Alison Venture was a badass.

At least that’s what she liked to tell herself. In her more private moments, when she was in an introspective mood, she knew that this was less than true.

Her badassness — or badassitude, if you will — was actually a front, a cloak she would don when she was working. It allowed her to face all the nastiness and evil — human and otherwise — in the world, and overcome it. But underneath it, she was just a nervous and mildly self-conscious 24 year old girl.

As she hung upside down, wrists and ankles bound, over a grated pit of alligators, it occurred to her that her current line of thought was probably not the best or most conducive to her survival.

So the cloak went back on.

“Look,” she said. “It’s not that I don’t enjoy hanging out with you, but I’m starting to get a little bored. And my head feels like it weighs a hundred pounds. Is there any chance that you might just get this over with already and kill me?”

The old man puttering around her prison chuckled, a phlegmy sound. “Oh, you are quite funny. I know my pets will enjoy your sense of humor as they rip you apart and devour you.”

It seems that two guys by the name of Elton Jaundice and Cornelius Talmadge — and who are in no way whatsoever myself and Nate — have launched a web site called There Are Four Lights, where they are posting something called “Star Trek Interludes.”

The site appears to have started up last summer some time, but didn’t actually start updating till last month. Jaundice attempted to explain what was going on, though he was a bit cagey and mysterious about it:

Starting tomorrow, the sordid tales that bear the moniker“”Star Trek Interludes””will begin to make their way to the Web for your filthy enjoyment. Assuming I am not incarcerated, a new Interlude should be posted to the tune of once a week, most likely on Wednesday or Thursday. There is a vast archive of Interludes, some quite old, so this endeavor should be able to proceed for some time. Tomorrow’s is fittingly themed around the tired “holiday” of St. Patrick’s Day still celebrated by the ignorant masses.

Also: my cohort, Mister Cornelius Talmadge, will not be posting any of the Interludes for the foreseeable future, even though many of them were written by him. The reasons are various and sundry, but mostly revolve around the fact that his current whereabouts are unknown. My sincerest hope is that, much like myself, he is simply living “off the grid,”” so to speak, and is in good health and spirits. Still, doubts as to his safety linger, as the last time anyone saw him was well before Hallowe’en, by a bartender at a pub Rio de Janeiro.

He goes on for a bit longer, but it’s a little convoluted, so if you want to read more, I suggest you visit the site.

A new Interlude went up earlier today. Here is a brief excerpt:

(Recovered from the Hello Kitty diary of Cornelius Talmadge.)

“I got dem blues,” wailed Worf. “I got dem Tactical monitoring, Picard bossin’-around blues. I got dem –”

“Shut up, Worf!” shouted Picard. “I swear by everything holy that I’ll hang your sorry Klingon ass on my wall if you don’t shut the fuck up now!”

“Sorry, sir. I wouldn’t want to interrupt your little sissy parade.”

“That’s it.” Picard stood up and ran to the viewscreen. He turned, and performed a Super-Twisty Flying Kick. He sailed through the air, finally impacting into Worf’s face.

“Augh! There’s a rock in your shoe!” Worf began to cry.

Picard put his hand on Worf’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

“You didn’t have to kick me so hard.”

“Look, let’s go play Parise Squares in the holodeck.”

“Really?” Worf looked up.

“Yep. We can even knock out Riker and use him for target practice.”

“Hey!” Riker yelled.

“Thanks.”

“Anything for my Number One friend.”

Eh, this one was pretty good. There are better ones, however — at least in my opinion — over at the site. Overall, I’d say the whole endeavor seems promising.

Looks like they also have a Facebook page dedicated to the Interludes. I decided to throw them a bone and joined it. Because I’m a nice guy.

After several more minutes of this, she twisted the hot water handle to OFF. The searing water quickly turned became frigid, and even though she was expecting it, still hit her like a slap in the face from Jack Frost. She gritted her teeth against the unpleasantness, enduring it for thirty seconds that felt like thirty minutes, and at last shut off the water.

Such was her regular showering routine, and had been for years, since the time her training had begun up on the mountain, in that cabin with no electricity. She’d despised it at first, but after several weeks of shivering under the freezing-cold water, she’d become used to it.

Now, she still just barely tolerated it, but could appreciate the immediate call to alertness it provided.

Thought I’d share with you the new Prologue. Bear in mind that this is only a rough draft, so don’t feel obliged to point out every little niggling error you find. Though I’m sure some of you will.

PROLOGUE

~fin~

The rum had long-since stopped burning his throat, he idly realized as he took another huge swallow from the bottle, right before he put his fist through the face of the Mona Lisa. The poplar wood shredded his knuckles. He only abstractly felt the throbbing in his hand, filtered as it was by his drunken haze. It only served to make him angrier. He wanted to feel something, anything to break him from the unyielding torpor that he’d been in for the past few millennia — even if that something was just pain.

What do you guys think?

JAB

“I’ll be ready in a minute, sweetheart,” Mother Nature (Em to her friends) called out from the bathroom. “I’m just finishing up my make-up.”

Her husband, Ted, god of the Midwest, was putting his cufflinks on. He was dressed in a rented tuxedo, and looked pretty damn sexy if he thought so himself, which he did.

“Take your time, hun. Fashionably late is always cool.” He started humming “Bawitdaba” softly to himself.

The happy couple was preparing to jet off to attend one of the more exclusive social events of the year: the annual Spring Gala, hosted by the goddess Gaia. Winter had just ended two days before, and the warm embers of spring were now heating the world of Man back up. It was time for a grand celebration.

That’s when Ted eyed the unusual object laying on the bed. “Uhh, Em… Why is there a strap-on dildo on the bed?”

Mother Nature stepped out of the bathroom, putting in an earring as she did. “Oh, I picked that up at the store earlier. I thought we might use it after the party.”

Ted was still regarding the novelty-size strap-on with no small measure of dubiousness. “Huh.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Oh, nothing. It’s just…we experimented with that a lot this past winter, right? And frankly, I’m not sure I’m up to task for this one anyway. So, since it’s spring and all, why don’t we put away your little…ish new toy and try something new.” His eyes gleamed. “Like…you being with someone else,” he said, “while I watch.”

She giggled coquettishly. “Oh, Ted,” she said. “You’re so silly.” But then she considered the idea for a moment. “Well…how about a compromise?”

He arched an eyebrow. “Whadja have in mind?”

“How would you like me to use that”—Em pointed at the sexual apparatus—”on Guy while you watch?”

A devilish smile formed on Ted’s face. Guy was high deity of the region commonly known to humans as “New England”—and he was a close friend. An attractive, close friend.

“Now that sounds hot,” Ted said. He went over to his wife and took her in his arms. They passionately kissed for a long moment, until she suddenly broke away and looked him in the eye.

“But once I’m done with Guy,” she said firmly, “I fully intend to use the device on you too.”

Ted sighed in defeat. “Yes dear.”

You see, friends, the moral of this story is that, even though we are two days into spring, Mother Nature can quite easily—and with wicked delight—use a strap-on dildo to fuck the state of Ohio in the ass.

That, and I really hate cold weather and all that it brings.

He was sitting alone at a corner table in the HappyMart cafeteria, reading a cheaply photocopied ‘zine called Fascist America that extolled the virtues of the Self Exile movement. A half-eaten tuna sandwich lay ignored in front of him, next to a Styrofoam cup of coffee. It was a little before midnight, and the cafeteria was only sparsely populated. To keep the illegal reading material hidden from any coworkers, he had concealed it within a red binder. No one would be the wiser that he was engrossed in such an antisocial and reactionary document; to the outside world—those persons also trapped in the iron grip of the unforgiving corporate machine—Duncan was simply studying his department’s planning reports.

He caught movement out of the corner of his eye. Someone was approaching the table. He glanced up and saw an expressionless face looking down at him—another blandly anonymous bureaucrat dressed in a navy blue suit. He and millions more like him filled up the vast echelons of the HappyMart empire. On the fellow’s upper-right arm was a stylized green patch indicating that he was from the Home Office.

A flash of annoyance coursed through Duncan. This was one of the Old Man’s flunkies.

“The Vice President would like to see you.”

With exaggerated casualness, Duncan took a sip of his coffee and had to mask a grimace. The once scalding liquid had grown cold with neglect. Just how long had he been sitting here, absorbed in the sweetly illicit ‘zine?

“Sure. Let me finish my coffee. I’ll meet him in his office in five minutes.”

The flunkie didn’t move. “He wants to see you now. And he’s not in his office—he’s in the LP Annex.”

“Loss Prevention?” Duncan asked in surprise.

“Yes.”

He swallowed hard. Anything involving LP was never good. He stood up slowly, the coffee forgotten once more.

“Then we better not keep him waiting.”

The actor, who suffers from Parkinson’s disease, admits he’s keen to make a final film in the series – but only if they make his character as old as he is in real life.

The former Spin City star wants to take over from Christopher Lloyd’s eccentric scientist character, Doc Brown, in the sequel.

He tells movie website Moviehole.net: “The only way it would work would be if I played Doc.

“I’m 44-years-old now and I’m not interested in running around on skateboards!

“I think after 1, 2 and 3 we all kind of felt we had done it.

“And I think if they did it again now they would do it with a younger cast and just do a different realization of it, which would be fun.”

Man, a new Back to the Future movie. That could be cool, but I’d have a few reservations about it. Even though I’d go see it in a heartbeat, it makes me wonder: is another one really necessary? I mean, the first three films perfectly captured the heart of the story. It had a beginning, middle and end, with everything resolving happily in BotF III. (I don’t count the Back to the Future ride at Universal Studios.) Adding another movie to the series might just, I dunno, be weird and throw off the dynamic of the original trilogy. I would hate, hate, for BotF IV to ruin the original trilogy for me the way the new Star Wars trilogy single-handedly annihilated my love for Star Wars and its original trilogy.

Also, having Michael J. Fox take over the Doc Brown character? I just can’t really see Marty “What the hell is a jigawatt?” McFly as any type of scientist. He wanted to be a rockstar for God’s sake! He wouldn’t go to college, let alone spend the time in school to get a doctorate. Marty as a political adviser to the President, or as a hip L.A. doctor, now that I could visualize. Besides, I liked Christopher Lloyd too much as Doc Brown. He was awesome. And can you imagine them trying to find another DeLorean? Inconceivable!

To illustrate my point, I’ll give you a snippet of what a Back to the Future IV might be like, sans Doc Brown:

Back to the Future IV: Future Imperfect

Thirty-seven year-old Marty McFly was standing in his parents’ garage, because he still lived with them, looking around at his “lab.” He was wearing his brand-new lab coat he’d purchased at Wal-Mart the day before. His lab, such that is was, consisted of a folding table, a mail-order beaker set, a guitar and matching amp, a minifridge, and some fireworks setting in a barrel.

“Sweet,” he said to himself.

The door leading into the house opened, and out stepped Marty’s protoge, Ernie McMacken. Ernie was sixteen years old and bore an uncanny resemblance to Steve Urkel, a character from one of Marty’s favorite sitcoms. That was also a deciding factor in Marty’s decision to mentor the boy. Aside from being in Physics AP, Ernie was also an amateur rapper who went by the name Hevvy Isotope.

“Hey, Ernie! I’ve got great news.”

Ernie nodded in greeting. “What’s that, Marty?”

Marty’s face turned dark red and he took a threatening step towards Ernie. “I told you to call me Doc, God dammit.”

Fear briefly lit Ernie’s face. “Right…. Uh, sorry, Doc. What’s the, uh, the good news?”

Marty was suddenly happy and exuberant again. He pointed to a piece of twisted, rusting stainless steel on the floor. Ernie thought it resembled a piece of Industrial Art he’d seen once at a museum.

“Well,” Marty began, “I went to that junkyard on Vine and found this gull wing door that might have belonged to a DeLorean. So now we have that and…let’s see, a gear shift, one tire, and part of the bumper. So just a few more car parts, a flux capacitator, some plutonium, and we’re good to go.”

“Wow, Mar — Doc, that’s cool. But….” Ernie hesitated, unsure as to exactly how to bring up the sensitive subject. “Has there been any luck in the whole flux capacitor — ”

“Capacitator,” Marty corrected.

” — capacitator department yet?”

Instead of going off on Ernie as he’d done before, Marty instead nodded. “Designed it last night actually.” He walked over to the folding table and picked up a manila folder. “Here,” he said, handing it to Ernie. Marty picked up a wire brush and sat down on the floor in front of the gull wing door. He began running the brush vigorously over a rust spot.

Ernie opened the folder and examined the flux capacitator design. He frowned. “Hey, Doc?”

“Yeah?”

“You sure this is right?” Ernie held up a sheet of red construction paper. On it, dry macaroni formed the outline of Pac-Man.

Marty looked up from his work and smiled. “Uh-huh.”

“Didn’t you say that the flux capacitator on the first time machine was shaped like a Y?”

“It was, but this one is better, more advanced. It’ll take us into the future or past ten seconds quicker than the old one would.”

“Oh.” Ernie didn’t see the logic in that, but decided not to press the issue. As he held the paper, a piece of macaroni fell off. “So…how did you design this one?”

Marty stood up and went over to the minifridge. He opened it and popped open an ice-cold beer. After taking a long drink, he said, “Funny story. I was at the strip club last night, kicking back a few cold ones, watching Jennifer dance, when it hit me. I figured if the Doc — not me, I mean old Doc Brown, my mentor.”

“Yeah,” Ernie said, “I get it.”

Marty stared hard at Ernie for a second, then went on, “If the Doc came up with the idea for his flux capacitator by slipping on the porcelain in his bathroom and cracking his head on the sink, then why couldn’t I do the same thing?”

“So you went to the bathroom and hit your head on a sink?”

“Hell no,” Marty said. “Have you seen the bathrooms at the Pink Pussy? They’re disgusting.” He took another gulp of beer. “Nah, I just had Needles hit me with a barstool. I woke up a little while later, and scrawled my initial impressions on a napkin. I made that schematic” — he pointed to the macaroni art — “when I got home.”

Ernie’s looked at Marty wide-eyed. “…with a barstool? Are you okay?”

The older man waved a hand dismissively. “Oh yeah, didn’t even need stitches. Now — here’s the game plan. I’m gonna go to a junkyard in San Palito looking for more parts. I’m gonna send you to Home Depot and Radio Shack with a list of stuff I’ll need for the flux capacitator.” He handed over to Ernie a dry erase board with the list on it.

Marty rubbed his hands together, a big grin on his face. “I’ve got a good feeling this time, Ernie. I just know I’m gonna find a whole DeLorean at this one.”

“Look, Doc,” Ernie said, “why don’t you just let me hop on the Internet, and I can check and see if this junkyard has a De….”

Marty was looking at Ernie blankly.

Ernie sighed. “Nevermind. I’ll go start looking for parts.”

Marty heartily slapped him on the back. “Good man, Ernie. Let me grab my keys.” He moved towards the door.

“Be a hell of a lot easier if you’d just use a different car,” Ernie muttered.

Marty stopped, his back turned to Ernie. “What’d you say?” he asked without looking back.

Ernie was horrified. “Nothing, Marty. I didn’t say anything.”

In the space of a heartbeat, Marty had turned around and crossed the distance between them. The next thing Ernie was aware of was being slammed against the wall, with Marty’s hand at his throat. The older man was right in Ernie’s face. Marty smashed a beaker against the wall next to Ernie’s head, and held the shattered base against his cheek.

“I fucking told you to call me Doc, you worthless piece of shit!” Marty shouted.

“I’m sorry, Doc!” Ernie sobbed. “I’m sorry.”

“Now you are going to go shopping,” Marty said calmly, “and I am going to look for my DeLorean, because we are going to use a DeLorean, because that’s what we fucking used the first time! Do you understand me, God dammit?!” He pressed a sharp edge slightly into his protoge’s cheek, accenting his point.

“Yes!” Ernie screamed. “Yes!”

“Good.”

Marty took a step back and let Ernie drop to the floor, who was now a quivering mess. Marty set the broken beaker on the table. “Now I’m going to San Palito. I’ll return in three hours. I expect when I get back you’ll be here with everything on that shopping list. Are we clear?”

Ernie didn’t respond, just continued crying, but Marty assumed he understood. If he didn’t, there would be repercussions. Grabbing his keys, Marty raised the garage door and walked outside into the bright sunlight, humming “Power of Love.”

fin

Okay, that went on a little bit longer than I initially intended, but I think it adequately got across my point. Writing that made me change my mind, however — I think a new Back to the Future movie would be sweet, especially if it was anything like the above “clip.” An unhinged and unsuccessful Marty McFly trying to recapture his past glory, with the aid of a minority sidekick? That’s fucking cinematic gold, right there. It’d be kind of like a sci-fi version of The Shining. Michael J. Fox would probably go for it, since he’d be sure to win an Oscar for portraying a damaged goods Marty McFly.

I should totally write that shit. What do you think?

JAB

Like seemingly every new horror movie coming out this year, the following is only loosely based on a “true story” and in no way should indicate that I maintain a friendship with Sam Walton.

“An Afternoon With Mister Sam”

I once spent an afternoon with Sam Walton, and with his help I was able to get through one of the toughest times of my life. I’d like to share my story with the rest of the world, to show just how much of a family Wal-Mart really is.

One day I was working in the photolab, and Mr. Sam Walton himself happened to be visiting my store. For some reason he noticed me, probably because I was sobbing like a four-year old girl with a skinned knee. Instead of yelling at me like my manager had been doing all day, he took me aside into an empty office and asked what was wrong. I explained that the other night I had caught my girlfriend in the laundry room going down on her Filipino housekeeper, I had become distraught, and that we’d broken up a short while later. Mr. Sam realized how miserable I was and, being the kind-hearted soul that he is, said that we were going to leave work early and have some fun the Wal-Mart way!

One hour later we rolled into the parking lot of Diamond’s Adult Entertainment in his vintage Ford Model-T. I’d suggested we go to the Living Room, but he looked me right in the eye and said, “Now look here, son. If we are gonna get your mind offa this harlot ex-ladyfriend of yours, your basic tittie bar just ain’t gonna do. This calls for some up-close-and-personal pussy!” What could I do but agree? Topless and bottomless girls it was!

We spent a good amount of time in Diamond’s. In his plaid, button-up shirt Mr. Sam had a roll of fifties stashed so we had ourselves a merry ol’ time. Eventually he suggested I get a lap dance. I selected a pretty girl named Destiny and he chose Cheshire, an exotic, chocolate-skinned beauty. (“I like ‘em dark,” Mr. Sam simply said.) It was very soon that I learned just how much he values his employees.

There we were — upstairs, having the time of our lives. Cheshire was grinding herself against Mr. Sam’s crotch, his Wal-Mart trucker hat perched sexily atop her head. Destiny was rubbing her breasts against my face while Michael Jackson’s “Beat It” played on the overhead sound system.

And that’s when things went south.

Even though I was having a fantastic day, courtesy of Mr. Sam, my mind still kept returning to my ex-girlfriend. I kept remembering all the fun times we used to have — playing video games, walking in the park, holding hands at the ice cream shop, and the kinky, violent sex. Suddenly, in the private dancing room of Diamond’s, I got a wee bit overzealous. I began to run my hands all over Destiny’s supple body, having myself an even finer time but lamentably violating the “no touching” rule. The exotic dancer slapped my hands away and jumped up.

“Hans!” Destiny shouted. “We got another fuckin’ perv in here!”

“Oh, son of a gun….” I heard Mr. Sam mutter.

The satin curtain separating our little private heaven from the rest of the world was roughly thrown aside, and a hulking gentlemen in a tuxedo stepped in.

“No touch,” Hans politely informed me before wrapping his hands around my neck.

The room quickly began to grow dark and I knew I was at the end of my rope. Then out of nowhere, Han’s grip on my neck loosened and I heard the girls screaming.

I blinked open my eyes and saw Hans lying on the floor, his hands at his neck and a pool of blood next to him rapidly growing in size. Mr. Sam was standing over him, using the bouncer’s coat jacket to clean off a switchblade.

Mr. Sam looked at me, his cheeks rosy red. “We better get outta here, son, and quick, ‘fore the cops get here.” He turned to the still-screaming Cheshire, snatched his hat off her head, tipped it to her graciously. And ever the enterprising businessman, he rapidly shouted, “Shop-at-Wal-Mart-always-low-prices!” over his shoulder as we stole out the exit.

“Where’d you get that knife from, Mr. Sam?” I asked as we burst through the club’s front door and out into the cool evening.

“Always carry a blade on you, son, ‘specially when you’re in a whorehouse. Learned that in Dubya-Dubya-Two,” he said proudly. “I was in some shithole tavern on shore leave in the Pacific. Crazy Japanese sucky-sucky girl was trying to bite my you-know-what off. I had to stab her ten times before she finally rolled over and died. Craziest shit I ever seen.”

By now, we were safely ensconced in his Model T on our way back to my store, with no sign of law enforcement pursuit.

“I’m sorry about what happened back there, Mr. Sam,” I said. “I guess I messed up pretty bad.”

Mr. Sam waved off my apologies. “Don’t worry about it, son. We all make mistakes. And remember Wal-Mart Wisdom Number twenty-eight: “Even if a customer is a pain in the rear, forgive ‘em, ’cause we’re all irate customers at one point or another.” He smiled. “Yessir, the mark of a true humanitarian is forgiveness.”

“Even for murder?”

“Even for murder.”

We both laughed, though a solitary tear rolled down my cheek, because I knew right then that not only did Mr. Sam have an employee for life, he had two emotionally-damaged, exotic dancing customers for life too.

~fin~

The Hammer Chronicles — TEASER

Wide shot of a beautiful ranch-style home. A middle-aged couple is standing in front of the house.

JOSH (voice over): “Next time on the ‘Hammer Chronicles with Josh Bales,’ I’ll take you into the home of the Smiths. Thomas and Rebecca, a couple from Salt Lake City, Utah, are having a problem — one that can only be solved with the Hammer!”

Full-length of Thomas sitting in a hardback chair and being interviewed.

THOMAS: “It was pretty bad. Rebecca got me a full-length portrait of Brigham Young for my birthday and, well, we just had no idea where to put it. We tried to hang it over our bed, but it just didn’t seem to fit…um, the ‘mood’ I guess. Then we tried to put it in the dining room, at the head of the table, but it kept making our youngest, Deseret, cry. So after that, we were just stymied.” (smiles) “Fortunately, the Lord answered our prayers and sent us Josh.”

Cut to Josh standing outside the home, in the shade of a tree.

JOSH: “Brigham Young? Who the **BLEEP** puts up a portrait of Brigham Young?” (a muffled voice speaks) “Oh. Yeah, Mormons, I suppose.” (pauses) “**BLEEP**, we’re filming, aren’t we?”

Tracking shot of Josh and the Smiths as they lead him through their house to a gigantic framed portrait leaning against a gun rack.

REBECCA: “Isn’t it just wonderful?”

JOSH: “Oh my.”

JOSH (v.o.): “With my trusty hammer in hand, I’ll help Thomas and Rebecca select the right nail for the job.”

Josh is sitting in the kitchen, digging through a large selection of miscellaneous nails piled on the linoleum.

THOMAS (holding up a two-inch nail): “What about this one?”

JOSH: “No, no… Where are the big ones? The gutter nails?”

THOMAS: “Won’t those be a little too big?”

JOSH: “Guess we’ll find out, eh?”

JOSH (v.o.): “Then we’ll test out several locations, but some…”

Josh warily ‘admires’ a toothpick-model Tabernacle at the forefront of the living room, setting on top of a table. Next to the model are a crucified Jesus statue and some type of holy book.

JOSH: “Wow, that’s a nice altar you have here.”

REBECCA: “Oh, are you a Mormon?”

JOSH (shaking his head): “Close. I’m a Pagan.”

REBECCA (eyes wide): “Oh. That’s…nice.”

JOSH (cont’d, v.o.): “…are going to be ruled out for various reasons.”

Wide-shot of Josh and the Smiths standing in the kitchen. Josh is tapping his hammer against his hand.

THOMAS: “How about the kitchen?”

JOSH: “How about the garage.”

REBECCA: “…the garage?”

JOSH: “Exactly! That way, when you pull into the garage after work, then BAM — there’s Brigham glaring — I mean staring right at you.”

THOMAS: “We don’t own a car — we ride our bicycles everywhere.”

JOSH: “Oh.”

Cut to a far shot, and then zoom in on Josh sitting upon a step on the Smiths’ front porch, smoking a cigarette.

JOSH (v.o.): “Where will the portrait of Brigham Young finally rest? Find out next time on ‘The Hammer Chronicles with Josh Bales.’ “