Day Twenty-Five – Overture for Three Oboes and an Empty Detergent Bottle


The descent is not so bad as we were told. There is a significant amount of depth to the mental experience of falling from heights above our intended pay range. We have gone beyond the pinnacle of man’s real desire and stopped short of our gods’ coattails. We did not even reach for them, bless us.

I will tell you frankly, it has been a hard climb to the top – from the middle sections, from the depths, wherever each individual started from does not matter. We each took a hand hold above our intended stasis point and lifted our bodies to a point higher. None of us started at weights that would allow this to be an easily managed movement. We are no ants. Our own bodies have grown fat a fruitful, our greed hanging like fruit from our withered bodies to be picked by our starving comrades in stasis next to us.

No, great Seraphim, we have hauled our gluttony with us to the peak. It has suffocated the greater man, crushed the frail women disguised as desperate lampreys on the backs of the wealthy. We are top-heavy above the clouds.

Soon, my child, I will return to the story of the fall.

But, first, I give you this warning. Heed it, o Serpent, o quivering masses, ye hamburged lords and wigged commons. There is the tower of man we climb, into space, may it extend forever more. The wind is apart from it – the sound is the icy exhalations from the rictus of our fears. The wind will drive you to insanity. You will let go of this great tree, you will depart from the sanctity of the death clutch and fall forever by listening to its honey-coated sandpaper lullaby. It speaks in threes, devoid of tone, it beats like the kicking fits of a dying heart. It uses words like “halo” and “crouton”. It likes to whisper “dromedary” and “calculus”. In winter it sings songs that screech “fashion” and “great, big, festering sores”. Listen in the darkness, the dark hours of your dark times, when the shadow smothers like burlap in the void. It will sing to you of “status” and “wealth” and “postcard wisdom”.

We are different. We are the ones separate from those clinging desperately to stasis. The tree grows because we stretch out to the next handhold using the docile as stable resting places. There is mead there, though. There are no beermen here with their disdainful looks to the beverages you’ve not yet decided you’ll be against because other people aren’t.

The tree terminates, and here is the last decision:

Stop, give into stasis.

Or, reach for the next handhold that isn’t there. Find nothing and fall.

We jealous and self-serving bastards … we didn’t even reach for those coattails.

Day Twenty-Three – To The Sound Quiet of Self-Maintenance



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Day Twenty – The Last Vestiges of an Inappropriate Man



As is typically the case with events that can be considered to have changed the course of history, through intense and diligent research, and by deconstructing the progression of individual tributaries that as a whole make up the entirety of the catastrophic or productive event in question, one can trace the series of cause and effect back to a single misstep, inspiration, or random improbability.

The event that currently warrants that flavor of excessive and unnecessary deconstruction, is, as is to be expected given the current state of the planet Earth, the total extinction of the human race, and the collapse of the civilization said race had built over many centuries of evolution.

The result of that deconstruction brings us, as predicted, to a single seemingly non-event in the life of one particular individual member of the race of Homo sapiens.

His name is Todd.

Todd was an unusual man, mired in his own pessimistic view of the world. One might say that Todd was the recipient of a particularly unimpressive hand and lacked the brazen obliviousness of youth to be able to bluff his way through it. On the contrary, our Todd was excessively concerned with the way the rest of the world perceived him, and, through personal reflection, had come to the conclusion that the rest of the world was more intelligent than himself, and therefore better suited to pass judgement on his actions.

Somewhere between the cities of Monterey and Morro Bay in the state of California, Todd was informed that his total contribution to the lives of the people that were dearest to him was exactly nil. He was given this information from who he perceived to be a reliable source, a woman who he had been traveling the West Coast with for several weeks. Her name was Violet, and in the handful of months he had known her, he had mistakenly assumed that he would be spending the rest of his life with her.

Violet left Todd on a dune somewhere in that area between Monterey and Morro Bay, as i have previously described, and as he watched her depart in a blue Ford F-150 that happened by at the right time, the assumed truth of his worthlessness crashed into his psyche as powerfully and noisily as the waves did surely crash into the rocky beach at his back. Several moments of mute non-acceptance of his fate culminated in a lackluster repositioning of his body – from its position facing the trees and hills bordering the road Violet had departed on, to its position facing the Pacific Ocean.

Todd, ineffectual as he was with dealing with rejection, buried the sting of loss, and, with a stony visage of some phantom determination I have been unable to discern given the data collected, he set to investigating the rocky coast for marine life.

It is at this point that I should note that both Todd and Violet were not alone in their travels. A man named Walrus Bill had been following the couple since their departure from Monterey, after a long, heated discussion with Todd regarding the worth of the American writer John Steinbeck. Both Walrus Bill and Todd had found their views agreeable and had become fast friends, taking the position that “Steinbeck’s a hack”. Walrus Bill owned the ’94 Mazda Protege that had been their mode of transportation from that point on, and sported a massively excessive growth of beard that has been the subject of much discussion among bird enthusiasts, who intensely debate whether or not the beard was used as nesting grounds for smaller species of owls.

Todd, as I have previously described, was investigating the area in a vain attempt to ignore the most recent disaster in his life. As will soon be seen, the combination of his subconscious obsession with the moment of his loss, and the treacherous state of the wet rocks he was traversing at the time, became the energy by which the event I now relate to you, being the single initial misstep that then led to the extinction of mankind, came to fruition.

Todd slipped on a rock and fell into the ocean.

The crashing waves tossed Todd’s body like a clump of seaweed on the black rocks of the beach. Morro Rock could be seen in the distance, intermittently, as Todd struggled to keep his head above the water. In a particularly violent thrust, Todd was thrown against a jagged outcropping and the black rock, sharpened by the weathering of the sea, cut a large gaping wound in his back, exposing a portion of his spine and ribs.

Walrus Bill, at the time, was urinating into a cormorant nest when he noticed Todd’s dilemma. He witnessed Todd suffer the gruesome injury, and, giving himself time to finish his urination without leakage into his filthy boxer shorts, quickly ran to offer his assistance.

The water had become quite bloody, and Walrus Bill was positive Todd had been killed by the blow, yet he still risked his own safety by traversing the slick rocks to find Todd’s body. To Walrus Bill’s surprise, a rather large wave deposited Todd on a level area of rock, just in front of him.

Walrus Bill, having no previous medical experience to speak of, quickly and ineffectively assessed Todd’s state and roughly dragged him by one arm back to the sands. Rolling Todd over, Walrus Bill had intended to get a look at the gruesome, if not fatal, injury his new friend had sustained.

To his morbid shock, Walrus Bill discovered a gigantic starfish had attached itself to Todd’s back, covering the wound. Mortified by the unusual turn of events, Walrus Bill prodded at the creature with a stick he found nearby. At that very moment, Todd took a deep breath and expelled a large amount of sea water and vomit from his mouth onto the sand.

Shocked even further, Walrus Bill knelt beside Todd and rolled him over, regardless of the sea creature’s comfort on Todd’s back.

Data gathered indicates that Walrus Bill then said, “What the fuck, man! That is the craziest shit I ever saw. Are you okay?”

Walrus Bill neglected to tell Todd of the starfish at that moment, or at least avoided the subject while he made sure that his friend was okay. Todd indicated then that he felt fine, even going so far as to mention that he was surprised he had not suffered serious injury from the catastrophe. It was only then that Walrus Bill revealed to Todd the truth of his accident, and the mysterious appearance of the starfish.

Todd, as shocked as Walrus Bill initially, is recorded as having said in a desperate voice: “What the fuck, man, get it off!”

Walrus Bill then tried to remove the starfish using a stick. Though it seemed impossible to move the starfish at first, Walrus Bill had a rather strong right arm from excessive masturbation, and soon pried up one of the starfish’s five arms. To his horror, Walrus Bill discovered that the creature’s tube feet were embedded in Todd’s flesh, bring Walrus Bill to the sudden realization that he would not be able to remove the starfish at all.

Todd, concerned by the news, but completely unable to cope with it, then asked Walrus Bill what they should do. Walrus Bill then asked Todd if he was experiencing any pain from the wound. Todd then replied, as his eyes began to glaze over, that, in fact, he was beginning to feel quite euphoric.

Walrus Bill then suggested that he take Todd immediately to the hospital.

Data at this point becomes difficult to assemble into a believable series of occurrences, but, to the best of my knowledge, Todd then opened his mouth, and extended a tangle of tube feet out of said orifice towards Walrus Bill. The tube feet quickly found purchase in the tangle of hair that was Walrus Bill’s beard, and before Walrus Bill could scream in terror, the tube feet filled his mouth. Sketchy reports say that Walrus Bill was then turned inside out and devoured by Todd.

Our data on the events that immediately followed the disappearance of Walrus Bill are incomplete, but the next several events are well-documented.

Todd disappeared for several weeks before being photographed at a rally where several thousand environmentalists were protesting the modernization of the Dynergy power plant, which was later closed down. In interviews with several of the attendees, as recorded by a local newspaper, it was indicated that Todd was an important member of the leadership of that particular activist group. That data has been confirmed, as it was only a few months later that Todd publicly became one of the most influential environmental activists in Earth’s history. This may have been made possible by the mysterious disappearances of many of his rivals both in activism circles and in the United States government, who were the only roadblocks to his rise to power.

During this interim period between Todd’s accident and the extinction of mankind, it is supposed that no one knew the truth of the starfish on Todd’s back and its manipulative influence on him.

A decade later, Todd was noted as having an extensively intimate relationship with several of the largest marine biology and microbiology research groups on the planet. His excessive fortune, a result of success in fundraising across the globe for an ecologically intelligent populace, was enough to allow him to dictate the direction theoretical research was to take in these fields.

It was around this time that the bioweapon, codenamed Walrus Bill as a memorial to the last true friend Todd had as a human being in control of his body and mind, was released into the environment, ultimately killing every human in existence, and leaving all other species alive – with the exception of marmosets, a particular nasty species that deserved its fate along with the humans it so effectively mimicked.

The last recorded appearance of Todd, in our records, is widely accepted as the moment of his death, though several groups still profess that Todd is alive and well, living somewhere near the Mariana Trench with a clutch of xenophyophores who worship him as a deity.

As is recorded, on a cloudy day in May, many years after the last true human being perished on the surface of the Earth. Todd returned to the beach just outside of Morro Bay. He quietly removed his shirt, revealing the starfish that had been living there for nearly three decades. The starfish, who we now know was none other than Our Most Holy Veni’thropteris Vec’henrysketh, removed itself from Todd’s back, revealing the scar from the wound Todd had suffered. Todd collapsed to the sand quite dead, though as indicated, this is a matter of some debate, and the starfish made his way back to the sea where a few weeks later he revealed that the Great War was finally over and that at long last the virus called man had been destroyed.

Let us take a moment to remember all the members of the marine world that have died or suffered so that we might live free of the obliviousness and reckless greed of wicked humanity. May their souls be flayed eternally in Charybdis.


Daze of the Weak – An Unnecessary and Unsolicited Explanation For Your Pancreas



Before I type out Day Twenty, I feel it is time to address the purpose of the Daze of the Weak.

There is no purpose.

While my other projects remain in various states of being edited or rewritten, or, better yet, in the limbo of being perused for publication by the last vestiges of true science fiction magazine editors, I have decided to just open my mind and let it spill in an unorganized mess onto the screen.

So, yes, Daze of the Weak. Surreal at times, cryptic, but teasingly suggestive. I do not plan these stories – there is no outline, no structure, no long hours spent on the toilet or in the shower thinking of main characters or underlying themes. On many occasions, I write these pieces at work in between my duties.

Here are some answers to questions you have not asked:

1. The titles are random and unrelated to the story.

2. The pictures are random and unrelated to the story.

3. The titles and pictures have nothing to do with each other.

4. The three preceding numbered answers are all lies.

5. It is absolutely possible to begin piecing together a grand unified epic taking shape within the confines of what would normally be a random arrangement of words and sentences, loose use of punctuation without regard for accepted practices, and Tubeway Army references.

6. You will not be rewarded if you figure out the intricate code contained within the titles, pictures, and text.

7. There is no code.

8. When I tell you there is no code, I am lying.

9. Your mother will be disappointed with you when she learns what you’ve done with your pants.

10. Ampersand.

Thank you.

Day Fifteen – A Public Apology for Events That Occurred on Easter 1993, Wolverhampton, UK


Time is running out and this is the zero hour. For you, the reader, it takes just a few seconds to make a lifetime of difference in the life of someone else, and I am politely asking you, if you are a fan of mad science, cacophony, and imminent destruction, to please donate even a small amount to my latest campaign.

Here is the meat of the project: Your extremely generous donations will go towards financing my latest creation, the Tonne-Hubert Molecular Transpositioning Speculometron, which in its final stages will allow me to duplicate the massive war droids I have been manufacturing out of my small lab here in Struth-Helmershof, Germany.

I would like to take a moment and offer my sincerest gratitude to those who donated to my previous campaign, which allowed me to construct the three prototypes in the first place.

I need your help again, friends. Three war droids was an unbelievable achievement on its own, but what good are three prototype war droids against the raised armies of the Earth. I hope you can see that I will need more. I believe we can do this – I have to believe that we can do this together. Even the smallest donation helps. If we can meet our goals by the end of this week, the Tonne-Hubert Molecular Transpositioning Speculometron will allow me to duplicate my wonderful war droids at an incredible rate – an estimated 53.7 droids per hour! Truly a worthwhile cause, wouldn’t you say?

Ah, but what incentives do you have to help a starving mad scientist? Let me tell you.

If you donate $50, I will mention your blog or website in one of my blogs where I talk about my egotism at length. These particular posts have been generating an average view count of 7,500 in 23 different countries – a perfect way to promote your own endeavors in a venue that reaches thousands of people every day!

If you donate $100, I will arrange for us to have a 15-minute Skype conversation where I will pretend to be interested in the petty pursuits of your wasted life. I will then compose a blog entry about YOU and post it on my blog as a thinly disguised opportunity to gloat about myself through your inadequacies.

If you donate $200, I will paint your face (or logo) on the titanium chestplates of ten war droids of your choice, based upon their likely distribution during the apocalypse I intend to bring about. Hurry though, there are only fifty of these perks left – I will only have so many war droids.

If you donate $300, I will send my assistant, my personal sex-slave clone of Norman Tebbit, to your house where he will mentally dominate you and bring you to my laboratory. Once in my humble abode, I will begin the process of breaking your will and turning you into a cyborg template of your choice – Marauder, Juggernaut, Mindbender, or Reaver. Again, you’d best be quick on this one. There are only two Reaver perks left.

And, finally, if you are most gracious and believe in me with as much faith as I have in myself, and you donate $500, I will personally laser a caricature of your face in the surface of the moon using my giant mega-death ray (not to be confused with my unsuccessful rockbot, Megadeth Ray).

I believe we can do this. I think my ideas, expansive and mad as they are, deserve to be seen through to fruition, even though there are millions of mad scientists out there that make a living going through the system. I have to stay true to my morals and pursue the realization of the ideas in my mind through more humble means. I must ask your help in this as I refuse to let the world tell me that being a mad scientist is about more than using other people’s money to construct death rays, war droids, and mutant badgerwhales.

I hope that you, the reader of this blog, want the destruction of all life as we know it as bad as I do. If you are here, reading this, then maybe you already have been following me and understand the art I am trying to set free into existence.

If you can find it in your heart to contribute to a worthwhile cause, you may donate here.

Also, I am having a sale on my microscopic death mites, a great bargain at only $4.99 per thousand. Surprise your friends and enemies as their brains are devoured in a matter of moments as the swarm enters their nostrils from their hive, cleverly disguised as an iPhone. You can purchase that here.

And finally, we still have several bundles left over from the year-end sale, so I am extending that special through Valentine’s Day. It makes a perfect gift for that special someone. It includes: 5 mutant marmosets (complete with titanium razor claws and pulse cannons), a 3-pack of my popular Acid Chapstick (great for visiting dignitaries), and your very own custom-brainwashed clone drone (only Hippie and Ghetto Redneck models remain). Get that bundle here.

Thank you, in advance, for your contribution. It means the world to me that so many of you believe that this universe is not big enough for anyone but me.

Day Fourteen – Counting Backwards From Zero While Drowning



Breath stutters.

Fingertips tickle snow.

Just beside, a body.

Not deceased, no, not yet.

Depressed perhaps, and languishing in doubt.

He sees his reflection in skies above.

Like the stone he is, he remains patient.

A spear extends from his chest, a war wound.

As he breathes shallowly, he hears the sound of battle.

Soldiers more fortunate lay around him in lakes of merging blood.

In skies above, he hopes to see the valkyries descending to Earth.

In the biting wind, however, the only presence detected is that of f13ndishness.

There is no paradise waiting for him far above this broken plain.

Fingers grasp desperately at the last vestiges of reality surrounding him.

Darkness invades the aperture of his final act on Earth.

As time passes, sensations of mortality transform to void.

The deep black covers the warrior’s static visage.

Wind sways the spear marking his death.

A pendulum, it ticks away time.

The wind ceases to blow.

The battle fades away.

No one mourns.

Earth spins.