totally f**ked up man,"
"No, what's f**ked up is that he then turns around and yells 'hey Frankie, get this, she wants the large one!' and a thin reedy guy in a chef's uniform sticks his head out of the kitchen door and takes one look at this I'm-starting-to-be-very-interested-in woman and says 'Are you sure ma'am? It's a very big milkshake,' and then the server, looking satisfied, turns to her with some kind of 'told-you-so' expression on his face in time to hear her say, with exasperation 'Yes! I want the large milkshake!' but I could tell things had gone way past surreal because I suddenly noticed that everybody in the cafe was watching this exchange like it was the latest and greatest episode of their favourite tv show and..."
"What man!? What!?!"
"...When he finally served her the milkshake he made another face like he regretted giving her the milkshake or something,"
"I don't believe it,"
"No! I'm telling you I'm serious, by the look on his face you'd 've thought he'd given her anthrax or something equally dangerous,"
"So...did she finish it?"
"Yessiree!"
"Score one for the customer! Alright!"
"I was so impressed by the whole scene, I just sat there admiring her, coffee getting cold, there's some memories you don't want to risk spoiling so I didn't ask her right then, besides, I don't think after what'd just happened I ought to introduce myself right away, I mean, how would that look? if I walked up to her and said 'hi, I couldn't help but noticing how neatly you handled that joker back there and I'd like to ask you out!?!' nah, too intense, there'll be another chance..."
"...Hey, where'd you go? you kind of zoned out there for a minute,"
"Oh? sorry, lot on my mind,"
"Wanna talk about it?"
"Maybe later, let's talk about something else,"
"Sure buddy, just hope you don't lose your nerve,"
"What d'you mean?"
"I know that look on your face,"
"So what? Nothing I can do about it now,"
"Whatever buddy, just get her number next time or I'll kick your ass,"
"If I don't ask her next time, I'll deserve it,"

Wordless Wednesday one day later...end of year paperwork!

The hairdresser murders

Detective Harold Johnson examined the large African bat with a magnifying glass. Commonly known by the colourful name of ‘vampire bat’ because they bit into large animals and licked out their blood.

What had a vampire bat been doing dead in a Bond Street London apartment?

He ran over the details of the crime scene in his mind:

Andrew Johnson (no relation) had been found dead on his sofa with bite marks on his face and hands. The bat had been lying next to him, broken and dead.

But the wounds couldn’t have been enough to kill him.

A bloody slipper had been found under the bed, next to a box filled with braided hair, apparently from at least 7 different women but forensic analysis would have to confirm that.

The other two items out of place were the pieces of chewed gum which somebody had ground into the expensive carpet with their heel and the neatly coiled skipping rope someone had placed on the sofa.

Detective Johnson had a theory, but could he prove it?

Someone had murdered Andrew Johnson and planted evidence to lead police to the conclusion that he was the mass murderer currently sought by them, the murderer the press called the Hairdresser for his habit of taking trophies of women’s hair.


The vampire bat had been a nice touch, it was such a bizarre detail that Harold Johnson couldn’t help but wonder about the killer’s motives.

Because Harold Johnson was sure that Andrew Johnson wasn’t the Hairdresser.

This murder had happened at least two days ago, judging by the decomposition of the bodies.

But Harold had shot and killed the Hairdresser 4 days ago, caught in the act with his next victim in an alley.

It hadn’t hit the papers yet, so Andrew Johnson's killer couldn’t have known.

Harold’s heart sank, as the realization struck him.

The Hairdresser hadn’t acted alone.

He stood up in excitement and was reaching for the phone but couldn’t speak, choking, with a skipping rope drawn tight around his neck.

A stale voice growled.

“For Charlie,”

And he was dead.

Road tripping while thinking about Kurt Vonnegut Jr.

Blacktop clouds the colour of new asphalt. Many hours from the nearest city. A deserted stretch of country road. A 20 year old diesel Mercedes. Crusing at 100 km/h. Steering wheel sticky from heat and sweat. Fan on full, windows down, no A/C. One passenger. One driver.

The driver is called Shelly Fallbright, an engineer and amateur naturalist.
The passenger is Sean Oakley, a cultural anthropologist and practicing existentialist.

They are both fans of Kurt Vonnegut Jr.,.

Their conversation would make it into a novel.

But not a short story.

They are driving across a country which didn't exist a few years ago, a country which still does not have a name.

They have elected to take this trip because they have certain special mental skills.

Together, Shelly and Sean are social reality engineers, they've been hired to establish an elite intelligensia in this newly born republic they're driving through.

They will begin by laying a mental framework among the new ruling party which will dissolve internal hypocrisy and unify collective opinion on the subject of universal equal rights of opportunity, the value of life, the value of intellegence and a liberal morality.

They will continue by creating a sense of exclusivity by promoting adoption of these values as a prerequisite for access to power and information.

They will even nurture a small conservative counter movement so that the elite can easily define themselves after Shelly and Sean have left by pointing to those who are excluded, namely the small conservative movement.

As a special part of their service package, they will introduce the existentialist notion of the fundamental ridiculousness of life, the inevitability of death regardless of choices and the ethical obligation of causing no unnecessary harm in the pursuit of goals.

They will frame a world in which no one makes excuses. They will frame a world in which tasks take no more time, nor less time, than they require.

They will build a frame and everyone in power will step into the picture.

All that is in the future, Shelly and Sean are calmly expectant, their composure in the Mercedes is one of relaxed knowingness.

"Hi ho," says Shelly.
"Hi ho," says Sean.

They drive on.

Moon rise, Moon rose, Moon risen,

Johnny Trueson was a retired wrestler back on Earth. Elected to President of Tycho City on a simple platform of legalized gambling, prostitution, soft drugs and universal wheelchair access. His campaign motto was "Your Home! Your Business!"

He won by a large margin.

And so the years passed, Earth leaning ever further towards a religio-anarcho-oligarchy-superstate and the Moon drifting further and further away in its liberties, free markets, opportunities for individual rewards.

Johnny Trueson hadn't started the trend, but he nurtured it, quietly spread the notion that anyone interested in truly excellent, cutting edge research, sales, or marketing opportunities, had to emigrate to the moon.

Under Earth's gravity, the best ballerinas and ballet dancers retired young; none regretted emigrating to the Moon, where they could nearly dance forever.

Possibly the reason for Trueson's success wasn't his platform at all, that only got him elected.

Possibly it was his community dancing initiative. Rare in history is there a people who love dancing as much as Lunars.

It's difficult to undermine a community which enjoys frequent dancing.

Johnny's greatest triumph?

One day, there was a secret referendum, everyone had the secrecy laws explained to them, all the citizens of the moon were curious, because the customary voting fee (encouraged people to vote conscientiously or not at all) had been waived.

Ballots were cast, ballots were counted, by hand, according to tradition.

Johnny received the results gravely, he nodded. Turned to the large manual by his desk and continued to read it carefully. What he would do was extremely dangerous. Without this manual, he was lost. The builders had clearly anticipated this, the instructions they left were a rosetta stone of formulas, programming languages and pictograms with lots of little yellow numbered (binary) arrows.

At the prearranged time, the miracle happened. The moon woke up.

Secret engines buried under the sea of tranquility activated. They were massive, ancient engines, aeons dormant, only recently discovered and little understood. But they could be understood. Everybody called their creators the 'builders.' Everyone involved with the engines had been working at a burning pitch of excitement for months, sharing the knowledge that this was the greatest mystery humanity had ever encountered.

The referendum results shouldn't have surprised Johnny, he knew his people. Nevertheless he was touched at the level of enthusiasm for his dangerous plan.

So, 6 months ago, President Johnny Trueson, now Captain Trueson, piloted the moon out of earth orbit, strangely, there were no tectonic catastrophes, the tides were unaffected, not even a mild tremor.

Second rate scientists still on Earth hurriedly gave press conferences.

The religio-anarchic-oligarchy of Earth officially declared war on the Moon.

Had Johnny known about it, he'd have laughed.

But the Lunars were already beyond Antares, and the stars themselves their neighbours.

Universum est nostri, read the new Lunar motto.

The universe is ours.

The Curious End of Francois Gennedy - Absurdist Science Fiction

Many years ago, Francois Gennedy ran a used hot rod concession out from behind his house. His sizeable property held a rather tame collection of project cars, donor cars and parts. With one exception, there was an engine in there that Francois claimed would run 100 km on a single litre of gas.

Legend surely, but Francois had once worked for a major automobile manufacturer, or so he claimed, which had purchased his patent and sat on it, leaving Francois with only his demo engine (he'd given them a copy, claiming it was the only one, which the company promptly destroyed).

Under a stack of legal documents that would punish him with worse than death should he circumvent the wishes of the company, Francois had hidden the engine somewhere in his back yard and did his best to forget where.

Or so he claimed. Many people tried to find that engine without success, then one day, Francois disappeared without a trace.

A quarter century and several passports later, my collegue, Frank Kennedy, confessed that he was actually Francois Gennedy.

I didn't believe him of course, if the Frank Kennedy I knew was in fact the legendary Francois, he should have been 103 years old. Frank Kennedy was a well preserved 57 despite his habit of chain-smoking.

He explained that the engine worked on future-fuel. I asked him what he meant.

"You see, I figured that if there is such a thing as multiple dimensions, I realized it didn't mean they ran perfectly in sync. Things could happen here and now but one step left or right, here and now could be then and there. So I built an engine on the theory that all the fuel it would ever use potentially, must be in use right now in one dimension or another"

"You lost me after the word dimension,"

"Forget the theory side, the practical upshot is I built an engine that would run it's entire lifetime on a single litre of petrol while emitting exhaust gasses backwards in time,"

I was certain Frank had had too much to drink, yet the more I protested and poked holes in his nonsense the hotter he got under the collar.

"Dammit! I'll show you! Let's take a drive,"

Frank's car was so unspeakably ordinary, it slid off the memory banks like a cash withdrawal. Even the colour was indescribably mundane.

"Boredom personified, isn't it? I'm especially fond of my rust job," Frank indicated the places on the body where, for reasons never fully explained, he had carefully painted the body with browns and reds so the car appeared older and more used than it actually was.

I admitted that the paintwork was realistic. Frank pointed out other aspects of how he had weathered, stressed and antiqued the body.

I finally asked him why.

He answered by opening the passenger door.

You'd never believe the places we went, the adventures we had, I won't try to describe them.

Frank Kennedy told the truth, yet less than the whole truth.

In his car, the further you went, the younger you got, the further into the past you travelled.

The emissions travelled faster, stopping in the carboniferous period.

That's why I had to kill him.

The Company would never tolerate such a machine to exist. It would upset our alien overlords to no end.

The cursed company

Once upon a time, A petty noble and his company of men, insulted a river as they were hunting. The river, being magical, cursed them all to 40 years of ceaseless, changeless riding, their youth suspended so they could all feel the full measure of the river's punishment.

They rode; through towns, trackless wastes, even under the sea, sometimes mad, sometimes violent, sometimes snatching women up and raping and killing them on horseback.

Over 40 years of ceaseless riding, they had lost and regained themselves several times over, eyes gleaming with slick oil, demonic eyes, as often sad, grim, eyes that had seen a thousand battles.

The Japanese called them 地獄のライダー

The Hell Riders.

When the curse lifted, they had been riding through fields of wheat. It was late summer.

What a terrible sight it must have been.

To see a company of men,

abandon their mad horses,

plunge into the golden wheat,

cry like broken children.

Exactly the sort of...

What is this? A collection of odd lots from my illustration pasttime. Why is this here? I don't know, there are too many people on the internet these days. Does someone else enjoy my bad taste and pseudosymbolism? Is this the kind of 'bad art' that requires lengthy explanations by the artist in the catalogue? Using words like: suggests, implies, disguises?

It's a fashion, the more you know the more ignorance you profess, against hubris, against tall flower syndrome.

(in Poland, if someone is a 'tall flower' they are an achiever who has attracted the notice of superiors, therefore is a threat to them and must be eliminated, as in: the tallest flowers get cut first, Soviet origin likely, Russian history is brutal)

The Space Music of Ajax Moonshine

It was going to be a short night. Blast off caps, the gravitron launch pads, had thrown their last cargo of the day into the shipping lanes heading in-system, there was a crack as the payload passed the sound barrier.

Ajax Moonshine, a smuggler, and all around prognosticator on all things modern, performed a trick he learned in the spice markets, he imagined space music, an old spacer tune, and was instantly asleep.

Asteroid mining, it's a business. Night on this rock lasted a decent 5 hours, it was big enough for the Blast off caps. Roughnecking his first 15 years in space, Ajax decided to freelance, to take a few private jobs.

Cigarettes (illegal), alcohol (for religious consumption only), and Playboy Magazine (possession is a misdemeanor, 'use of offending material' is a crime).

2 years later and Ajax was a wanted smuggler of such dirtside luxuries.

And it had made him rich.

But now he was being asked to smuggle something else, at a ridiculous price, in fact his opening asking price. So Ajax Moonshine, a rep to protect, takes possession of a small package and is well into deep space when something happens.

In his silent cabin, Ajax acquires the bizarre conviction that someone has just been thinking inside his head, and it wasn't him.

Ajax begins to feel ideas floating up, space music, but not his.

The music wants to tell him something, to open the package, no, to tell him the package is open.

It's getting hard to think, Ajax shudders, when he sleeps, what then?

Somehow he knows. It frightens him.