General Blog #14701-TS

The Random Taskerpickerizer has dictated that this day’s “Productivity” task is to be a “General Blog”.

Now, normally, I have something extremely snarky to say about something somewhere, hidden deep within sentences more easily digested than they are–like hiding a pet’s pills in a bit of cheese, you don’t even know how profound the sentence actually is, but you’ve eaten it, so there. One day, at the most inopportune moment, the depth of the sentence(s) will be revealed to you after some miniscule event triggered the sudden realization that “The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog” actually means something more than the obvious exhibition of the ability to use all letters of the alphabet in one sentence. I wonder what the sentence is in cuneiform, or Portuguese–doesn’t matter, I’m getting off subject.

Let me tell you briefly about my random task assignments. I have an excel sheet with four categories: Productivity, Culture, Knowledge, and Escapism. The Productivity category contains tasks like Music, General Blog, and specific short stories/novels that I have in process. The Culture category (its most geek culture) contains Sentai, Buffyverse, Comics, Kaiju, Clone Wars, etc. The Knowledge category contains Algebra, Spanish, Logistics & Supply Chain Management, Programming, and VBA. And lastly, the Escapism category contains roughly 20 video games ranging from Famicom’s Adventures of Musashi to Diablo II to Star Wars: The Old Republic.

Each day, I run this excel sheet which randomly picks one task from each category, and my goal is to complete each task (typically an hour’s worth of time spent on each is optimal) and not deviate to other desired pursuits until these four tasks are complete. I have been using this for about four weeks, and I have yet to end a day with the list incomplete.

Why do I do this? I love chaos, but I also like accomplishment. I am a completionist locked in mortal combat with obsessiveness and neurotic attention to chronology and continuity. If I didn’t do it this way, I’d never get anything done. This is the meter of my polymathic pursuits. This is how I go to sleep each night feeling that I’ve done the work necessary for the day to become a smarter, wiser, more experienced man than I was the day before.

Let’s deviate a bit.

I watched Guardians of the Galaxy a couple of weekends ago, and it was as entertaining as I had anticipated. It looks like critics will have to wait for Ant-Man for the next opportunity to prognosticate the fall of Mighty Marvel’s Cinematic Universe. So, Ronan was blue, and that mangled body in Agents of SHIELD was blue, so definitely Kree, right? Hmm. Thinking, thinking, thinking.

My Executor is underway, and I’m pleased to report that I finally have Bossk in Lego form. Huzzah!

This is me!


One of hundreds of pics from Honduras that JD and I have yet to sort through and assemble in any sort of album. Soon, maybe, and perhaps.

I suppose I’ll have to read Gilgamesh soon; I’ve exited the Chalcolithic and am well into the Bronze Age now. Hooray for sexigesimal number systems and cylinder seals!

Here are some recommendations from me to you:

Beer – Lakewood Temptress (this is local for me, like a few blocks away local)

Food – Goodfriend, Dallas-ish (the site of my first burgergasm, and coincidentally an easy place to find Temptress)

Book – Concrete Island – J.G. Ballard (man gets trapped a concrete island between massive highways after an accident)

Television – Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy – BBC series (watch before the Martin Freeman adaptation)

Music – Emerson, Lake and Palmer – Brain Salad Surgery – Toccata (the sound of psychotic robots chasing the last humans on Earth with big spinning blades and Ayn Rand references)

Movie – The Magic Christian (Peter Sellers and Ringo Starr together at last!)


Day Thirty-One – Absolutely the Green Frog Bureau, LLC


This is my Texas Summer piece for this year. I struggle to write a straight story anymore, and why should I make the effort? We are not denizens of a straight reality. Think otherwise? Well then, you’re the crooked soul, aren’t you, dearie?


Interested in my other Texas Summer pieces?

Here they are:

Frozen Texas Summer

The Epic and Sudden Fall of the Gant Family


It’s what I know as the tunnel widens and the door at the end of this long journey begins to open. It’s the brief end to a long day. Eventful and darkened with the wet sheen of closure, this is the day I become more than a man.

In darkness, I slip away into abodes of phantom clones of my ipseity. In darkness, I find opportunity to slumber.

As quickly as it passes, the day comes again on the orange.

I open my eyes to the low angle sun at perfect angle to beam through the dusty blinds and into my face. I still have blood on my hands. This burlap sack I pulled from the barn is musty; it’s grid is pressed into my face temporarily.

The cicada chorus, the symphony of the Texas Summer, is muted by the water-stained sheetrock of this abandoned house. The trees and ligustrums are fighting for canopy distinction above it, as mosquito larvae dance a jig in old buckets nearby.

I have my assignment, passed down through time channels, space eddies, past a million stars.

And, in my head I hold the memory, like red ochre on the wall, of man’s first vengeance.

Lacy is thick on thigh and tight around the middle, but she’s no heavyweight in the fat department. This woman is hard. Her dark hair falls in the perfect unkempt curl of obliviousness, and she wears it like a gold-laced dolman over black lingerie.

She’s taken up with some Mexican who tools around Coyanosa in a 70s model Cadillac convertible, orange sparkle. I gather from the locals that they call him Luison, after some Guarani legend. I’ve tailed him a few times, going so far as Los Hornillos in Mexico. Luison deals in flesh, but on occasion he gets himself into the drug trade if the money is right. Between Los Hornillos and the filthy waters of Miguel Hidalgo, Luison has a modest ranch tucked in a valley where he trains fighters and assassins, but mostly, from what I’ve observed there, Luison just uses the house there as his own personal Xanadu.

After the third time I witnessed a truckload of beaten women delivered in a rusty bobtail, I very nearly blew my cover and charged in, guns blazing.

Luison is not my target, though.

Lacy is hot molasses and hellfire, poured into leather and lace. She gyrates her body and bucks her hips, threatening to rip through the minimalistic clothing. She drinks black coffee and cherry pie at the diner every morning, waiting for Luison to arrive with his orange sparkle yacht and retinue of greased men. I know that a few of the locals have been in that dark embrace, in filthy stalls, on splintered stacks of pallets, between steam tables and grills. For Luison to know this would mean death for any one of them, and they know this. Pinch Luke, the diner owner, makes himself the size of a pea when the thump of conjunto begins to vibrate the diner’s front window. Maybe its this Mexican’s manhood they fear, or maybe its his rumored connection to the Sinaloa cartel. Either way, the diner empties dramatically each day Luison is around town.

It has taken me several months to track Lacy down, and I’ve spent a good deal of time attempting to understand why she does this, why she has fallen into this pit of debauchery with snakes like Luison. I tracked her here through a blog of all things, where she painted the page red with descriptions of dark Southern sexual escapades from the swamps of Louisiana to the dusty oilfield pop-ups of West Texas. She is a vile but undeniably attractive writer, grabbing at a man’s loins with the razor claws of a cat with a thousandfold more intensity than a four-hour bondage porn and makes you want to dive through the screen into a hell of pixel ecstasy, circuit envy, electronic nothings licked into your mind through the back of your throat.

I am biting my lip even now, knowing where I’ve been with her in my mind.

The thump of conjunto cacophony, warped by the sound of welding and sawing coming from Deep Andy’s shop across the street, stirs me from my thoughts, and from my position atop the old abandoned utilities building, I resume my scouting of the scene.

Luison is alone, and the familiar doppler effect is hastened as his orange sparkle yacht blows past the main intersection at a heated eighty miles per hour. Careering into the diner lot at an angle, handbrake employed gingerly, Luison’s car slams into a roughneck worktruck parked at the diner’s front window.

Sweat’s pouring into my eyes, and I have to remove the binoculars from my eyes to dry my brow. The asphalt from the roof is baking me alive. I’m only just noticing the heat as the scene heats up to match the Texas sun’s relentless assault. How long have I been here?

Luison is out of his car and in his hand is an MP7 flecked with blood. I take a cursory glance to the car itself and notice that blood is everywhere on the dark orange leather.

Things have come to a head.

Casting my binoculars aside, I vault over the edge of the roof and roll to my feet in a controlled motion. The Hayabusa I thieved from Wold Benny back in Stephenville is parked between the utility building and the old feed lot out of sight. I make for it, loosing the plasma rifle from its lock at the bike’s side and throwing its strap over my shoulder. I anticipate this will be the last time I will need any of these primitive tools.

Walking the Hayabusa up to the corner of the feed lot office, I afford myself a good view of the scene as it unfolds.

Luison drags Lacy out of the diner, her too-tight red dress is ripped and I suck in breath as I catch a glimpse of long thigh. The Mexican throws her roughly into the car, but with unnatural speed, old Lacy is back out again. Her left fist connects and Luison hits the dirt lot, dropping his weapon.

I hear the sound of engines down the street but dismiss it.

Luison is up and grabs Lacy again, this time pointing towards the direction I heard the engines. This time, she pushes him into the car and deftly throws herself into the back seat.

Curiosity peaked, I turn my attention to the far end of town where I see a Unimog flanked by three black SUVs bearing down on us. The Cadillac is gone in a cyclone of dust and the Unimog and its cronies are in pursuit. From out of the windows, cartel men appear wielding Uzis.

Luison is running for his life.

I lurch out into the open and follow the pursuit. I’ll be damned if a gang of cartel scum is going to deny me my bounty.

The road north out of Coyanosa tees into another road before you can pick up another road to Monahans east of there. Luison cuts the sharp angle with a wide fifty degrees at the start. His yacht kicks up a wall of dust that the Unimog disappears into, and I have no choice but to follow.

I catch sight of the slope early, but in the dust, I can’t see where to angle and I brace for flight. Airborne, I do my best to maintain level on impact. The back wheel kicks out when I come down, but I recover and continue pursuit. I toy with the idea of jetting past the cartel vehicles, but as I ponder my approach, I hear the whine of bullets nicking past. They think I’m with Luison.

I carefully pull the plasma rifle around off my shoulder and level it at the first SUV I’m coming up on. Shrapnel ricochets up off the blacktop as the cartel gunmen try to take out my tires. I quickly aim and fire.

The SUV’s back left side disappears in a sharp white pulse of energy. Half a man slips out of the vehicle’s new hole, and, now missing three quarters of a wheel, the SUV skids into the ditch.

Now, the other SUV’s occupants have sight of me, and they turn the barrels of their guns my way. Before they have a chance to take a shot at me, I unleash another bolt of hell towards their front end from a diagonal just behind at the their left. Most of the SUV disappears and the rest of it flips upwards, end over end. I risk the carnage and fire my bike past the metal disaster.

Just the Unimog lies between me and my target. The monster vehicle has been customized and is rolling a hell of a lot faster than it should be. I’m admiring this when I see the telltale shimmer of Lacy’s power not fifty yards ahead.

So, she’s that desperate, I surmise. I curse and get my weapon up just in time to fire a pulse into the energy wall. Just ahead of me, the Unimog collides with the invisible barrier and erupts in violence–a half sphere of explosion, not penetrating the wall at all. My quick thinking has afforded me a break in the barrier, but the Unimog’s fiery death throes force me through at an angle. I lose the Hayabusa and take flight unwillingly. The blacktop eats me, and I have the experience of my fractured tibia, jutting out of my skin, scraping against the hot mess of road. The tumble lasts for what seems like hours, but in a short second I grind to a halt, broken and helpless.

Ahead, I catch a glimpse of the orange convertible swerve to a stop and reverse its course back to me. The rear left tire crushes my hand as it pulls up next to me. My plasma weapon is yards away and sparking in its own death throes.

“Holy shit,” Lacy drawls out with her practiced honey cajun tongue. “What brings you out this far, sugar bear?”

Luison is out of his car and kicks me in the side. “Who the fuck are you?” he barks at me. I don’t like his greasy hair, and I can smell him for the first time.

No, I’ve smelled this before. I’ve mistaken his stench for something unpleasant left uncleaned in one of the ramshackle buildings making up the ass stain that is Coyanosa.

“This is my friend,” Lacy says, pushing Luison back from me. “He came a very long way just to see me, didn’t you sweetie?”

The Texas sun plays a duet with the hellfire of trauma that is what is left of my body. In the distant, the mirage of the blacktop looks like Lacy’s magic all around us.

Luison roughly pushes her aside and levels his MP7 at my head. His intention is to kill me, but Lacy has other ideas. Luison’s neck snaps and I can see his ribcage buckle. Lacy hasn’t touched him. The Mexican falls to the ground dead, his weapon clatters against the blacktop and I can see the heat mirage off the barrel.

Lacy crouches beside me and I can see her lack of underwear. I smile. Fortune smiles on me this day, for this and one other reason.

“You can’t catch me, Wilkes. Not you, not any of you. Not here, or elsewhere in this backwoods galaxy. Not now, and not ever in infinity,” she teases. Her hot hands caress my face, letting the blood stick to her soft skin. “If it were possible, it wouldn’t be a paradox.”

I cough blood and struggle to speak. In my hand, I tickle a switch and I can feel the throb of this paradox’s final lifebeat.

“What’s that, sugar?” she says, leaning over.

I take one last look at her cleavage, and then touch the stasi-tec device to her upper thigh.

“Circles are a bitch,” I grunt.

Lacy’s eyes have widened, but they are frozen now. She teeters and falls forward, her breasts hard and cold as ice now against my face. I giggle, then gasp for air. With effort, I shove her off me and take a few moments to breathe.

The Texas sun is directly over head, and its flaying my flesh with dull and rusty wood planes. The insect chorus, not as familiar to me now as the cicada drone, is singing my credit music.

I reach down an slip my communicator from its sheath with broken fingers.

I take a deep breath. “Target down. Need extraction.”

“Affirmative,” comes the reply. “Standby.”

Two beings shimmer into existence next to me and the orange yacht. One easily hefts Lacy’s frozen form from the blacktop before just as quickly disappearing into nothing.

“You’ve sustained serious injury,” the thing says to me. I can’t see through its visor, but I know its a bug. Why can’t they send out a humanoid every once in while. “Standby for realignment.”

The snap of bones and white burn of mended flesh brings into existence a primal scream that wanders up from my gut. I’ll take death next time, I think.

A few minutes pass before the pain allows me to think. By then, the bug is gone and I’m alone in the carnage of the aftermath of my occupation. I take another deep breath, and I sit up.

Not bad, I think to myself.

I stand slowly, forced to lean against the Cadillac for support as newly existent flesh sorts out its purpose.

Again, I’ve got to smile. “O Fortuna,” I say.

Luison’s keys are still in the ignition.

Day Thirty – Quality Stock Tips From an Okapi (or, Mr. China Has Seven Splinters)



Rprt -22.22.511.

Earth Interplanetary Logistics and Colonization – Robotic Recon Team – Report – Assmt. 17501.R.TR73

||\\|| BEGIN REPORT ||\\||















||\\|| END REPORT ||\\||


doesn’t make sense, where did this data come from?

decrypt was confirmed. appears it was validly entered from the lander

crazy shit. firestorm here

wtf happened up there?

Baseday 32 | 13:20:08

After my reconnaissance of the Southern plateau (SW34.S12.13’1”), I returned to our camp intending to deliver Rover 7 to the garage for maintenance. I sustained damage to the left rear wheel assembly when the rover impacted a large mineral deposit hidden by loose gravel. After an initial evaluation, I decided the wheel, while not functioning efficiently, would still perform well enough to make the trek back to the garage to be repaired by the robot team.

Though I hesitate to make entries into this log that are personal in nature, I have found that my communications with the AI psychologist suite have not settled my mind on certain issues affecting my work here at Titan R3V. I record these comments here as an exercise in airing grievances, and not as an accusation of wrongdoing.

When I returned to hab from my reconnaissance, having already dropped the rover off with the droids. I witnessed Capt. Davies and Chief Teague in apparent coitus. Tensions have been rising in recent days as I too have engaged in intercourse with Chief Teague on several occasions in the past several weeks, and she assured me that she was not receiving sexual attention from either the robots or Capt. Davies.

The look on her face was not one of shock or embarrassment. I saw no shame in her eyes as she continued to allow Capt. Davies to interact with her without notifying him that I had entered the room.

I left the room without drawing further attention to myself and retired to my quarters. I noticed, on my way back to my quarters, that one of newts had died.

Baseday 34 | 02:41:15

Capt. Davies and I have revisited the methane spring at NW2.N41.3’141″ to take additional readings and assess the possibility of bacteria living near or in the small pond. Tests are pending with results expected for Lab Report 141.3.

I confronted Davies with what I had seen and he laughed at me. He has accused me of seeing things, insisting that I imagined seeing he and Eve having sex. The visual is so burned in my memory that I cannot remove it from the forefront of my mind. I dropped a vial container into the methane pool, and I know it is a result of the stress of what I witnessed.

I feel a remarkable amount of jealousy at this moment. I do not believe Davies has tried to blow me off as having psychological issues. I know what I saw. His penis has much more girth than mine. I imagine she receives much more pleasure from him than she does me.

I have spoken with the MedBot about methods of increasing girth and length, but he has deliberately withheld the information from me. The nets are down, so I’ve not been able to research the enlargement methods on my own.

Baseday 37 | 09:34:01

All of the amphibian test subjects have died mysteriously. At first examination, it appears that each of them have had their spines broken through force. I have confronted Capt. Davies with this discovery and he denies that he has deliberately murdered my newts. I also brought to his attention that I most definitely heard he and Chief Teague having sex in the lab throughout the night. Again, he has refuted my claims, and suggested that I need rest. He has taken me off of duty for the next three days.

With Capt. Davies on recon for the length of my downtime, it will give me an opportunity to have time alone with Eve. That reminds me: I want to mention to her how unusual it is that she not only looks similar to my old flame back on Mars, but also shares her last name.

The results of Lab Report 112.2a have given me an idea for avenging the murder of my newts. I have decided to infect all six of Davies’s gibbons with the bacteria.

Baseday 38 | 14:10:32

Eve and I have reconciled. She assures me that Davies’s penis just looked larger and more satisfying due to the curvature of the glass on the helmet of my envirosuit. We had a very satisfying and romantic sexual encounter in the laboratory. I was not distracted in the least by the protests of the gibbons, who all seemed to be agitated.

I feel much better.

Baseday 39 | 23:16:17

I awoke today to the sound of screaming gibbons. I gave the lot of them a sedative and was able to continue on with my duties around base while Davies was out on patrol. Eve and I spent most of the day having sex and taking videos of me posing with her in various sexual positions.

Baseday 40 | 06:01:34

To my horror, I have discovered that Capt. Davies, in an obvious rage due to my renewed sexual relationship with Eve, has murdered all of my prized gibbons. On investigation of their deaths, I have determined they had all been infected with one of the bacteria strains we had attempted to relocate to the methane spring. It also appears that Davies has been giving them sedatives to keep them calm while they slowly died.

I did not confront him about this yet. I merely disposed of their bodies and sought consolation in the naked embrace of Eve.

I have decided that tomorrow I will kill him and dump his remains into the methane pool. I will make the necessary adjustment to the resourcing planning module to account for the sudden surplus of foodstuffs.

Baseday 41 | 15:40:44

I have spent most of the day searching the area for Capt. Davies and have been unable to find him. My intent to murder him has been overridden and forgotten as I have become frustrated with the fact that the daily patrols and recon were left to me in his absence.

To further complicate things, I returned to the garage today to assess the progress on the disabled rover from the other day and discovered Eve being pleasured sexually by no less than four of the robots.

I cannot complete with the metal bastards and have taken the axe to the lot of them. I realize this puts a great deal of responsibility solely on my shoulders, made worse by the disappearance of Capt. Davies. I have put in a requisition for more droids from Central Logisitics, specifically requesting they send robots without simulated male genitalia, or at least smaller simulated genitalia.

Baseday 42 | 23:15:54

I’ve searched all over for her while my oxygen lasted, but she is gone. I suspect that she and Capt. Davies have run off together and formed a base somewhere else on the surface of Titan. I did not notice any missing supplies, and none of the rovers are gone, but I am beginning to believe that the robots helped them escape, secretly building a second base without my knowing.

I will go out again tomorrow. I noticed some unusual lights in the distance just past the big mound SE14.S3.15’155″ but was unable to make it that far. This time I’ll find them.

Baseday 43 | 07:16:04

It’s them alright. I had to come back to get my axe. I had forgotten it. Davies must have come back to the base while I was masturbating last night and killed all the rest of the lab animals. I ate a few of the rats for sustenance on my trip I am about to take. With any luck, I’ll be back before nightfall and can be satisfied knowing they are all dead.

Encrypted Entries End

Incident Report – Titan Colony 2 – Utah Mesa

Governor Gregory Adams – Clearance W4X

To Administrator James Evans – Earth Interplanetary Logistics and Colonization

It grieves me greatly to be left with the task of penning the events you are about to read. What has occurred today has been one of the worst experiences of my life, and will more assuredly go down as the single greatest tragedy in the past forty years of our colonization efforts.

For a full understanding of the situation, I must relate to you events that occurred prior to today’s events.

Utah Mesa was completed in 2213 by a construction unit of droids that had been operating on Titan for five years. At the time they finished construction, it was assumed that there was no human presence on Titan. The last manned mission to Titan took place in 2203 and was assumed lost when a malfunction caused the lander to crash into the planet. A team of robots was sent to the surface of Titan to look for survivors, but the lander went down in a deep methane pool and was never recovered.

Our initial colony team arrived in 2214 and established a permanent human presence at Utah Mesa, where we’ve been successful and profitable for two years. We’ve had three additional colony teams integrated into population since that time, and at no point since the first team arrived have we had any accidents, injuries, or death.

This morning at approximately 09:13, guards were alerted to the presence of a man in Recon Team gear entering the colony grounds wielding an axe. When confronted by the guards, the man violently attacked and killed them without saying a word. The man then methodically marched from habitat to habitat murdering any human or robot in his path.

At 09:14 I received a comm report of the attack and authorized access to the colony arsenal. Providing weapons to two of my security team, I authorized them to shoot to kill. At 09:17, the two members of my security team fired and struck the assailant, killing him instantly.

The death toll here is seventeen, not including the attacker, and twelve robotic units are either destroyed or badly damaged.

After searching the area for signs of where the attacker had come from, we were able to trace his footprints back to a deep methane pool. It is our feeling that the attacker purposefully made it appear that he had walked out of the pool to throw us off his trail. I am sending out further investigative teams tomorrow to track down his base of operations, though preliminary scans show no sign of habitation or electronic or radio signals for one hundred miles in any direction.

I theorized this lunatic must have been a stowaway aboard one of the resupply ships, or even a colony ship. He must’ve been stealing supplies and hiding out in some of our empty habs.

I was wrong.

Jim, we removed the man’s environmental suit and confirm that he is Capt. David Teague, team leader for the 2203 manned mission to Titan. Yes, you read that right Jim. He survived somehow. Thirteen years. Good luck with that one back home. It might not be true, but the news feeds are going to have a hell of a ride with that bit, not to mention the fact that he had about thirty newt skeletons in his suit with him.

I’ve requested psych support at earliest convenience. There were a lot of kids in that body count, Jim. Things are rough here for all of us left.

Keep us all in your prayers.