"It's Not the Heat, It's the Stupidity"

IT'S NOT THE HEAT, IT'S THE STUPIDITY
By Curtis C. Chen

The elastic snapped and flew out of Maria's hand before she could wrap it around her hair. She cursed and held her ponytail in place while searching for another elastic. If she let go, the hair would fall and stick to her sweat-soaked skin.

Maria continued walking to keep the air moving over her skin. It hadn't rained for weeks. She looked forward to getting back to her apartment and sitting in front of the ancient air conditioner. Noisy, but it worked.

There it is. She pulled a hair elastic out of her back jeans pocket and tilted her head down to tie up her ponytail. The pavement curved right. Just a few more minutes, a quick jog up the always-stuffy stairwell, and she could cool off.

Just a few more weeks, and she'd be out of the city forever.

Somebody whistled ahead of her. "Lookin' good, senorita!"

Maria looked up. Three cholos sat on the front steps leading into her building, one of them built like a tank, another adorned with tattoos, the third holding an unlit cigarette between his lips. All three wore blood-red bandanas.

Perfect. That's just perfect.

She slowed her pace and lowered her hands to her sides. The men watched her—not looking for threats, but ogling her figure. Maria had considered the risks when choosing her outfit this morning, but her desire for comfort had outweighed her modesty. She stopped a few feet from the nearest cholo and turned out her pockets.

"That's all I got, guys," Maria said, holding out two dollar bills and her go-phone. "Take it or leave it."

Non-Smoker stood up, shaking his head. "Don't want your phone. But we sure gonna take something. Ain't that right, boys?"

"I like what I see," Tattoo grunted.

"I'd like to see a little more," said Tank.

Seriously?

Maria looked up and down the street. Empty. Chances were somebody would notice three gang-bangers raping a woman in broad daylight and probably call 911...

"Look," she said, "I'm not going to fight, but can we at least go inside? This is my building. It's got AC."

"Hey, no problem," Non-Smoker said, stepping aside. "Anything to make your experience more... pleasurable."

They snickered as she walked up the steps and unlocked the door, then followed her inside. She waited until she heard the door click shut again.

"Damn!" said Non-Smoker. "You need to talk to your landlord, girl, because this air is not conditioned—"

Maria whirled around with her wrists together and palms forward, her fingers curved around an invisible ball. She whispered three syllables, and a wave of energy rippled from her hands and through the cholos. The three bodies smashed up against the closed door and turned to ash. Their clothes and bandanas fell into a dusty heap.

Three more souls, Maria thought. I'm never going to get out of this damn city.

On the bright side, the spell had been endothermic, taking heat energy out of the surrounding air. She actually had a pleasant walk up the stairs for once.



Photo: downtown Portland, June, 2009

"Dickly Departed"

DICKLY DEPARTED
By Curtis C. Chen

"Why do military types use so many abbreviations?" Erva asked.

"Why do lawyers use so many Latin phrases?" Densin replied.

She closed her book, leaned toward the other side of the bed, and planted a sloppy kiss on his nose. He made a face, put down the file folder he was reading, and used both palms to wipe away her saliva with exaggerated swipes.

"I hate it when you do that," he said.

"I know," she said, smiling. "Gotta pee."

"My wife, the romantic."

The ghost appeared while Erva was sitting on the toilet. She did her best to ignore it, hoping it would go away, but the luminous form kept crowding her while she washed her hands. It shoved one arm under the running faucet and fouled the water. Erva sighed.

"Den!" she called into the bedroom. "Your friend is back."

Densin rolled out of bed and plodded into the bathroom, grumbling all the way. As soon as the ghost saw him in the doorway, it drifted away from Erva. Densin waited until the glowing figure was flying across length of the bathroom, then took one big step back.

The ghost pancaked against the invisible plane separating the bathroom from the bedroom. It wiggled and shimmered, trying to free itself.

"I wish you wouldn't do that," Erva said, putting her hands on her hips. "Now it's going to be glowing there all night."

"We can close the door," Densin said.

"And how am I supposed to get out now?" Erva crouched down, looking for a space between the ghost and the door frame large enough for her to slide past without touching the specter. There was none. "Great. I just washed my hair, too."

Densin knelt down to study one of the ghost's tattered sleeves, which was vibrating just beneath one of the door hinges. "What's the big deal? We're just going to bed."

Erva stood and folded her arms across her chest. "Well, at least one of us wanted to do something before going to sleep."

"What?" Densin looked up at her. "Oh."

Erva shook her head. "I swear, sometimes you're like talking to a brick wall."

"We can still do it," Densin said. "You won't smell that bad."

"I know you won't be able to smell it," Erva said, "but I'll be able to feel it. Forget it. Just throw me a blanket and a pillow. I'll sleep in the tub until this thing goes away." She waved at the ghost.

"No, come on! We can figure something out."

"Blanket. Pillow." Erva turned away from him and stepped into the tub. "Sleep."

Densin sighed and stood up. The ghost's half-decayed face was contorted into what might have passed for a shit-eating grin.

"Asshole," Densin muttered.



Photo: greeting dummy at Pearson Air Museum, October, 2009

"Reaction"

REACTION
By Curtis C. Chen

"Want shoot gun!" screamed the alien's voicebox.

Martin gritted his teeth and looked at the Secret Service agent standing closest to the alien, a tall, gray-haired woman. She didn't look that old.

"Is that allowed?" Martin asked.

The agent's eyes looked black behind the reflection of the shop's overhead lights. "The ambassador requested a visit to an indoor range."

"Why didn't you just take him to the Pentagon, Agent...?"

"Lieber." She shrugged. "The ambassador doesn't have clearance to enter military facilities."

"This gun!" The alien tapped one tentacle on the glass countertop. "Shoot this gun!"

Martin wondered if it was really that difficult to build a voice synthesizer that didn't sound like a hyperactive child. Not that anybody on Earth knew how the Varna'ut translators worked.

He walked over to see which pistol the alien was pointing at, then looked up and hoped he was making eye contact. The Varna'ut looked like a large purple sausage with a dozen tentacles, mottled color patterns around its sensory organs, and an X-shaped mouth.

"That's a fifty-caliber Desert Eagle," Martin said loudly, mostly to the Secret Service. "Are you sure you wouldn't like to start with something smaller? Maybe a twenty-two revolver?"

"Want shoot this gun!" the alien screeched. "Shoot now!"

Martin turned to Lieber. "Can the ambassador legally sign a waiver?"

She nodded. Martin retrieved the forms, filled in the dates and names, and watched as Lieber signed her name and the alien used one thin tentacle to make a brown inkblot on the paper.

It took a while to figure out ear protection for the alien. Lieber said plugging the four largest ear-holes near the yellow eye-stripe would be good enough. The alien seemed too excited to care.

Everyone else on the range stopped to gawk as Martin led Lieber and the alien down to the last lane. He stretched out his usual safety talk for as long as he could.

"Have you ever handled a firearm before, ambassador?"

"Load gun!" the alien cried. "Shoot now!"

"The Varna'ut don't have projectile weapons," Lieber said. "Let's just start with one round."

Martin fitted one cartridge into the clip, loaded the pistol, and let the alien take it with three tentacles. He followed Lieber's lead and took two big steps back.

Before Martin could offer any tips on aiming, the alien had pulled the trigger. The sound reverberated through Martin's earmuffs, and he instinctively squeezed his eyes shut.

When he opened his eyes, Martin saw the back end of the Desert Eagle buried in the alien, thrown by the weapon's considerable recoil. The handgrip was completely swallowed up by the purple flesh. The alien's voicebox made a strange chirping noise.

Martin cursed and asked Lieber, "Is he okay?"

She chuckled. "The Varna'ut also don't feel pain the same way we do."

The alien rippled the front of its body, expelling the Desert Eagle and catching it with one tentacle. Another tentacle pressed the release button on the side of the pistol to eject the empty clip.

"Again!" it screamed.



Photo: antique revolver at House on the Rock, Wisconsin, July, 2008

"Rhymes with Pork"

RHYMES WITH PORK
By Curtis C. Chen

You are in a small windowless room. To the north is a blank door. An orange cat sits in the middle of the floor.

The cat rubs up against you.
> open door

You can't reach the door. The cat is weaving between your legs, impeding your forward motion.

The cat meows at you.
> push door

You can't reach the door.

The cat is yelling at you now and scratching your leg.
> kick cat

The cat skillfully dodges your foot. Also, you're a dick.

The cat continues yelling at you.
> pet cat

The cat nuzzles your hand and continues yelling.
> feed cat

You don't have any cat food.

The cat won't stop yelling at you.
> inventory

You are carrying:
1 half-eaten sandwich
1 back issue of Wired magazine
2 large tomatoes
1 keycard
> look keycard

DRUNK HULK NOT KNOW WHAT YOU MEAN
> examine keycard

The keycard is a flat plastic badge of the type issued by many tech companies. The employee photo looks like one of the dudes from Flight of the Conchords. There's no company name.

The cat is still yelling at you.
> use keycard

Use it on what?
> use keycard on cat

The cat licks the keycard, then continues yelling.
> give sandwich to cat

The cat sniffs the sandwich, makes a face, and backs away, yelling.
> give tomato to cat

Why would a cat want a tomato? Get real.

The cat is still yelling at you.
> read Wired

You flip through the magazine. It's the one where they talk about Google.

The cat is still yelling at you.
> look sandwich

DRUNK HULK THINK YOU FAIL KINDERGARTEN
> examine sandwich

For some reason, you have a half-eaten ham and cheese sandwich sealed in a zip-top bag. It's hard to tell how old the thing is, but that fuzzy white stuff all over the bread can't be a good sign.

The cat bites your ankle.
> grab cat

The cat deftly avoids your clumsy grasp.

The cat is still yelling at you.
> tear magazine

You rip several pages out of the back issue of Wired.

The cat is still yelling at you.
> crumple pages

You crumple the torn magazine pages into paper balls.

The cat is still yelling at you.
> throw balls

You toss the paper balls across the room, one by one. The cat stops yelling and watches with great interest, leaping into the air to intercept each projectile, then batting it around the floor.
> open door

The door doesn't have a handle or knob. You can't open it.
> push door

The door won't budge.
> pull door

The door doesn't have anything for you to grab onto.
> use keycard on door

You swipe the keycard across the blank surface of the door. After a moment, you hear a beep, then a click. The door pops outward slightly.
> push door

The door swings open to reveal a second windowless room. There is a gray cat sitting in the middle of the floor.

The gray cat starts yelling at you.



Photo: Amber and Bayla, May, 2002

"Nothing Up His Sleeve"

NOTHING UP HIS SLEEVE
By Curtis C. Chen

Maurice saw Beatrice waving the no-rabbit signal behind her back. That was bad. No rabbit meant no real magic, and mere tricks and illusions weren't going to impress the potential investors in the audience.

Maurice stepped up and put his palm on Beatrice's upper arm, giving the cue for their first trick. She looked at him with raised eyebrows. He nodded. She inhaled through clenched teeth, then curtsied to the audience and exited stage left.

Maurice started slow, doing more talking than conjuring; he pulled handkerchiefs from a hidden pocket, lit a flash-paper button off his jacket with a concealed striker, compressed soft foam balls between deft fingers. The audience oohed and aahed, as expected, but these sleights of hand were not Maurice's true talent. They were merely a reliable warm-up, a way to stall for time while Beatrice prepared the apparatus and he prayed for his power to manifest.

All too soon, Beatrice wheeled a small platform to center stage. On the platform was a glass terrarium, and inside the terrarium was a single Venus Flytrap. The plant took up most of the rectangular space, half a dozen thick stalks topped by pairs of oval flaps, spiked at the edges and joined by a red membrane. Two of the traps were closed.

The audience murmured as Maurice explained the peculiar nature of the carnivorous Dionaea muscipula, how it trapped and digested its insect prey. He indicated the two closed traps and described how the plant had been fed shortly before the show—he did not specify how shortly, for Beatrice had done it only after his on-stage signal—and how he had to act quickly to perform his rescue.

Maurice gestured to Beatrice, and they each took one end of the terrarium, lifting it to show there was nothing underneath, no hidden compartment in the platform, no devices buried in the dirt. Then they put the glass case back down, and Beatrice stepped aside while Maurice waved his hands over the plant, loudly reciting gibberish.

After a moment, the Venus Flytrap quivered inside the terrarium, and one of the closed traps twitched open. Inside, a single fly righted itself, unstuck its wings, and rose into the air.

The audience applauded, and Maurice smiled at Beatrice with relief. His happiness was short-lived, as he saw her eyes grow wide.

Maurice looked down and saw more insects emerging from every open trap on the plant—flies, beetles, wasps, even spiders. They crawled over the green stalks, buzzed around the enclosure, collided against the glass walls and mesh ceiling.

The audience cheered. Maurice beamed at them and presented the spectacle with a flourish of his hands, as if it was all part of the show. He blinked away the sweat which had trickled from his forehead down to his eyes. The moisture and the stage lights blurred his vision into a multicolored haze.

"The rabbit!" he hissed at Beatrice. "Bring it out! Now!"



Photo: wizard at House on the Rock, Wisconsin, July, 2008

"I Disagree"

I DISAGREE
By Curtis C. Chen

"What do you mean, you disagree?" Bridget asked. "It's a fact. You can't disagree with facts."

"I take exception to your presentation," said the woman on the other end of the satellite feed. Her dark eyes looked like ink blots in the wavering image filling half of Bridget's display. Next to her in the split screen, the host of the interview show stared off into space.

Bridget fought the urge to roll her eyes. "Oookaaay. Would you like me to draw you a bar graph, Senator? A pie chart, maybe? The numbers don't change."

"You've failed to provide any context for those numbers." The older woman narrowed her eyes, crinkling the crow's-feet next to her long eyelashes. "If I told you that four people died in a plane crash, what does that mean?"

"Don't change the subject," Bridget said.

"Was it a jetliner? A small private aircraft? Did it go down in an accident? Bad weather? Or was it a hijacking? Did someone shoot it out of the sky with a rocket launcher? Who was flying the plane?"

A male voice interjected. "Okay, Senator, I think you've made your point. Perhaps we can move on to—"

"May I finish?" the senator snapped.

The host looked like an eight-year-old who'd been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "Thirty seconds, ma'am, then we have to move on," he said, almost apologetically.

"Thank you." The senator straightened her jacket, and the American flag pin on her lapel glinted, reflecting an overhead light. Bridget was sure she'd done that on purpose. "As I was saying, numbers by themselves are meaningless. We need context to interpret them as information.

"Only four people dead in an Airbus crash is a miracle. But if four people die when their Cessna is hit by a laser pulse over Los Angeles, that's a mystery. Do you see the difference?"

Bridget could feel her ears warming with a rush of blood. It reminded her of being dressed down as a teenager, and she hated that. "Let me see if I understand you, Senator. You're arguing that four thousand dead is an acceptable loss if that's only a small percentage of our total troop deployment?"

"That is not what I'm saying, young lady!"

It's working. Bridget bit her tongue before continuing. "Senator, one of your own daughters served in the military—"

"Don't you dare," the senator said, raising a finger. "Do not say her name."

This is almost too easy. "Sergeant Abigail McCandless Lau," Bridget said. "Killed in action, April 16th, 2032—"

The senator ripped off the microphone clipped to her jacket and stormed off screen without a word. The host gaped, moving his mouth silently.

"Ladies and gentlemen, my mother," Bridget said.

"Well, thank you, Representative McCandless, and thank you, Senator McCandless... wherever you are," the host stammered. "We'll be back after this short break."

The red light on top of Bridget's screen went dark. She exhaled and let herself relax a little. Only a little. She didn't start crying until she got back to her hotel room.



Photo: Capitol building, Washington, DC, July, 2008

"There Will Be Banter"

THERE WILL BE BANTER
By Curtis C. Chen

"What kind of a name is 'Migdan?'"

Jake snatched the evidence bag away from his partner and sealed it. "What are you, a genealogist now?"

Andy shrugged. "Could be a clue. Some of the big fake paper operations use software to generate random strings that look like names. Lets 'em churn out more IDs in a shorter amount of time."

"And just think," Jake said, kneeling next to the body, "I'm the one who had to go to cultural sensitivity training. That's what you call irony."

"I'm just trying to help." Andy crouched down on the other side of the corpse, then looked around the alley. "Hey, Cee, can we flip him yet?"

The dark-haired, brown-skinned woman wearing nitrile gloves and holding a clipboard scowled at the detective. "Yes, and when the hell are you going to learn to pronounce my name, Dix?"

"As soon as you get a divorce, sweetheart." He blew her a kiss. She shook her head and turned away.

Jake put his own gloved hands on the dead man's hips. "You done chatting, loverboy?"

Andy nodded and grabbed the victim's shoulder. "On three."

They counted down together, then rolled the body onto its back. The man's hazel eyes were open and glassy, and a stripe of dried blood ran from the left side of his mouth down to his chin.

"Another dumper?" Andy asked.

"I'm guessing that's the good news," Jake said. "Miss Chattopadhyay? May I borrow your penlight?"

The medical examiner tucked her clipboard under one arm, fished a penlight out of her jacket pocket, and handed it to Jake. "My pleasure, detective. And may I say it's nice to see that chivalry is not dead."

"He's playing to your rank, Cee," Andy said, "not your gender."

"Do you hear something, Detective Lanosky?" Chattopadhyay said to Jake. "Kind of an annoying buzzing sound?"

"Can't get rid of it," Jake said, smiling.

"Hilarious," Andy said. "You two ought to take that show on the road."

Jake clicked on the penlight and shone the beam into the corpse's open eyes. The borders of the irises reflected the light, making two golden circles.

"Shit," Jake said.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Andy said.

Chattopadhyay knelt down and pulled a portable tracer off her belt. She calibrated the controls, then pressed the scanning pad against the victim's left thumb. After a few seconds, the tracer pinged, and its screen lit up.

"AB negative," she read. "I won't know for sure until we do the autopsy, but—"

"He's a goddamn blood bank," Andy said. "Great! Now we're going to have feds crawling all over us."

Chattopadhyay stood up. "Sorry, Jake, I have to call this in."

"Yeah." Jake handed back the penlight. "Thanks."

He and Andy stayed there after Chattopadhyay left, staring at the dead man.

"What's your type?" Andy finally asked.

Jake said, "Leggy blond with loose morals."

"Serious here, Jake."

"B positive," Jake said. "Third most common. You?"

"O neg. Universal donor. Hospitals love me."

Jake nodded. It started raining.



Photo: unused concept poster from Homicide: Life on the Farm (The Game, 2001)

"Wrong Number"

WRONG NUMBER
By Curtis C. Chen

"I'm not going to sleep with you tonight," he said.

She frowned. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

He blinked, tapped the side of his head with two fingers, and said, "Abigail?"

She rolled her eyes. "No. Dammit, I hate when this happens. Two-three-four-seven-five-five?"

He shook his head. "Two-three-seven-four-five-five."

"Well, this is awkward."

She picked up her glass, sat back in her chair, and took a sip of chardonnay. Not because she could taste it well—the remote link wouldn't transmit any intoxicating sensations, to comply with federal regulations—but so she would have a few seconds to think about what to say to this total stranger. She'd paid for the full twelve hours, and she guessed he had, too. The hosting company's built-in security and privacy measures meant they couldn't disconnect for any reason until time was up.

"So who's Abigail?" she asked, poking at her salad.

"It's a long story."

"Let me guess," she said. "You're feeling guilty about the affair—mostly because of the kids, one of whom just had a birthday or bar mitzvah or some other momentous life event—so you decided to end it. You also feel guilty about dumping the girl, so you sprang for the fancy dinner.

"But you don't usually do this for the other woman, so you're worried that she's just as suspicious as your wife was when you called to tell her you're working late. Again." She shoved a mass of arugula into the left side of her mouth. "Am I close?"

He didn't look up from his plate. "We don't have any kids," he said. "And my wife knows about the affair. I told her this afternoon. She wants a divorce."

She swallowed her half-chewed salad. "I'm confused. You're splitting up with the ball and chain, but you don't want to hop into bed to celebrate with dear Abby? What's wrong with you?"

"Like you said." He put down his fork. "Guilt."

"Oh, please. You'll get over it. And seriously, have you looked at this body?" She sat up straight and gestured at her breasts, which were barely covered by a slinky black dress.

"But—we don't even know each other," he stammered.

She smiled. "And that's a bad thing?"

He laughed nervously. "Sorry, I just didn't expect a woman to be so—liberated."

"Did you look at yourself in the mirror after dialing in?" She pursed her lips in approval. "Besides, I figure you gotta be pretty good in the sack, otherwise you wouldn't be here hooking up with a young honey like this."

"Maybe she's only after my money."

She shook her head. "Puh-leeze. If you were rich, we'd actually be in Paris instead of a one-star French restaurant by the freeway."

"Let's see how dinner goes," he said slowly. "Then we can talk about dessert."

"Sure," she said, twirling her long, dark hair. "But I'm pretty hungry."

He smiled, and this time there was desire behind his teeth. "So what's your name?"

She grinned. "Just call me Abby."



Photo: Robot at Tommy Bartlett Exploratory, Wisconsin Dells, July, 2008