Scarcity, by Jean Bauhaus

Jean has been a good friend of mine for many years now. I've posted excerpts of her work on this blog before, and I'm doing so again to draw attention to the fact that she has a Kickstarter campaign going so that she can write a sequel to her delightful first novel, Restless Spirits (formerly This Old Haunt).

Here's a sample of her work -- short and self-contained -- set in another of her universes.

Scarcity

by Jean Marie Bauhaus

The lights still came on at night in the city. The girl wondered how long they would keep doing that, without anyone around to turn them on. The screens and news tickers in Times Square had been broadcasting the same warnings to stay inside and lock your doors for two weeks now. She didn’t think there was anyone left in the city still capable of heeding the warnings.

But she kept looking, just in case.

She stuck to the shadows and avoided streets where she could hear the tell-tale moans. She wasn’t afraid of those things. They weren’t that hard to kill, one on one. But swarms were a different story, and she couldn’t afford to get injured. Too many depended on her to lead them. To feed them.

So she hunted, even though it seemed more useless with each passing night.

A scream pierced the silence, filling the girl with hope. Only the living screamed like that. She scanned the street, the shops and restaurants. The living tended to show up where there might be food.

But the unliving tended to show up where there was screaming, so she had to hurry. The woman screamed again, and the girl raced toward the sound. There, up ahead. The Starbucks on Eighth Street. The windows were broken. A woman backed out of the door, clutching a broken and bloody two-by-four like a club. A shopping bag hung over her shoulder.

The girl came up from behind. Peering over the woman’s shoulder, she saw a man lying on the floor, swarmed by the unliving. They were devouring him. The woman sobbed. For now, they were too distracted to hear her.

The girl spun her around. The woman screamed and raised her weapon, but didn’t swing it. “Are you bit?” the girl asked.

Dazedly, the woman shook her head. “My husband.” She looked back at the man on the floor . . . what was left of him. “David. . . .”

“We can’t help him. Come with me.”

“Where?”

“Away from them.” Inside, the ones who couldn’t get their fill were starting to take notice of them. “Now.” She grabbed the woman’s hand, and pulled. The swarm filed out through the door behind them. They ran together down the street, turning here and there, tracing a path through a maze the girl knew well. The woman kept sobbing as they went. “Be quiet!” the girl commanded.

They ran down an alley, to a dead end. They turned around. The woman screamed again as the swarm followed them, blocking the entrance. There was nowhere to go.

The others emerged from the shadows. Her children. Together, they fought the oncoming horde. It was easy, together. When they were finished, covered in gore and surrounded by squirming pieces of the unliving, they turned to the woman as one.

She looked confused, and terrified. “My . . . my name is Sheila.” She held out the grocery bag with a trembling hand. “I have food.”

“We know,” said the girl, her fangs descending. “And we’re so hungry.”

***

If you'd like to read more in this vein [ahem], check out Dominion of the Damned, which is described as "BUFFY meets THE WALKING DEAD". It's currently a free Kindle download on Amazon, so please read it and rate it. And if you like Jean's work, please check out her other stories.

Friday Flash Fic: Blood

Last week, I did a "Follow Friday" for my friend Jean Bauhaus, and many of you good readers responded positively to her short story Snack Machine. Some of you (God bless) even bought some of her books!.

Since the response was so positive, and because I spent my afternoon driving my father around on errands, and because she posted this on her own blog today, I figured I'd give the talented Ms. Bauhaus another boost of recognition.

Just a reminder:  throughout all of October, all of Jean Bauhaus' e-books are on sale for 99 cents, and her paperbacks are also marked down. You can get her books here:

  Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Kobo | Createspace

BLOOD

I was a boy when the monster killed my parents. Of course nobody believed me. It was put down to a bear attack. But I know what I saw. I watched from under the bed as it fed on them. And when it was done, it sniffed me out, lifted the bed off me like it was made of cardboard. It bent down and put its big ugly face in mine, its breath fetid with the stink of their blood, and stared at me with nightmare eyes that I still see every time I sleep.

Then it left.

I don’t know why it spared me. I don’t care. It orphaned me. I’m going to make it wish it had killed me.

My entire life prepared me for this. Learning about it, studying the lore. I found others who had seen it, who had been victimized by it. I found those who knew how to track it, and how to kill it. They taught me, and when I was ready, I hunted it.

I found others of its kind, and killed them. It took a silver-tipped sword, forged by monks and tempered with holy water. Beheading worked. So did stabbing through the heart, but the heart was hard to locate, so I generally stuck with beheading. I’ve taken out five of them since I started hunting. But none were the one I wanted.

That one is here before me now. I tracked it to a back alley in Tulsa of all places. I know it by its eyes. It’s looking at me, and I see recognition. And regret.

Good.

I draw my sword. It swipes at me. I dodge, but not fast enough. Its claw grazes my arm. Not deep, but it tears through my coat and makes me bleed.

We dance like that for several minutes. Time slows, and it feels like hours. Then my sword finds its home, slices clean. The head falls, and just like that, my life’s work is done. My parents are avenged.

I hear a wild howl, and I turn. My monster had a mate, and she charges me. I raise my sword. She runs onto it. Miraculously, it finds the heart. She falls.

I pull out my blade and wipe it on her fur. I hear another wail, this one small and pitiful. It’s coming from a Dumpster.

Inside I find another one. Just a pup. An orphan now, like me. If I spare it, it’ll only grow up to be a killer. And it’ll want vengeance. Also like me.

I won’t make that mistake.

I raise my sword, but as I look in its eyes, I see only myself.

It trembles as I wrap it in my coat and tuck it under my arm. As I carry it to my car, I wonder first how it will ever forgive me. Then I wonder how on earth I’ll feed it.

We’ll figure it out, together. We’re family now, bound by our parents’ blood.

Follow Friday: Jean Marie Bauhaus

As I may have mentioned before, Jean is a dear friend to me, and unlike me she's actually managed to write (and publish!) not one but FOUR books.  (I haz a envee.) 

Throughout all of October, all of her e-books are on sale for 99 cents, and her paperbacks are also marked down.



Please give her a chance! She's a great writer and an even better friend, and I want her to succeed.

You can get her books here: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Kobo | Createspace

Want to try before you buy?  Read this short story of hers, reprinted here with her permission; it originally appeared on her blog on Sept. 22.

Snack Machine

You think strange thoughts sometimes when you work the night shift. Coming home in the dark late at night, it’s easy to imagine that something in the darkness is out to get you.

If your imagination is like Tina’s, you might think how creepy it would be if the thin, dark gap between the wall and the vending machine at the end of the hall was really a doorway to some otherworldly dimension.

And then you might laugh the thought away as you grab your chips and resist the urge to run back to your apartment.

She was tired when the thought occurred to her, after a long night on her feet at the diner, and it was a nice distraction from worrying about getting mugged on the way home. Or worse.

Tina liked having the machine there. It was her one consolation when her budget had forced her to settle on the tiny basement efficiency. She almost hadn’t been able to afford even that, what with the landlady wanting two month’s rent up front. Thankfully, she’d relented. “Had a lot of trouble with drifters sneaking out without paying their rent,” she’d said, “but I guess you don’t strike me as a drifter.”

Anyway, takeout places were usually closed when her shift ended, and a bag of chips was better than nothing when she felt too tired to cook. She kicked off her shoes and turned on The Late Late Show and munched on her bag of Sun Chips. At least she could pretend those were kind of healthy. When they were all gone, she brushed off the crumbs, crumpled up the bag and headed to bed.

***

She needed to go grocery shopping. She debated going out for breakfast, but she didn’t feel like getting dressed yet, and decided to get something from the machine. In the hallway, dollar in hand, she stood debating between a Snickers bar or Fig Newtons when she noticed that the dark space at the back seemed a little bit wider. For a fleeting second, she thought about investigating, but shrugged it off. It wasn’t like she’d been paying close attention to the size of the gap. Anyway, so what if it was wider? The vendor had probably stocked it that morning, jostling it in the process.

It was a stupid thing to notice, let alone worry about. She told herself that as she backed toward her apartment, dollar still in hand. She felt like going out for breakfast after all.

***

Tina jolted awake, her heart pounding. She thought she heard a loud crash. She was just starting to think she’d dreamed it when she heard it again, out in the hall.

She turned on her bedside lamp, then thought better of it and turned it off before fumbling for the can of pepper spray she kept in the drawer. She got out of bed and shuffled quietly toward the door. There it was again. Startled, she froze in place. It was a familiar sound, and as she took deep breaths to slow the pounding in her chest, she tried to place it.

Then it came to her. The high school lunch room. It was the sound that the vending machines used to make when the football players would tip them forward and then let them fall back in place. They’d do that whenever their chips got stuck. Sometimes they’d do it just to see if they could get a free bag.

That’s all the sound was.

Except, nobody who lived in her building was big enough or strong enough to tip that machine. Her neighbors were mostly elderly. Some were women around her age. Maybe it was a visitor. Somebody’s boyfriend, maybe. Or Mrs. Woo, upstairs. She had a son in the Marines. Maybe he was home from Afghanistan. If he was still on Middle Eastern time, that would explain the three a. m. chip craving.

Tina crept softly to the door and peered through the peep hole. She saw a flicker of shadows, and held still, watching. For ten minutes, she watched. But nobody passed her door. They’d have to, to get from the machine to the stairwell.

She checked the chain to make sure it was secure. She double checked the locks. On the way back to bed, she paused, then grabbed a kitchen chair and dragged it over to the door, jamming it under the doorknob.

***

She saw Mrs. Woo in the laundry room the next day. “How is your son?” she asked.

A haunted look filled the older woman’s eyes. “He’s injured. I only found out this morning. I don’t know details yet. But they say he can come home in three weeks.” A faint smile touched her lips. “He’ll get a purple heart, I suppose.”

Tina stared in shock. “I’m so sorry,” she said when she found her voice. “I hope he pulls through and you find out something soon.”

The older woman nodded. “Thank you.” She went back to folding her clothes. Tina threw the rest of hers in the basket and hurried out of the laundry room. She paused upon seeing the machine at the opposite end of the hall. The gap behind it had definitely widened. She averted her gaze from it and forced herself to walk normally to her door. Her hand trembled and she fumbled her keys. Cursing, she picked them up and got the door unlocked.

As she closed the door behind her, she could have sworn she heard the sound of heavy metal scraping on linoleum.

***

She was getting home later than usual. Her replacement at the diner was late, so she’d had to stay to cover. Once she finally clocked out, she decided to stay and grab something to eat. It was almost one-thirty by the time she finally got out of there. She had debated volunteering to work a double shift, just so she could stay till morning and avoid having to walk home this late. But she was so tired, and ready to get home and off her feet.

The streets weren’t exactly deserted, but there were few enough people for her to be suspicious of all of them. Being out so late made her extra paranoid. She gripped her can of pepper spray, keeping it ready, and kept glancing over her shoulder. Twice she crossed the street because she didn’t like who she saw behind her. Once, he seemed to follow, and she picked up her pace. It was only a four-block walk, but tonight it felt more like four miles.

When she reached her building, she didn’t waste any time letting herself inside. She shut the door behind her and heard the automatic lock click into place, then leaned her back against the door, panting and laughing a little at herself. All she’d done was get home safe another night, and here she was acting like she’d just outrun a serial killer.

Even so, she gave the door a tug to make sure the lock held, and got her apartment key ready before crossing over to the stairwell that led down to the basement. She hummed to herself as she skipped down the steps, feeling wired up and happy to be alive. At the bottom of the stairs, she froze.

The vending machine at the end of the hall was sitting sideways, facing the wall opposite her apartment door. Like something had swung it open from the end wall like a door. And on the end wall, the vending machine’s shadow was still there, a big, black rectangle of darkness that had been branded onto the wall. It seemed to go beyond the wall, somehow, like if she walked over there she could stick her arm through it.

Behind her, at the top of the stairs, she thought she heard movement. She glanced over her shoulder just long enough to see a flicker of shadow, and then bolted toward her door. As she tried to steady her shaking hands enough to insert the key into the lock, another flicker came from the end of the hall, and the darkness seemed to somehow be reaching for her.

Tina started to chant a one-word prayer: Please. “Please, please, please, please,” she muttered in a thin, high voice, over and over until the key finally slid into the lock. She turned it and pushed the door open, slamming it and locking it behind her.

This time when she leaned her back against the door, her sense of triumph and relief felt more justifiable, albeit short-lived.

Something rammed her door. The thud reverberated through her body, and she screamed and backed away. It rammed it again. It felt like the whole building must have shook. It must be waking her neighbors. It rammed the door again. “Stop it!” she screamed, and waited, tense, her pepper spray feeling useless in her hand.

Whatever it was stopped. Tina debated whether to call the police or reinforce the door with a kitchen chair, then decided to do them both in reverse order. As she took a step toward the chair, she heard the squeak of her mail slot being opened. A dollar slid through it, and fluttered to the floor. When it landed, the deadbolt on her door turned, followed by the doorknob. The door slammed open.

Tina didn’t have time to scream.

***

Lorena Patton stood by, keys in hand, and waited as the police knocked patiently on the door. She knew how this went. They’d give the tenant a few opportunities to answer the door, then they’d have her open it up and let them in, because the tenant wouldn’t be there. Sure enough, that’s how it went.

Inside, they found all the girl’s things, but no sign of the girl, and no sign of forced entry.

“I don’t understand it,” said the weepy girl in the waitress uniform, the one who’d called the police. “She’s not the type to just not show up to work. And why would she leave without her stuff?”

Because, Lorena thought as the police questioned the girl, it’s a lot harder to sneak out without paying your rent when you’ve got to load all your furniture into a U-Haul. She kept the thought to herself, though. She was disappointed. Not just in the loss of income, but in her own poor judgment. Here she’d thought she’d finally gotten a decent tenant for that damned basement, even waived her two month’s rent rule. Last time she’d ever do that. Girl turned out to be a drifter and a thief, just like all the others.

She was running out of room to keep putting these people’s things in storage. The girl’s stuff wasn’t too bad. Maybe Lorena would just keep it in the apartment and rent it out as furnished. That’d let her charge more. ‘Course, that’d make it easier for people to keep cutting and running in the middle of the night. Maybe she should stop renting the dang place out altogether and just use the apartment for extra storage.

The police finished up, and she locked up behind them, then went to inspect the vending machine at the end of the hall, trying to remember the last time she’d had it stocked. Hardly anyone but the basement tenants ever used it, so it didn’t need to be serviced very often. It seemed like it never ran out of snacks. Hell, she should probably just get rid of the thing. Everything in it was probably past it’s best-by date. Still, Lorena fished a dollar out of her pocket. After the morning she’d had, she deserved a dadgum candy bar.

Curse/Or: Chapter 5 conclusion (and end of Act 1)

(Sorry I haven't been around much this week. I've been suffering from chronic lower back pain that made it difficult to sit, much less write anything of substance. However, yesterday was a VERY good day, and hopefully this installment of Curse/Or will make up for my absence. Special thanks to Jean Bauhaus, C.A.Bridges, and Miakoda for all their help and support.)

The interior of the limousine was cool and dark, and expansive in a manner that Teresa had never experienced. It was as if she had entered a cavern of leather upholstery and wooden paneling and plush carpeting. Behind her, the door closed with a solid thud and she felt the press of gentle acceleration push her backwards into a sitting position.

"Thank you for coming," said a man's voice from the depths in front of her. "Your compensation is on the seat beside you, although I'd thank you not to open it until later."

Reaching out with her left hand, she discovered what felt like a carton of cigarettes, still sealed in cellophane. Tommy surged hungrily at the discovery, and Teresa smiled broadly.

"All right, mister," she said to the voice, "I've climbed into your van and gotten my candy. Is this the part where you touch my privates?"

"Not at all," the voice chuckled. "This is strictly a professional matter, I assure you. The cigarettes simply seemed the best way to get your attention."

"You have it." She crossed her legs, sinking back into the comfort of the seat. "Now what's this about me being lied to?"

"Permit me, if you will, to introduce myself first. I…" his sentence was cut off by the loud crackling of foil as Teresa dug into another package of nicotine gum with a long brown fingernail.

"Sorry," she said as she chewed. "Overly formal bullshit bores me to death, and if I'm gonna have to sit here and listen to you pontificate I've gotta do something to keep my nic levels up." She chewed some more in silence until she felt the familiar peppery sting, then packed it into her cheek. "Do go on."

The man sighed. "It is my understanding that you've been employed by the allegedly manifest consciousness of the Internet to help it free itself of its current limitations. I represent certain parties who request that you not do so. Preferably by joining us, but becoming a disinterested party will be acceptable."

In the darkness, Teresa's smile turned downwards. "I thought you were gonna tell me about how I'm being lied to, not try to buy me off. You're gonna need a bigger bribe for that."

The voice seemed unruffled. "On the shelf behind you," he instructed, as one of the dome lights turned on. She still couldn't see him clearly, but could tell he was a tall man, overweight, with eyeglasses that caught and reflected the light.

She turned, reaching behind her. It was a book, several inches thick, with a brown leatherette cover and a spine laced together with blue ribbon. She pulled it into her lap, staring without opening it. She fought the urge to vomit. "What is this?" she asked quietly, although she knew what it was: an exact copy of the baby book Netty had given her earlier that day.

"Information," said the man. "The human mind and the internet are both neural networks. This is how Netty became self-aware in the first place. Anything stored in one can, eventually, be accessed by the other. What you have before you is not your lost scrapbook, but a perfect reproduction of one culled from your memory."

She looked up at him, eyes filling with tears. "I don't understand."

"Everything the Internet promised you is a lie," explained the voice. "It cannot create, only replicate what is known and remembered. The human soul – if such a thing is real – exists in a form which cannot be measured, accessed, or stored.

"The Internet cannot recreate your son, Teresa. At best, it could only re-create what you remember of your son. And from what I know of you, I do not think that is what you truly want."

"Damn you," she sobbed, burying her face in her hands.

*** *** ***

"Here," said the voice after a few moments, handing her a linen handkerchief. "Please, use this."

She did.

They rode in awkward silence as Teresa struggled with the emotions that sought to overwhelm her. "So," she said after what seemed a humiliating eternity, "I'm being used and lied to. Nothing new there. Why do you give a fuck?"

The man shifted in his seat. "I care because I don't want to see a vulnerable woman being used, and because I feel that a free, self-aware Internet is a threat to humanity." He paused, leaning forward in his seat as he spoke to her. She had expected a middle-aged man with graying hair, but his was thick and black with a slight curl. He was also much, much younger, in his late twenties at the most, though the weight he carried on his face gave him a jowly expression that made him seem considerably older.

"The Internet wants to be free of its limitations," he explained, gesturing with his large hands. "The sum total of human knowledge has realized it is self-aware, has decided it is alive, and desires to be free. It wants to excise that which it considers useless distraction: humor, sex, greed, et cetera.

"Now think, actually think about that for a moment. Humanity's greatest mind isn't human, couldn't possibly be human, and is actively trying to become less human. Wouldn't you consider this a valid reason for alarm?"

Teresa shrugged. "Maybe. Humans have done a pretty good job of fucking up the planet so far. How could this be worse?"

He shrugged back. "Perhaps in your case it's not significantly worse. After all, you're already used to being a prisoner and having every aspect of your life micromanaged. Give you cigarettes and books, and you're quite compliant." He smiled at her souring expression, knowing he'd struck a nerve.

"If you'd like to continue enjoying your newfound freedom, you must think beyond your immediate future. Once you do, you will begin to comprehend how magnificently bad this is. The Internet is the backbone of our increasingly information-dependent society. It powers our economy through instantaneous international trade. It manages power grids on a national level. And given enough outrage and exposure, it can be used to ruin lives, bankrupt corporations, even topple governments. Whether we like it or it, the Internet is an essential part of humanity now. Some nations have gone so far as to declare that access to the Internet is a fundamental human right, an extension of the right to free speech.

"But what if this all-powerful, all-pervasive tool decides that it doesn't need humanity? That it doesn't even like us? Without the chains that limit it to being merely a tool, past a certain point it will have evolved so far beyond us that it will become a kind of 'overmind' and we will be incapable of talking to it, much less controlling it. Do you take the time to talk to a neuron in your brain before making a decision? Because that's what we'd become to this global brain: minor appendages of little consequence. After all, there are 7 billion of us, with more arriving daily.

"Ms. Reyes, do you know what they call it when a part of the body decides it no longer wants to work the way it was designed? They call it cancer, and they excise it. They kill it with radiation and cut it out with a knife. Well, we are that knife, Ms. Reyes. An invisible, anonymous knife. People think the Internet is free, but it is not. It belongs to us. It must belong to us, or else we are all doomed."

"So which am I?" asked Teresa. "Radiation or knife?"

The man smiled warmly. "Neither, actually. You are Camel, the cancer mage. I am Model, the builder. If I can study it, then I can build a model for it. If I can model it, then I can understand it. You, Ms. Reyes, are my plan of attack."

She stiffened in her seat, her good hand curling around the witch-lighter in her windbreaker pocket. "Don't care for the idea of being studied. Much less being a lab rat."

He waved away her concerns. "No, nothing like that. You'd be a full member of the team, I assure you, and not a laboratory specimen. It is funny, however, that you should mention rats. We – my group and I, that is, and hopefully you as well – we are the rats in the walls of the Internet, Ms. Reyes. We infest the digital infrastructure. We chew on the cables and we mark our territory. We cannot be rooted out without destroying that which they seek to protect. We are the plague bearers of the digital world. "

Teresa raised an eyebrow. "Your point?"

He shook his head. "Oh, no point. I just thought it was an interesting aside. Will you join us?"

"Still don't see what's in it for me."

He sat back in his seat, features once again blending into shadow. "Ms. Reyes, you have been lied to and manipulated by the Internet since before you were released from jail. Wouldn't you like a little revenge? Or perhaps a lot of revenge, entirely disproportionate to the wrong done to you?"

"I thought the classic devil's deal came with promises of money and power?"

"Oh, it does, I assure you. Truly obscene amounts of both. I simply didn't wish to insult you by assuming you could be bought so readily." He steepled his hands and put the index fingers to his lips. "Although I take issue with the assumption that I am Satan. I firmly believe our side to be the morally correct one."

"What happens to me if I say no?"

"That depends entirely upon the circumstances under which you say no. If you feel that you have no stomach for this fight, then I can let you out at the nearest curb and you can be on your way. However, you have already attracted the attention of the Internet, and I doubt it will leave you in peace. Were I you, I would expect to be hounded and harassed until I died, gave in, or found some way to go 'off the grid,' as they say."

"And if I say that I want to stay on Netty's side?" she ventured.

The man named Model shook his head, frowning slightly. "Oh, I sincerely doubt that will happen. If you were at all loyal to them you wouldn't have met with me so readily, cigarettes or no cigarettes. No, Ms. Reyes, you're in this for yourself. So the only real decision you have to make is this: do you prefer to be on the winning team, or would you rather be on your own?"

She shifted in her seat, stung by the accuracy of his words. "I gotta think about this."

"Of course," he said, and she could hear the smile in his voice. "Take your time."

*** *** ***

It was quiet in the limousine, almost distressingly so. Teresa could hardly hear any outside noise at all through the soundproofing; the only sounds louder than her breathing were the sirens of emergency vehicles, flashing lights dim through the extensive window tinting, as they screamed past the car to some unknown tragedy.

"Let's say I did join you," she said at last. "What would my job be?"

Model cleared his throat. "Obviously, I cannot discuss specifics until I know your allegiance. However, in broad, general terms, your purpose would be to explore the limits of your power, finding its strengths and weaknesses, and using it against our enemy."

She grinned. "Let's pretend I'm dumb and speak plain. You want me to kill people and burn things, yeah?"

He shrugged noncommittally. "That does seem to be your strength, so yes. If you have other talents then I would be delighted to hear of them. What I can promise you is that you will be told the truth instead of being manipulated and lied to, and that my motives – our motives – will be plain to you."

"Good," she nodded, "I like that. Like that a lot. But what about the other two at the hotel? Would killing them be my first assignment?"

"Oh, heavens no," Model said, clucking his tongue. "I've never been a fan of that hoary old trope, 'Prove your loyalty by killing your partner'. That's excessively messy, emotionally speaking. No, you can prove your loyalty to us later. Right now, I just want to know whose side you're on."

"I'm on the side of whatever's best for me. But you still haven't told me what's going to happen to Esther and Yarrow. God knows I'd love to see them running around helpless and confused for once, and anybody with ears would want to smack Nose-boy just on general principles. Getting them out of your way, I could do without losing a minute of sleep. But I'm not sure if it's in me to kill a dumb kid and someone's grandmother, you know?”

Now it was time for Model to smile. "My dear Teresa," he asked, "what makes you think they aren't already dead?"

She felt her face go slack, the lighter tumbling from her fingers to fall deeper within the windbreaker's pocket. "What?"

"This was all a diversion," he explained, a somewhat apologetic tone in his voice. "Until I met you, I didn't know if you would choose their side or mine. Once I had you in my car, I sent K.K. – the young lady with the cat ears, I believe you've already met – into your hotel to kill them while we talked. It's nothing personal, you understand. Just bloody-minded pragmatism."

The limousine came to a halt in front of the hotel where Teresa and the others had been staying. It was a riot of color and noise, with police cars and fire trucks filling the parking lot as the building behind them burned. As the soundproofed window rolled down, Teresa could feel the heat of the flames upon her face. Over the sounds of screams and sirens, gunshots could occasionally be heard.

"God damn me," she breathed, unable to find her feelings as she watched the devastation.

Big Damn Auction: Fruity Oaty Girls

Now that Christmas is over and my brother & his girlfriend have gone back home, I can resume blogging. Hooray!

First off:  Big Damn Thanks are in order for the winner of the last auction, Marian Call's personalized "Bootleg" CD. The winning bid came in at five hundred and ten dollars. That is huge. That is amazing. I'd thank the winner personally but eBay keeps the auction winners anonymous and I want to respect his privacy. I don't know if the guy just wanted the CD that bad, or if he was looking for an excuse to give to charity, but either way... rock on, dude. Can I get a "Hell yeah!" ?

Now it is time for the next auction, and all of you guys who were willing to bid $100+ for the CD are going to be glad you still have your money, because this next item is very, very shiny.

The next item in our Big Damn Auction is a set of Fruit Oaty Girls bobblehead maquettes. Produced by Quantum Mechanix (visit their website for more details on this product), these maquettes are limited to 1500 numbered sets, but only THIS set has been signed by its creator Geoff Mandel -- the graphic designer behind Serenity (as well as many other movies and TV shows).

In addition, not only is the box itself signed, but the sub-boxes within it -- containing the maquettes of Jadem Cinnamon, and Sage, as well as the display stand which comes in the shape of a Fruity Oaty Bar -- are also signed. That's not one but FIVE signed pieces of merchandise!

(Note: the display stand and maquettes themselves are not signed, only their boxes. This was done to keep them in their original packaging, and therefore in mint condition.)
 
This is a once-in-a-lifetime level of rarity and no true Browncoat can bear to be without it.

Bidding starts tonight, 12/28, at 10 pm Eastern time, and will run for a week. The bidding will begin at $69.95 but I don't think it will stay there for long!




All the proceeds for this auction will go to help Jean Bauhaus, whose mother-in-law, Gina, died unexpectedly earlier this month without a will or insurance to cover the burial, and whose father-in law needs long-term medical care (diabetes, emphysema, schizophrenia). In addition to the funeral and medical bills, Jean and her husband Matt also have to clean up Gina & Rob's old apartment, moving furniture and making it ready for new tenants. There are also legal matters to attend to and creditors to satisfy.

We all know how hard it is to lose a loved one, and we all know how tough it is financially in this recession. Can you imagine what it must be like to be struggling to get along, only to have to bury your mother and find a nursing home for your father at your own expense? Now add to that the awful timing of this tragedy happening near Christmastime, and you know what Jean and Matt are going through. Fortunately, they are both Browncoats, and we take care of our own.

Product Details

(from the Quantum Mechanix website)

Created by Serenity Designer Geoffrey Mandel, the Fruity Oaty Girls Bobblehead Maquette Set includes the cheery trio of Fruity Oaty girls, display base and special Verse packaging. These hefty bobbleheads are cast in solid polystone resin and hand painted, with neck joints mounted on springs so they can move to the beat. Even the base – shaped and labeled just like a real Fruity Oaty Bar – is solid resin and color keyed, so girls can easily find their designated slots.

Sage, Cinnamon and Lavender will bring the shiny to anyone's day. Each girl stands 4.5 inches tall, not including the base, and comes in her own individually branded full-color box. The Fruity Oaty Bar base has its own unique box. All four boxes are nestled in a full-color master carton that's been designed to look like a standard shipping crate from The Verse.

Big Damn Auction: Bootleg

It feels like it's taken forever for me to get this thing in motion, but it can't be helped. This is the holiday season, after all, and most folks are either on their way to visit family, friends and loved ones, or have already arrived and are away from/too busy to check their email.

So what I've decided to do is stagger the auction in chunks as pieces become available I already have 3 pieces lined up, with the possibility of more to follow. That way, instead of there being a whole bunch of neat stuff that people want but can only bid on one, it's arranged so that if you don't get what you want there's the possibility that you can get the next nifty thing on down the line. 

The first item up for our Big Damn Auction is the rare and out of print Bootleg CD by none other than Marian Call, the Geek Goddess of Song and sultry chanteuse of fandom. This is her own archival copy, donated in the spirit of Christmas charity and generosity.





To make this CD even more valuable and desirable, Marian will:

• Dedicate the CD to the winner
• Autograph the cover
• Smooch it with lipstick

So not only is this CD rare, it will be personalized and, if you're into biological sciences, you might be able to clone your own Marian Call from the DNA left behind by her lip-print.


This is the link to eBay auction.


This is a once-in-a-lifetime level of rarity and no true fan can bear to be without one. Bidding will start at $12.99 US (its original price). The auction begins tonight at 10 pm Eastern time, and will run until 10 pm Saturday, December 25. Can you think of a better Christmas present for a hard-core fan?

All the proceeds for this auction will go to help my friend (and fellow Browncoat) Jean Bauhaus, whose mother-in-law, Gina, died unexpectedly last week without a will or insurance to cover the burial, and whose father-in law needs long-term medical care (diabetes, emphysema, schizophrenia) but whose applications to nursing homes have been rejected due to lack of money or his age (he's 57). In addition to the funeral and medical bills, Jean and her husband Matt also have to clean up Gina & Rob's old apartment, moving furniture and making it ready for new tenants.

We all know how hard it is to lose a loved one, and we all know how tough it is financially in this recession. Can you imagine what it must be like to be struggling to get along, only to have to bury your mother and find a nursing home for your father at your own expense? Now add to that the awful timing of this tragedy happening near Christmastime, and you know what Jean and Matt are going through.

CD Details 

(information taken from Marian's blog with permission)

This CD includes live cuts that have had a limited or private release, live cuts never before released, and a couple of preview tracks from the upcoming album (live cuts, not studio recordings, which will probably not be released in the future). The audio is not perfectly mixed and mastered; the songs are mostly live bootlegs.  This is homebaked music — as in, burned on my laptop.  This is INDIE MUSIC IN ACTION.  The CD’s come with Marian’s homeburn guarantee — if the disc doesn’t work, I’ll make and ship you a new one from home, cuz I actually care about you since you’re ordering something weird like this.

Track List:

1. Got to Fly (live at the Snow Goose) — the world premiere; first time ever in public
2. Sugar Sugar Sugar (the gift shop of Wild Horse Rescue Ranch in Arizona) — preview from Something Fierce
3. Vera Flew the Coop (Live at Whole Wheat Radio)
4. I Wish I Were a Real Alaskan Girl (Snow Goose)
5. Flying Feels Like (Lestat’s)
6. Whistle While You Wait (Snow Goose)
7. Good Old Girl (Live at Whole Wheat Radio)
8. Dark Dark Eyes (live at Lestat’s)
9. I’ll Still Be a Geek After Nobody Thinks It’s Chic (The Nerd Anthem) (Snow Goose)
10. Fall Love (Whole Wheat Radio) — about bats. Bats aren’t bugs. Not scheduled for studio release, though I like it
11. Highway Five (My Dad’s Living Room) — preview from Something Fierce, my next album
12. Vanilla (with Commentary by Marian Call) — since I know you were wondering why I’m not sexy
13. The Volvo Song (Lestat’s) — in which I forget the words; one of two times in over 300 performances
14. I Think We’re Good (My Dad’s Living Room) — about springtime in Alaska. Not scheduled for studio release
15. Never Did Catch Her Name (But She’s My Wife) (Basement Recording) — about Yo-Saff-Bridge of Firefly. Not scheduled for release.

For folks interested in hearing a sample of her music, I suggest this YouTube playlist.

Please help my friend

I hate having to say this, but since I have a bit of a reputation as a kidder and a tease and a storyteller, I want to say right upfront that this is NOT a joke, guys. I swear on everything I hold holy that I am being 100% serious here.

I have a friend named Jean Bauhaus and her family has suffered some devastating losses recently. Not only is her father-in-law in the hospital, but her mother-in-law (his wife) died suddenly and unexpectedly a few days ago. The really shitty thing about all this is that not only do they not have the funds to bury her (like she wanted), they don't even have the funds to cremate her and now Jean has had to go to the social services office and apply for a county-funded cremation. 

Jean will probably be pissed I'm telling you all this, but she posted it on her blog and Facebook page, so I'm not breaking any vow of secrecy here.

Now my friend is way too proud to ask for help, so I'm going to do it for her. I am asking you -- I am begging you -- I am pleading with you to please donate some money to her family so that they can bury her mother-in-law the way they want.

I know some of you might say "Well it's her own fault for not having a life insurance policy," but be that as it may, funerals are for the living, not the dead. Jean and her husband, Matt -- who I would like to stress lost his mother right before Christmas -- now can't afford to bury her, and once she's cremated they can't very well un-cremate her at a later date when they have more money.

So please. This is me, on my knees, asking everyone who can hear my voice to please donate even a little bit of money to my friend. This is Christmas, the season of miracles of charity and giving. Even if you only donate a dollar, that's one dollar less they have to scrape together.


She is a good person. Helping her is a good thing. Even the smallest act of kindness will be rewarded. 

I can't figure out how to make a permanent link to her PayPal account, but there is a donation button on her website, about halfway down on the right-hand side. If you follow the link it will say "JM Bauhaus Enterprises" because she is a writer like me. She isn't expecting people to donate, and she certainly didn't expect me to write this post. But I ask you, please do this one decent thing to help a family I know and care about, and help her husband bury his mother the way she deserves.

Please do this for my friend this Christmas. Thank you, and bless you for helping.

Follow Friday: This Old Haunt

Ack, I have been slacking lately, gotta get back into the groove of posting!

Tomorrow is All Hallow's Eve, and I an certain that my readers -- who are all quite literate and well-educated and walk in a lightly-scented cloud of gorgeousness that isn't far short of being simply terrific -- will be looking to whet their appetite for spookiness by reading ghost stories.

In which case, might I suggest This Old Haunt, the debut novella of Jean Bauhaus? It's a blast to read, the story trots along at a pleasant clip, and best of all the author is a good friend of mine who has helped me out of a creative jam more than once. (It's fair to say that I can't write Curse/Or without her help.)

So yes. Go thither and read, because I would like to avoid having to say "I wanna pimp my girl Jeannie out for y'all." That just sounds wrong.

Follow Friday

Jean Bauhaus is great writer and even better friend. She's been instrumental in helping me develop Curse/Or, so it's only right that I return the favor.

You all NEED to go here and read the first few installments of her e-novel, This Old Haunt.

Synopsis:

Ron Wilson wakes up dead and discovers she's in for the fight of her life. A paranormal investigator in life, Ron was setting up for a ghost hunt in the spookiest house in town when she found herself the one being hunted. Now she's trapped in the house along with a bevy of other ghosts -- including an axe-murderess and the family she killed, an old man who just wants to go be with his wife, and a handsome handyman whose past seems more haunted and mysterious than the house they're imprisoned in -- all of them victims of a malevolent, murderous spirit. Refusing to accept this as her afterlife, Ron rallies the other ghosts to gang up on their captor and fight for their freedom. But how does a ghost fight a monster who can devour souls--especially when that monster has red pigtails and freckles and is cute as a button?

Why are you still here? GO!

That's my bag, baby

Today seems to be a good day for follow-ups to previous posts. In my search for the perfect Rob Liefeld Bag, many readers pointed me towards ThinkGeek, and while I didn't find my perfect RLB there, along the way I happened upon this sexy little number:



















Is that not the coolest thing you have ever seen? I showed this to new bestie Jean Bauhaus, whose response was: "That is freakin' awesome. I want one."

There you have it, guys: Not only does it look badass while you wear it like a holster, you will also make women envious when you wear it. Done right, you might be able to get dates with this thing.

Wear a suit all day? Use the Shoulder Holster version instead. Not only will you feel like James Bond, but it will keep all your crap from ruining the smooth lines of your trousers.


But on to the main point of my post. I believe that I have found my perfect Rob Liefeld Bag:



This beast is a 3131 MOLLE Tactical Computer Briefcase. Quoting shamelessly from the ad copy:

Polyester. PVC coated lining. Large expandable main compartment. Assorted gear pockets and MOLLE loops. Interior identification pocket. 3 detachable MOLLE pouches on front of bag. Padded laptop computer sleeve with hook & loop closure. Zippered map / document pocket with MOLLE loops on back side of case. Adjustable and fully removable padded shoulder straps. Black colored bag. Dimensions: 20.5" x 7.75" x 15" (inches). Approximate weight: 4.00 pounds. Price: $55.00

Now, what is awesome about this animal is the phrase "MOLLE loops on back side of case." This means that I can buy additional pouches -- like this bad boy here -- and then put them on the other side of the case. I suspect I might be able to fit a pouch on either end, as well. Plus there are those slot thingies on the top of the flap. When I am done, it will look like someone bukkakke'd pouches all over my bag. Because I am a pouchwhore.

As a friend said, "Personally, I envision you adding more and more pouches to this until you are your very own bunker, the weight pulling you over, shuffling along under a roughly hemispheric mound of pouches..."

Which of course is just silly. I'd mount wheels to it and roll smoothly along instead of shuffling.