It has been recognized that under high duress organisms push towards the self-destruct button. There is an innate desire for the single cell to make futile, furtive, and false efforts to multiply its forces. This is known as cancer. Similarly, more complex neuro pathophysiological advanced species, with such cellular mis-adaptation, will in such state, pursue prey of a spurious nature so as to try in vain to appease their subverting cells, now in metastatic states, by consuming increasing amounts of Poly.

Polly Wanna Cracker is in fact a primordial cry, originating from the depths of the wing-tip shoe squeaks of timeless thugs, bandits, and pirates of Life treasure (always wanting more!) and in excess of voracity will fracture and implode with explosive ramifications for the World. The repetition of this longwinded chorus, by our Avian friends is nothing more than an illusion of stretching and scaling, of this asylumatic articulation. Going crackers like in One Flew Over The Cuckoos.

In fact, turning frequency knob (hence speed and pitch), this refrain is then more aptly identified as the central nest bomb in mental break- and count-down:

Tick, Tick, Tick....

...which fine-tuned and adjusted one more time is heard clearly now as:

...sick, ...sick, ...sick...

04.30.2023

Why are we eating Plastic? challenge @batmaninwuhan

Ahh yes. Leaves. They are a very delicate natural condition aren’t they?

Did you know that leaves didn’t always change their color?

When I was very young and the world was new, the trees all had the same green color of leaves all the year long.

Each tree had different shapes and sizes of leaves, but the colors always stayed green.

One day a great argument arose as to which species of tree were the most beautiful. The Great Oak said it was the most beautiful because it’s leaves were shaped differently than the Elm and the Alders. Then the Birch spoke up and said it had the most spectacular trunks! Then the Redwoods and Sequoias spoke up saying they were the most beautiful because they were taller and stronger than everyone else.

The arguments got so loud that even the birds couldn’t be heard over their bickering.

So to put an end to all the arguments, Mother Nature called a meeting and told everyone who bore leaves that at the end of summer, during the Autumnal Equinox, she would hold a beauty pageant for all leaf bearing beauties just before the Winter Solstice when everyone takes a long winter nap.

Everyone was encouraged to color their leaves in bright cheerful colors or colors they thought would look good against their trunks.

The winner with the best colored leaves would be announced in spring during Beltane, and would be crowned king or queen for the year.

Well this was such a great idea that all the arguments stopped and everyone concentrated on putting on their best colors!

So that’s why the leaves change every autumn and the way it’s always been from the time I was very young and the world was new.

"I knew that movie was bullshit. Hell, everybody knows that movie is bullshit, but that angsty brunette is cute. Well. Shit, I guess that mopey dope with the perfect hair is a good looking guy, too. Surprisingly, he actually made a decent young Batman."

He works deftly, hands a blur while he rambles a mile a minute.

"Of course, the hero of the story really got shit on. That's the way of it, I guess. The heroes don't get the girls, they get discharge papers, a purple heart, and a partial pension for the rest of their miserable lives. At least Jacob didn't get shuffled off and forgotten by his country and comrades."

He pauses, looks down at his handiwork, and resumes his stream of consciousness.

"Come to think of it, I can't really remember what happened to old Jake. I just know he didn't get the girl, she picked the zombie over the real boy, that much I do know. And my pension aint half bad, honestly. It's not like I'm unable to work side jobs, like this one, yknow? Who woulda thought a nobody Eleven-Bravo like me would have marketable job skills?"

He stops talking long enough to wrap a heavy, rusted chain around the bare metal gurney that sits in the back of the parked ambulance. He makes several passes over his passenger, through the metalwork of the collapsible bed, and back again. He secures it with several padlocks. Everything has the patina of age, wear, and use, but the gear is less than a year old.

"Oh, that's infantry, in case you didn't know. I thought maybe I'd find work with a defense contractor, right? I mean, I did, sorta, but this aint exactly providing security for diplomats or oil executives. Hell, did you even know some of the big boys actually run ops stateside?"

He pauses, checks his passenger, and notices there are still no signs of consciousness.

"Well. Now you do, I guess." He slaps the secured "patient" none-too-gently. "Hey. Wake up, Chocula. Rise and shine."

There is a gasp, a roar, and a tremendous shaking. The man on the gurney comes to consciousness, fully aware and enraged. He flexes, he screams, he hurls curses mixed with wordless fury, but he is bound tightly by thick rope and thicker chains.

"Yeah, I don't know why I bothered with the rope. Practicing for a weekend with the girl, I guess. She said she might be into the whole shibari thing, so I figure, fuck it? Why not, right? What's the worst than can happen? She gets pissed at me for sticking it in the no-no or spinning her around a few times too many? I mean, that's what rope dudes do, amiright?"

The person in chains realizes he can't see. He's wearing a sleeping mask over his eyes, and he tries to rub his face on his shoulders to dislodge it.

"Oh, hey, no. Stop that." There's a sharp pop and continuous crackle of a Taser, cartridge removed, as it is applied to a restrained thigh. The almost-a-man howls in pain. "Yeah, shit hurts, huh? I get it. Hell, you should try riding the lightning with the probes in you. Man, that sucks. But you need to leave the blindfold in place. I'm not down for that glamour trick you fucks do, and, if you see me I can't exactly let you go, right?"

This has an immediate calming effect on the supine detainee.

Rage abated, breathing under control, pain subsiding, the restrained person finally speaks in coherent words. "What is this?"

"My job, slick."

"Work for me, I'll pay you double."

"Yeah? Tell me about your benefits package."

"Good pay, excellent health plan."

"You don't say? Vacation time?"

"Life will be a vacation."

"Now that's a funny word, right there."

"Vacation?"

"Life."

The chatty former soldier opens up the double doors of the ambulance, and with a grunt, he shoves the gurney out onto the pavement. This early in the morning, there's no one else on the open-air top floor of the parking deck. Dawn sunshine bathes both men in the warmth of a new day.

The stainless steel gurney has no mattress because it was burned away dozens of jobs ago; the shibari ropework acts as tinder for the instant bonfire that fills the air with the smell of pork roast and burning hair. The vampire's scream lasts only seconds before vocal chords blister, burst, bloom in flame, and scatter on the wind as ash.

The whole spectacle lasts less than a minute, and rusty, charcoal-covered chains sag and clang to the rolling metal frame and concrete.

He sits on the floor of the ambulance, watching the sun continue its rise while he waits for the metal pieces to cool. A light breeze lifts his spirits and carries away the trash from another day's work.

"God, that movie is such bullshit. Fuckin sparkly vampires and idiots who want to fuck a corpse. Jacob dodged a bullet, that's for sure. Sullen corpse-humpin emo trashchick, goddamn."

When an uninvited stranger with a long beard and a large sack walks in on your Christmas celebration

You eagerly welcome him to join in on your vacation

As you pour him a glass of milk and offer him cookies

He only smiles and removes from his sack eight goodies

But though you expect ¨Ho, ho, ho!¨

He chuckles ¨I´m ready to party for seven nights straight, you know!¨

And just as he hands you a warm plate of knish

A sudden realization hits that he is Jewish!

He sets the menorah upon the mantle

And beckons you to light each and every candle

Then with a smile you take his hand to join you in time

To sing "This little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine..."

It's been a miserable few weeks. I think I've seen more blood in the past thirty days than in the rest of my career.

I scrub the back of my hands over my eyes and let out a long sigh. It's another late night. I've been having too many of those lately. Standing up to stretch, my eyes fall onto the board where all my information is pinned up. The guys make fun of me for being so old-fashioned, but having the low-tech stuff makes me feel better. More secure, I guess.

I mean, look at these victims. Some of the brightest minds in modern science, gone just like that. Like they'd never even existed.

Thirty days. Thirty victims.

God, it's driving me crazy.

I pull down two of the photos to compare. Day 16 and Day 23, the crime scenes.

Elias Green. Got his stomach torn open and throat slit. Evidence suggests he was conscious until he died. Blood all over the ugly upholstery.

Scarlett Caldwell. Hung from the ceiling by her wrists and beaten, then suffered a cracked skull on the floor. Heavy internal damage. Our perp took the time to raid her fridge on the way out.

We've got video for all thirty of them.

Normally it'd be our saving grace. Now, I think it's the worst part.

We don't have ID. We've got the top half of a face and hours of useless surveillance. Androgynous body type, slim and wiry. Short dark hair or a hat, maybe. Dark eyes, light skin.

Normally, the top half of a face would be enough. More than enough. We'd have ID within seconds and bada bing, bada boom, our guy gets caught on his way home and we don't have to worry about him anymore. I don't have to work 20 hours of overtime a week because everyone this side of the Mississippi is paranoid they're next.

We've got next to nothing. He's random, unpredictable. He strikes fast, hard, and messy, like he's got a vendetta. He's not worried about leaving signs. I mean, look at Day 4. Joey Brooks, cut up in little pieces and scattered around his own apartment. The carpet had squished under my boots.

I need a drink.

I'm craving shots — it feels like a bad-idea type of night — but I've got bourbon stashed under my desk already.

Where's the thread? What connects them all? I mean, unless the guy has been-

I freeze, already halfway through my pour. I set the bottle down roughly and turn back to the board. Profiles. I need the profiles.

I snatch the short descriptions pinned up next to each victim and lay them out next to each other.

Day 4, Joey Brooks, PhD in Developmental Biology.

Day 9, Olivia Gilmore, doctorate in Neuroscience.

Day 16, Elias Green, doctorate in Robotics and Biotech.

Day 23, Scarlett Caldwell, PhD in Biomedical Engineering.

Doctorate, PhD, PhD, doctorate, doctorate, PhD.

A thread.

No, the beginning of a thread. If our guy has it out for scientists, there were easier, higher-profile targets. I mean, Olivia Gilmore lived in rural Missouri, real catfish country. Well, she lived in New York for a bit, but it was a while ago.

A while ago.

"Ailee?" I ask aloud, activating the AI built into the office. Everyone's got a different activation phrase for her, and she reacts anywhere in the station.

"Yes, Officer?" her smooth voice responds.

"Run a few calculations for me. I want to know how many of these victims lived in NYC from-" I check Gilmore's profile. "-2004 to 2015."

"Right away, Officer," she says. I start pinning the descriptions back onto the corkboard, but I'm not even through five before Ailee's back. "I have found records that several of the victims were present in New York City during the timespan you requested."

"How many?" I press, staring at the board.

"Thirty." I sit down, all my breath leaving me in a whoosh.

We have a thread.

Now, what exactly were they doing in the city that put them on our perp's hit list?

You're so close, my mind whispers.

The door behind me creaks shut. Weird. I always keep it closed.

I whip around to see a slim person with pale skin, dark hair, and dark eyes. They look almost wild.

"You're so close," they whisper again. Their voice is softer than I expected. Higher, too. They'd never spoken in any of the surveillance videos.

"Officer," says Ailee. "I am having some difficulty identifying your visitor."

"Find them. You can find what they've done, I know you can," whispers the murderer who I've been looking for for weeks. I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry.

"And what is that? What did they do?" I manage to ask. My voice doesn't even tremble.

"Officer, based on visual cues, I recommend you remove yourself from this situation," Ailee says, a little louder.

"Experiment X," mumbles the murderer, almost to themselves. They swayed a little where they stood. "Subsection H-131. Status: Successful. Classified. Highly dangerous. Updated status: Loose."

"What are you saying?" I ask, stepping forward. "What does that mean?"

My movement seems to jolt them into awareness, and before I can say "whoops", they're gone.

"Ailee, did you get what they were saying?" I ask. I slide back into my seat behind my desk and down my poor abandoned bourbon.

"I did, Officer."

"Cross-search that with our victims. What was it, Experiment X, subsection something something..."

"Subsection H-131," she confirms. "I have found sources that possess the names of the victims and the key phrases. I'm afraid that they are behind a firewall. They are labeled as highly classified."

"Can you fix that?" I ask.

"Of course." My tablet pings with an Ailee message, and I pull it up.

"What is this stuff?" I ask under my breath, scrolling through the documents. "Ailee, send this to the chief. Make copies. We can't lose this stuff."

The logo at the top of the document strikes me as vaguely familiar. Slowly, my eyes drift to the corkboard.

Day 1.

Norman Crowell.

Right next to his picture on the board is the logo of his company, Crowell Corps. They make most of the ID tech that goes into surveillance equipment. A decent amount of that equipment, too.

Crowell Corps' logo is front and center on the document. Right above the bold text that reads "Experiment X".

"Ailee, what connection do the victims have to Crowell Corps?" I ask, already dreading the answer.

"It appears the victims were involved with this Experiment X. Many of them were influential in its functioning."

"And what is Experiment X?"

Ailee pulls up one of the documents I didn't get to.

It's a picture of a child.

Gaunt with wide dark eyes and lank dark hair, the child stares into the camera. The picture is labeled "Experiment X 2011".

"From what I have been able to discern, Experiment X was an experiment by Crowell Corps to produce a subject resistant to their identification technology. It was originally started to locate weaknesses in their technology, but as the experiment progressed and a successful trial was obtained, the directors of the experiment suggested using the experiment to further their own agenda. The experiment was trained in combat, but on the date of the test deployment, went rogue and attacked Norman Crowell."

My phone beeps with an incoming message from the Chief. "Detective, whatever this is that you've sent me, it can wait. We've got another victim."

"Twenty bucks says this one's also involved with Experiment X," I murmur.

"All due respect, Officer, but I'm not taking that bet," Ailee replies.

Big Red Jacket, coming out of the car with a cloud of steam. Wouldn’t know if its Donner or Blitzen. Certainly didn’t blitz to get here. Saints never usually do; they like to take their time. Make you wait for hours in a cold parking-lot of an abandoned Sports Authority at the end of a large strip mall. Yet, Christmas came early this year; he was almost on time. My Santa gets in the car, greetings are exchanged, seasonal in fact. He says Merry Christmas, so do I. Ironic cause I know he’s Muslim. I’m Jewish. But today we’re both Christians. And in his brownish backpack that he dragged in with him, nothing but tannenbaums. “Half off for the Holidays?” I ask facetiously.

He laughs, mutters how he’s gotta eat, then pauses and says, “Awe hell. I’ve been paying attention, you’ve been a good homie all year. Why don’t you take an extra dub, you can pick the bag.”

”You sure?” I reply. “You don’t gotta do that.”

”I’m sure man, it’s the holidays, I was already thought about it twice before I pulled up on ya. Ask again and the offer goes with me.”

We dab hands, I say my gratitude, he tells me he’s gotta get back to his “hoes”; we laugh and I let him go. Out of my car he gets back into the cold, pops the trunk, swings in his sack, and slams the door back down. He walks to his driver side, big red jacket gleaming from my headlights, opens the door and surrounds himself in a cloud of steam. Ol Saint Nick gives a wave, hops in his sleigh and off he flies. Back to his workshop, or more deliveries, only he knows.

The color purple is really something unique. It beamed in this new painting. I tilted it slightly, straightening it on the wall. I'd wanted this particular one for months. I couldn't believe he'd actually gotten for me. Leaning into the canvas, I huffed a deep breath in. The wafting smell of acrylic was still there. Boy, it was a beauty. Dark lines and fine details. It had to be my favorite piece. I continued to stare at it in awe.

The door rattled, interrupting my moment. Rolling my eyes into the back of my head and sighing loudly, I headed to the tiny peephole to see who dared to interrupt me. To my surprise, a young woman around my age stood there in a frustrated stance holding her hands on her hips. I paused to take her in. Blonde barrel curls fell below her shoulders, and her jeans sat high on her hips, synching her waist. I narrowed my eyes. Who was she? She lifted her hand and pounded on the door again, startling me. Intrigued, I cracked the door, "Can I help you?" I said sternly.

Without notice, she heaved the door into me, "Are you, Nikki?" She screamed, storming past me, but stopping in front of the painting.

"What?" I said, confused.

She laughed, "You know, that was supposed to be mine!" I looked to see her pointing at my new gift, my painting. Stunned, I had no words. I was unsure of what to do, hoping she'd just leave. She rushed towards me, backing me into the wall.

CRACK

My head ached, and I was slightly dizzy as I came to. She was gone, along with my painting. The door was also still wide open. Slowly, I gathered my bearings and caught my reflection in the mirror above my sofa table. My right eye and cheek glistened a bright red, turning the whole side of my face deep purple. I winced, rubbing the wound. The color purple is really something unique.

I heard it the first time in Lilo & Stitch, and boy, did it resonate. It's become a bit of a family slogan. My mama used to say it to me.

She cupped my cheek on my fourteenth birthday and wiped away a tear, "Oh daughter... we are broken, but we're still good."

"Mom. I don't know what to do. My brothers hate me." I sobbed.

"No, they don't-- they'll come around. I am so proud of you. I am so sorry. I had no idea what your dad was doing. Thank you for telling the truth." Her voice weakens with every word. She's barely audible by the end of it, and by the slump of her shoulders I can see the burden she carries. I can see the bruises left by large, veined hands- hands I used to cling to in the grocery store.

"Why don't they see it like I do, mom?"

She sighs a world weary sigh, "because... they are not women... they are worth something to him." She meets my eyes. She's just called me a woman, and we both know it's true. I stopped being a child years ago. "C'mon, hon. Let's do something fun today-- it's your birthday. Let's get through this. Together. We will get you away from him. We will get you all away from him-- just one more visit."

I steady myself and wipe the tears with the back of my hand, "Okay. Just one more visit." I put on my wistful smile and squeeze her hand, "what on earth are we doing moping? It's my birthday!" She smiles at my false happiness and pats my cheek once more.

"Yes. Broken, but still good."

We rise, pull strength round our shoulders in invisible robes, and paste on the cheer with a glue of perseverance.

I endured with a smile. I made it. We got me away from him.

And I thought that perhaps I might heal someday. I thought there might be a time I was no longer broken-- that the cracks might stop showing, but now I know...

I will always be broken, but

Still Good.

“So Charles, how is it?”

“It’s good, ma’am.”

“And you, John? How do you like it?”

“It’s… it’s good.”

“Well, I think it’s delicious,” said the woman. “I can’t wait to try the next cut!”

“Please kill us already miss!” said John. “Please stop this and just kill us!”

The woman slapped John in his chubby little face. He still had most of his baby fat on him, and the resulting smack, loud as it was, died in the egg crate and foam on the walls and ceiling. John’s chair fell with him tied to it, his naked body thudding on the floor.

“Shut up you little shit!” said the woman, her voice but a hiss. “You’ll eat what I make and you’ll fucking like it! Or else you get the iron again!”

John sobbed on the floor, croaking out protests when she mentioned the iron. He would’ve tried to get up, but she’d taken his arms. She had cooked those first - made a stew with them. Charles’ had been turned into fried strips. She said his leaner muscles would taste better that way. Currently, they were eating Charles’ legs like steak, with John’s as the next course.

“I’m looking forward to tasting the marbling on you, tubby. It should be a lot more flavorful than your twiggy friend here.”

And Charles was a fair bit thinner than John, having hit puberty a little sooner and shedding the pounds as he grew in height. But though he was growing into a man, he cried like a child as the woman got up and righted John’s chair. John's shoulders heaved silently as she walked over to Charles.

“Now now,” she whispered into his ear. “There’s no need to cry. You were delicious with some seasoning and some sauce. He’s just gonna have that marinated natural flavor.”

At this Charles began to wail, screaming at the top of his lungs for help, for a savior. But the woman would have none of it. Quickly, she ripped some duct tape from a roll on her hip and placed it over his mouth. He struggled but, eventually, she got her way.

“Uh-oh. Looks like someone wants the iron!”

Charles began shrieking beneath his muzzle and thrashing against his binds. John simply looked at him with tears in his eyes as she walked over to the fireplace. There, she took an iron poker from the flames, the tip red hot. She whistled an upbeat tune as she almost sauntered back to Charles. His skin was ghostly white and his eyes wide with fear. He wasn’t ready for the iron again, he hadn’t recovered from the last time.

Charles was dressed similarly to John, with still fresh burns on his torso and in… more, unsavory places. As his high-pitched screams continued to pierce the tape, John looked away. He heard the sizzle of hot metal on flesh and smelled it burning. Charles’ shrieks reached a fever pitch, and John tried his best to shut them out. He squeezed his eyes shut as tightly as he could and pretended he was anywhere else. As he pretended that they had never knocked on her door for that school fundraiser.

The flyers are plastered so closely to the telephone pole that their edges bleed into each other, fraying in the wind. Hollow-eyed children, bleached by the sun, seem to stare into the woman's soul as she walks past.

It's always been a sad town, thinks Gretel. From the first time she saw it, holding her twin's clammy hand from the safety of the backseat, she'd known; this is a place that crushes happiness into powdered sugar, dissolves dreams like cotton candy in a hurricane.

Her heels click steadily over the cement, missing a beat here and there as she navigates over debris and around the stubborn prickers that insist on reaching to the sky from every gap in the sidewalk. The wind whips her skirt into the nearest clawing plant. She turns to untangle herself, hissing at the sharp pricks on her hands and the new holes in the dark fabric, when she sees it.

"Don't leave us here," Hansel cries. All Gretel can do is watch, tears pouring down her face, as Stepmother rolls up the windows. Hansel is banging on the car now, his hands still smeared with chocolate from the sweets Stepmother gave out to keep the children quiet. "Please-"

The old, blue-green car lurches forward, sending Hansel stumbling into the street. He doesn't make a sound as his hands scrape the pavement. As she drives away he stays on all fours, tears and snot dripping off of his face. All Gretel can do is stare after her, blinking away tears as she's blinded by the sun's glare off the back windshield.

It's not the same car. Gretel pulls herself out of the memory, yanking the fabric of her skirt the rest of the way out of the bushes for good measure. The holes at the hem are noticeable now, but that's fine. This skirt used to be her favorite-- the deepest sable black, deep pockets and an adjustable waistband, matching perfectly with her good white blouse.

That blouse is long gone, just like Hansel.

Gretel passes another pole. This one has a little boy's face on top, maybe seven or eight. His hair has a cowlick in the front, freckles shining dark on his cheeks as he beams his gap-toothed smile at the camera.

If she had been able to make posters, would it have helped? If she had gone to the police office when she first realized he wasn't right behind her? If she had had a picture to show people, if she had asked "have you seen this boy?" with an actual photo of him, would anyone have answered differently?

Gretel feels her throat tighten, her eyes burn. She can't breathe. Almost there. Her right pocket feels heavier, somehow.

She passes by the intersection where she lost him without looking. It's as though his ghost is still there, her eight-year-old brother begging to look through the window at all the brightly colored candies even though they couldn't afford dinner that night. Why, why, had she walked away without taking his hand first? Why hadn't she been just a little more patient?

The next block passes by in a blur of faded sepia memories; first with her brother, stealing what food they could, sleeping in whichever corner was darkest, then those three days of frenetic searching. Have you seen this boy? Another sepia door slams shut. She jumps.

She slips her hands into her pockets, feels the paper in her left hand and the metal to her right. What was that address again? She checks it, leaving a new batch of sweating fingerprints on the threadbare scrap of paper, then puts it back in her pocket.

The house was probably painted a deep mustard twenty years ago, but now it's a lightly caramelized pastel. The door is candy-apple red, red licorice where it's been chipped. Gretel takes a deep breath, puts her right hand in her pocket, and rings the doorbell.

The woman who answers looks like she was born old. She grins at Gretel with three teeth the color of butterscotch, wrinkles crinkling behind her glasses, spun sugar hair desperately clinging to her mottled skull.

"Would you like some candy?"

Gretel takes the gun out of her pocket.