This is not vaguebooking; this is a placemarker for vaguebooking. In a little while, I will have some news, but I can’t tell you about it for fear of jinxing the deal/spoiling the surprise/getting hit really hard.
In a few weeks, I will be prepared to actually vaguebook. At that time, I will intimate something very good for me. Or something really bad for someone else. Or I will assassinate the character of someone no-one knows, at least not from the vague clues provided.
Stay tuned to this spot for the next few weeks for possible discrete celebration, veiled threats or just a simple lack of communication. Thanx!
It is the Winter Solstice, the darkest day of the year, and oddly enough the day after my birthday. I present two little tidbits here. The first is a lovely song by S.J. Tucker titled “Solstice Night”. The second is a short and somewhat grisly bulletin from the front lines of the War Against Christmas.
I wish you Peaceful Holidays and a good laugh in the dark.
CHRISTMAS GOING SOUTH
Jingles the elf staggered away from the burning stables with Dasher and Cupid in tow. Behind them, the Secularist Militias and JW Seals fell to their butcher’s work until there was nothing left of the workshop compound but burnt meat and broken toys. As the elf and reindeer headed south across the open snow field, Santa escaped in the opposite south. Everything goes south when you live smack-dab on the North Pole and men with guns show up. The Jolly Old Elf fled on two caribou and a prayer and what looked like a sucking chest wound.
Santa was headed Reykjavik South, where he had been promised asylum, while Jingles followed a Novaya Zemlya South heading. That way led to ice pressure ridges a hundred yards out which would at least provide concealment until nightfall.
The reindeer bucked and pulled at the elf’s grasp on their bridles. The fire, noise and smoke had put them in a panic. It was practically impossible for the three-foot tall Jingles to drag them in a straight line to safety.
Atheist FSM air cover swept over the refugees on a strafing run. Bullets chewed up the snow and ice in parallel rows of destruction. One of those cut across Dasher’s mid-section. The reindeer went down as if broken in half. Jingles stopped to aid the flailing animal, but he broke and ran when he saw a detachment of commandos dashing their way with weapons blazing.
Cupid and he barely made it over the first ice ridge when the bullets started winging over their heads. They clambered down the fragile slope and were at a flat run through the fissures at the bottom.
“Happy holidays, bitch!” Somebody yelled at them from the heights above and behind even as a fragmentation grenade fell at the elf’s feet. He only had a moment to think to himself that this year the War Against Christmas was Hell.
Dystopian apocalyptic fiction has been the rage for quite some time now, especially since it started playing out on CSPAN. The End of the World seems to be running in a bit of a rut, so here are a few new things I’d like to see:
In the last few moments of civilization, all the hipsters rent those little electric scooters to flee the city centers. They zip between the gridlocked vehicles and make wide arcs around the stampedes of panicked pedestrians. True to form, they maintain that complacent, perfectly erect posture all scooter riders affect. Their ennui-filled gaze is fixed straight ahead as they either escape the blast radius or are swallowed up in roiling clouds of toxic debris and fallout.
Authors have depicted the rebuilding of society by everything from rogue militias to the Society of Creative Anachronism. I’m figuring one abuela with a flip-flop could whip everyone into shape for a radius of a mile or two.
Most apocalyptic landscapes are littered with abandoned cars. Why hasn’t anyone gotten a bunch of Bubbas to push them into a ring around their sanctuary? Once they’re in place, remove tires, fill the carcasses with earth one bushel basket at a time, and build an earthworks ramp up to the next level. Repeat as necessary. Sharpened stakes and the crucified bodies of telemarketers should dissuade invaders.
I just once want to see the guys mowing the lawns after the zombie apocalypse.
You would think there would be some enterprising person who would take over a bunch of construction equipment and bury a Walmart under six to twelve feet of reinforced dirt or concrete. A Dollar Tree if time and resources are tight. Everything needed to rebuild Suburban America would be right there, safe from alien invaders and fallout.
If you are the type that likes to see a new and entertaining End Times adventure, you could pick up my latest book “The Ren Faire at the End of the World.” I set up the ultimate battle of Good and Evil, as fought by renaissance faire performers and reanimated roadkill. If you’ve seen that already, or you break out at the sound of “Huzzah”, you could keep an eye out for my latest project “Squirrel Apocalypse”. I’ll let you know who bites on that one.