"Guns, Shooting Velociraptors Out Of"

GUNS, SHOOTING VELOCIRAPTORS OUT OF
By Curtis C. Chen

Congratulations on your purchase of the SuperBadIdeas, Inc., Model TTS-1995 RAPTORGUN™ Semi-Automatic Theropod Projector! The RAPTORGUN™ has served many eco-military galactic regimes, and now, thanks to new arms treaties, SuperBadIdeas is proud to bring this state-of-the-art bio-weapon to private citizens like you!

IMPORTANT: Read these instructions completely before attempting to operate your RAPTORGUN™.  SuperBadIdeas is not responsible for injuries, property damage, or temporal anomalies which may result from improper usage of its products.

BATTERIES NOT INCLUDED. Your RAPTORGUN™ requires four GG power cells for operation. SuperBadIdeas recommends using alkaline power cells. DO NOT USE RECHARGEABLE, DRY PLASMA OR ZERO-POINT SOURCES TO POWER YOUR RAPTORGUN™. Using non-standard power cells may trigger the formation of gravitational singularities and will void your warranty.

SOME ASSEMBLY REQUIRED. To comply with interstellar freight laws, your RAPTORGUN™ is shipped in three parts. Follow the included holovid instructions to assemble your RAPTORGUN™. When properly assembled, you should see three solid green lights on top of the wormhole chamber. You are now ready to use your RAPTORGUN™!

IMPORTANT: Never aim your RAPTORGUN™ at friendly personnel. Never look into the barrel of your RAPTORGUN™. Never place fingers or other organic matter inside the wormhole chamber.

To fire your RAPTORGUN™, hold the weapon in both hands and pull the trigger. A flash of light and a thunderous noise will accompany the projection of your theropod!

FREQUENTLY ASKED QUESTIONS

Q. What kind of theropods will my RAPTORGUN™ project?

A. Your RAPTORGUN™ displaces specimens from the Senonian epoch. Though the TTM-1895 wormhole chamber will only transmit carnivorous theropods of a certain size, you may receive any of the following:

• Avimimus portentosus
• Bambiraptor feinbergi
• Masiakasaurus knopfleri
• Nedcolbertia justinhoffmani
• Velociraptor mongoliensis
• Zapsalis abradens

NOTE: Many species of Senonian theropods remain undiscovered. If your RAPTORGUN™ projects an unfamiliar animal, please contact the SuperBadIdeas Discovery Hotline immediately.

Q. How far can I project my theropods?

A. SuperBadIdeas recommends a minimum safe distance of three meters between shooter and target.

In order to displace a living animal through the wormhole, your RAPTORGUN™ translates each theropod into a Coherent Matter Stream™. If your target is less than three meters from the RAPTORGUN™, the stream may not resolve into its original form before reaching the target. The resulting quantum effects are unpredictable, and may include (but are not limited to): full or partial merging of theropod and target bodies; full or partial destruction of theropod and/or target bodies; and ruptures in local Calabi-Yau manifolds. Please consult your municipal authorities to determine what zoning requirements may apply to the creation of permanent hyperdimensional paradoxes in your community.

Q. I want to project a theropod over the top of a hill or tall structure. How can I calculate the proper trajectory?

A. Your RAPTORGUN™ is a personal sidearm and not suitable for use as artillery. Please consider other hardware, such as the SuperBadIdeas DINOWITZER® and MORTARSAURUS® products.

Want to get more out of your RAPTORGUN™? Visit our websphere for information on the HUSH-GUPPY™ silencer, EGG-BASKET® automatic fire conversion kit, and other accessories!

Alternate Realities

Happy Halloween!

In a very twisted way, the title of "The Saints are Coming" was its inspiration. You may recognize it as the name of this song by U2 and Green Day:



That music video always chokes me up, in the same way that reading Ex Machina does. Because we can do better. We can be so much better. If you really believe this is the best of all possible worlds, you are part of the problem and should stay the hell away from me.

Audio: "The Saints are Coming"

Music: "Paloseco Brazz Bossa Trumpet" by The Paloseco Brazz Orchestra, licensed under Creative Commons from ccMixter.

You may notice a bit of a drawl in my reading this week. It crept in while I was rehearsing; it just felt more natural for this narrator to have a bit of an accent.

I imagine this scene as being somewhere near New Orleans, and that the bluesy trumpet is being played by an off-duty doughboy, thinking of home while he waits in the mud. Maybe this is the longest he's ever been away from his family. Maybe he's a little happy about that. But just a little.

"The Saints are Coming"

THE SAINTS ARE COMING
By Curtis C. Chen

The platoon waited, lying flat against the dirt slope as the sky darkened above them. Billy pushed his palm into the ground, feeling the damp soil. The enemy was bringing a storm. They always brought weather. They weren't exactly subtle.

"Weapons free, boys!" he called down the line. The soldiers responded with a chorus of clacking noises, chambering rounds and disengaging safeties.

Billy looked around just as a bolt of lightning seared the valley, painting the silhouette of someone coming up the hill. Billy shouldered his P90 and jammed the butt into his armpit, hard, until the soreness there burst into pain. They'd run out of caffeine and glucose three days ago. He tried to focus his eyes.

Shuffling noises approached. The soldiers flanking Billy turned and lifted their rifles over the sandbags.

"Messenger!" came the voice, just before a boy in camouflage fatigues stepped into the light. "Bravo Company messenger for Sergeant Armstrong!"

"Stand down," Billy said. Lightning stabbed the ground, closer than before. "Get in here. You're staying until the storm passes."

"Maybe even longer," somebody muttered as the messenger climbed into the trench.

"Milo, I will cut off your tiny hairless scrotum!" Billy shouted. A few boys chuckled. It was a ritual.

The new boy held out his message with shaking hands. Billy took the plastic card, verified the bar code, and passed it to Jackson, the radioman.

"What's your name?" Billy asked the messenger.

"Private Michael Thibodaux, sir."

"Don't call me 'sir.'" Billy frowned as Thibodaux wiggled a loose tooth with his tongue. A baby tooth. "How old are you?"

"Everyone fights," Thibodaux recited.

"Sarge?"

Jackson held up a deciphered display film. His round eyes looked even bigger than usual. Billy read the message and caught a whimper before it left his throat.

"Platoon!" Billy called. "Circle up and switch to infrared scopes! Eyes on the treeline!"

"Who is it, Sarge?" one of the boys asked, moving closer.

Billy hesitated, then said, "Francis Assisi."

"We're fucked," Milo said.

"I thought EPA napalmed all the animals around here!" said another boy.

"Yeah," Billy said, "I guess that didn't stop him."

"What, zombies again?"

"This isn't the city. We've got room to fight." Billy pointed to Thibodaux. "Now somebody get him a weapon!"

"Oh, my sweet Rapture..." Milo sang. "Halle-fucking-lujah."

More laughter. Rituals kept them sane.

Something boomed in the forest. Billy swung around, his heart racing. The wind blew a smoky odor--almost like barbecue--into his nostrils.

"Anybody see anything?" "Trees are moving--" "Oh shit! Ten o'clock! Ten o'clock high!"

The saint stood fifty feet tall, towering over the treetops. Flying, flapping shapes followed him and circled his head. The beatific glow of his skin illuminated dark smears on his friar's robes. His huge, watery eyes found the platoon, and he gestured with one massive finger. The flying things descended.

"Cover! Cover!" "Are those birds?" "They don't got no feathers!"

"Fucking miracles," Billy grumbled. "OPEN FIRE!"

Their weapons barked. Saint Francis of Assisi roared, and the corpses of wolves obeyed him.

It started raining then.

an open letter to jra

Dear Jeff,

Thank you for your kind words regarding 512 Words or Fewer.

With regards to your admonition, I pledge that I will do my best to not suck, and to achieve my stated goal of posting one story per week. If, at any point, I fail to maintain this standard, please feel free to remark upon whatever you may perceive to be my shortcomings as a writer and/or heterosexual male.

And if you think you can write better flash fiction yourself, well, bring it, punk.

INSERT EMOTICON HERE

Cheers,
~CKL

Inspired by Spam

Yeah, I guess I'm going to get a few comments on this one.

I started writing "October Surprise" back in July for a Weird Tales writing contest. I didn't finish it in time to enter the contest--couldn't come up with a satisfactory ending. Only later did I remember Raymond Chandler's advice: When in doubt, have a man come through a door with a gun in his hand.

The spam subject line which inspired the story was "McCain says he is a young man trapped in old body." I swear that I was not influenced at all by this Onion article.

I admit the body-switch plot device is a bit of a cliché, but it was fun to imagine how each candidate might react to such a predicament. Not that I know anything about either man. I mean, I shook both their hands when they visited Google last year, but I'm not a touch telepath or anything. I'm a writer. I tell lies to strangers for money. And the pay's not great, so I might as well use my imagination and enjoy the first part.

Audio: "October Surprise"

Music: "too quiet (instr.)" by oldDog from ccMixter, licensed under Creative Commons.

My friend Raj, who is currently taking voice acting classes, had some good feedback for me on this so-called podcast. It's been five years since my own training, and I've forgotten a lot. Feel free to point and laugh. I don't have a director or engineer to do that during the recording process.

I pretty much set myself up to fail with the character voices here. I mean, it's hard enough doing non-caricatured impressions of McCain and Obama, but then I have to go and specify that they each speak in their own cadences, but with the other guy's voice. Thanks a lot, self. Maybe next week's story will feature, I don't know, aliens that speak with two mouths at once. Then again, that might be too repetitive, since this week's story is also about politicians. ZING!

"October Surprise"

OCTOBER SURPRISE
By Curtis C. Chen

Barack watched himself in the mirror as he picked up the phone. It was strange to see that other face staring back at him. It was unnerving to see the unfamiliar body doing what he did.

He dialed his own cell phone number, the one that only his wife knew. It connected after the second ring. He heard the soft hissing of a hotel room air conditioner in the background.

"This is John McCain," Barack said.

Another noise on the other end of the line--a sigh of relief? "This is Barack Obama." It was bizarre, hearing his own voice but not his own speech--the rhythms, the pronounciations, all wrong.

"Thank you for serving," Barack said. It was the first thing he had thought upon waking, when he realized what the pain in his arms was. "I had no idea."

The man on the phone made a dismissive noise. "That was a long time ago."

"So," Barack said, "I'm guessing it wasn't your people who did this."

"No," said John. "If we had, we would have switched you with someone else."

"Unless something went wrong."

"I don't like conspiracy theories," John said. "Can we start by figuring out what we're going to do right now? Today?"

"David has my--your schedule," said Barack.

"I know. You're giving a speech. That isn't going to fly."

He was right. They each had their own way of addressing an audience. "Just follow the teleprompter. Tell them you didn't sleep well. They'll think it's fatigue."

"You trust me not to sabotage you?"

"I think this is what's commonly known as a Mexican standoff."

"Okay," said John, "I'll do the best I can, but if this thing lasts more than a day..."

"What if it lasts forever?" asked Barack. He found it strange that the sudden thought didn't frighten him.

John exhaled. It was a heavy, tired sound. "I sure hope it doesn't. I hope this is just some higher power making us walk a mile in the other man's shoes."

"Or maybe it's like the parable about the two men and the camel race."

"Don't think I know that one."

"A race in which the slower camel wins, but each man has to ride the other man's camel?"

A pause. "Are you calling me a camel jockey, sir?"

Barack found himself smiling, then laughing out loud at the face in the mirror. The whole situation was ridiculous. On the phone, he could hear his own voice laughing, too.

He heard a cracking sound behind him. He turned in time to see the hotel room door shatter inward, broken by a steel battering ram. Four men rushed in. Not Secret Service. They were dressed in black fatigues, wearing gloves and balaclavas.

The man in front raised a pistol and pointed it at Barack's--John's--face.

"What was that noise?" asked John.

"The punchline," Barack said.

He dropped the phone and raised his arms as high as he could. They really weren't that uncomfortable, once you got used to them.