Here it comes, the obligatory “Sorry I haven’t updated the site in a while blah-blah-blah excuses excuses” bullshit.
Fact of the matter is, I haven’t been avoiding writing. I have in fact been doing too much writing.
The 4:30 am ‘Me time’ I made mention of before has been dedicated recently wholly and solely to writing and I’m pretty proud to say that I’m about 20 pages and 11k words into… something.
Which has left an unfortunate lack of time for updating the blog so I apologise to anyone out there that still follows it and I will be back at some point I promise you.
Likely to plug the shit out of whatever it is I’m doing when done.
In the meantime, I’m here to offer you an entirely out of context snippet of what I’ve been doing. This set in the world introduced in the short post I did a while back ‘Of clones and drones’ and I hope it’s enough to paint a slight picture of what’s going on.
Not a Bob Ross kind of picture, more of a monkey smearing its own shit all over the enclosure wall kind of picture. You know, doesn’t make sense to anyone except the monkey and at the end of the day is actual literal shit.
‘The door is locked.’
‘Seriously? You’re carrying two semi-automatic skeleton keys with you.’47 pushed the trooper aside and aimed his own rifle at the door knob. With a squeeze of the trigger and a buck of his rifle, he managed to place several very well aimed smoky black stains on both the door knob and the deadbolt. After giving the rifle an incredulous look, he stepped back and aimed at the glass of a nearby window. Thankfully he had aimed the rifle at a sharp angle, had he been standing straight on, he would have collected the resulting ricochet of pulse energy fair in the chest. As it was it, it flew past him and exploded the previously intact letter box at the front of the house. ‘Bullshit’.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean I used this exact gun earlier to put a whole big pile of holes into a robot and now it can’t even kill a damn door or leave anything other than an inconvenient stain on a glass window. But that’s not what you meant was it, you were asking what bullshit was weren’t you?’
‘No!’ he exclaimed defiantly, before looking away rather sheepishly, ‘I know what shit means.’
47s mouth locked into a straight line of resignation and he stared at 33 for a moment before stomping past him and around the side of the house ‘I’m going to go check the perimeter again.’
‘You’re trying to find another way in aren’t you?’
‘Yes.’ He was just about to round the corner when he was stopped with a shout.
He gripped his rifle and looked back, tense and a bit frightened. ‘What?!’
‘Is… is it more like pudding or more like a horse or completely different?’
A groaning sigh which was apparently holding up his whole torso escaped, the rifle butt falling to the ground. ‘Horse, it’s more like a horse. But Bullshit is like a mix of both.’
‘Bull-shit, Horse-pudding, ok. Wait! Pudding is shit?’
‘I’m going.’ 47 trudged off, his rifle dragging along behind him.
The head of a normal trooper is empty by necessity, they are put in place to serve the “greater good” not to bother with trivialities, but at this moment, thoughts were filling 33s skull to the point of overflow. A light headache was forming. He now knew a Bull was like a Horse and also pudding was like shit apparently. All he needed to do now was find out exactly what a Horse was, then move onto the mystery of why 47 said pudding was delicious.
He started calculating risk assessment regarding consuming his own faeces at a later date to find out exactly what pudding supposedly tastes like. Regret for a myriad of lost opportunities for a delicious meal blossomed in his head after piecing together the puzzle that perhaps poop was pudding and pudding was tasty. The headache seemed to reach a crescendo and the backs of his eyes began to feel tight and swollen.
A green cross pulsed gently on 33s chest plate signalling the auto dispensing of a drug cocktail. The pain dissipated, along with the curiosity.