I stare down at the map. This road is much too narrow to be the road to the border. How long would it take him to notice? Good thing it’s overcast--he can’t tell direction by the sun. We’re making good time, but where are we headed? I take another tablet. Motion sickness pill, of course. He didn’t need to know it’s ingredients. Were these tablets the reason we are nearing yellow????? I lean back. No sense spoiling the fun.
I’m no longer motion sick. The clouds fight the horizon like oil and vinegar. I smell it’s putrid, acidic odor.
How much fuel do we have? I realize that once that needle hits E, death won’t be far behind. What a place to go out--flat, windy, and desolate. We’re making good time. The border should be coming up soon. Once we cross it, freedom will follow. Freedom from this brutish planet and cruel life. I watch the needle creep to the left.
What is the temperature in here? Has our precious supply of fuel been burned for needless heat? If he’s going to try to kill me than I must dispose of him first. Look! He isn’t even sweating. What substance did he soak his skin in, and when did he soak his skin? That’s his plan! He soaked his skin in a wonderful, terrifying substance and started burning our fuel to kill me.
Earlier I loosened three of the screws on the heat plate of the machinery in the cargo hold. He hasn’t revealed its purpose in our mission. If it’s disabled he can’t use it. I know the hidden purpose of this mission, and that machinery is to dispose of my soon-to-be-lifeless body. Its rattling is getting loud, but he hasn’t seemed to notice it.
He’s set to kill me even without the machinery. That retaining wall came way to close to the vehicle for me to ignore. Poor fool! He doesn’t realize that he is as close to death as I am. I stroke the pair of pliers in the right pocket midway down my pant leg. Two inch long needle-nose blades can easily fracture the piece of skull covering his temporal lobe. If he is gone then I will die shortly thereafter. As much as I hate him, I am dependent on him for survival. I’ll wait on destroying him.
---later---
We still have fuel. But from where? That bastard! He has an extra source of fuel and is intent on carrying out his evil mission, despite my interference.
The temporal lobe has far too much risk of death. I’ll separate his frontal lobe from his parietal lobe, frontal lobotomy style. Then he’ll be mine to control.
Showing posts with label simulauthorship. Show all posts
Showing posts with label simulauthorship. Show all posts
7.30.2008
7.20.2008
The Mission pt.1
And so it begins, our White Whale at top speed through (over?) the paper folds of time, 103 antelope on the left, 87 on the right, nothing behind us but bits of tire rubber melted into the hot black asphalt, only segmented yellow lines in front, approaching cautiously then disappearing hastily under the driver’s side mirror. My co-pilot scribbles notes in the seat next to me while I, perched high in my captain’s chair, adjust the focus on my infrared driving goggles.
“We’re making good time,” I say, fiddling with one of the many knobs laid out on the control interface. That was our mission, our Primary Directive, to make good time. Not in the figurative sense, but in a serious, literal sense. My co-pilot mumbles in response to my statement, something about the majesty and splendor of this temporal plane.
I tap the glass covering of the fuel gauge and cringe as the needle lurches towards E. Such good time, I think, it’d be a shame to stop now. No, we must stay the course. My co-pilot has stopped his note taking. Now his attention is focused on the nihilistic instruction manual for the temporal alignment machinery in the back. He doesn’t have the mind for a mission like this. The consequences aren’t severe enough. Nothing short of a guaranteed express ticket to hell would ever satisfy him. I’m tempted to jerk the wheel to the right and send the Whale on a terminal trajectory toward the rapidly approaching retaining wall, but we’re making such good time.
The machinery in the back is getting loud.
“There should be some sort of sound proof divider between the crew cabin and the cargo compartment,” I say to my co-pilot. He gives me a subtle nod, almost imperceivably subtle, in response. No use talking, I think, those lines of communication had been severed some time ago. No, better to stay focused on the task at hand. The mission. My mission. But what was the mission, exactly? I couldn’t remember. Making good time? Of course, but that was the mission, not my mission. No, my mission was much more complicated, so numbingly esoteric that I could only hope to one day grasp the scope and grandeur of it all. Bask in it’s magnitude. Goddamn this machinery is loud. I can’t concentrate, and our current situation requires quite a bit of that.
---later---
I’m amazed that the needle hasn’t broken yet. I’m equally amazed that the poison I administered to my co-pilot’s drink hasn’t taken effect yet. Or maybe it has. How much cyanide did the give Rasputin? Maybe I should just push him out the air lock. I haven’t been paying attention to the road and quick movement out of the corner of my eye brings my focus back to pilot duties. A rabbit. I swerve to the left, but I turn the wheel too much and the Whale rocks violently to the side. I can hear pieces of machinery shifting in the back. Ignore it. We’re making good time.
“We’re making good time,” I say, fiddling with one of the many knobs laid out on the control interface. That was our mission, our Primary Directive, to make good time. Not in the figurative sense, but in a serious, literal sense. My co-pilot mumbles in response to my statement, something about the majesty and splendor of this temporal plane.
I tap the glass covering of the fuel gauge and cringe as the needle lurches towards E. Such good time, I think, it’d be a shame to stop now. No, we must stay the course. My co-pilot has stopped his note taking. Now his attention is focused on the nihilistic instruction manual for the temporal alignment machinery in the back. He doesn’t have the mind for a mission like this. The consequences aren’t severe enough. Nothing short of a guaranteed express ticket to hell would ever satisfy him. I’m tempted to jerk the wheel to the right and send the Whale on a terminal trajectory toward the rapidly approaching retaining wall, but we’re making such good time.
The machinery in the back is getting loud.
“There should be some sort of sound proof divider between the crew cabin and the cargo compartment,” I say to my co-pilot. He gives me a subtle nod, almost imperceivably subtle, in response. No use talking, I think, those lines of communication had been severed some time ago. No, better to stay focused on the task at hand. The mission. My mission. But what was the mission, exactly? I couldn’t remember. Making good time? Of course, but that was the mission, not my mission. No, my mission was much more complicated, so numbingly esoteric that I could only hope to one day grasp the scope and grandeur of it all. Bask in it’s magnitude. Goddamn this machinery is loud. I can’t concentrate, and our current situation requires quite a bit of that.
---later---
I’m amazed that the needle hasn’t broken yet. I’m equally amazed that the poison I administered to my co-pilot’s drink hasn’t taken effect yet. Or maybe it has. How much cyanide did the give Rasputin? Maybe I should just push him out the air lock. I haven’t been paying attention to the road and quick movement out of the corner of my eye brings my focus back to pilot duties. A rabbit. I swerve to the left, but I turn the wheel too much and the Whale rocks violently to the side. I can hear pieces of machinery shifting in the back. Ignore it. We’re making good time.
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