Tag Archives: pulp fiction

Fun with babelfish

15 Nov

Some say “Last Cow Jack” was just another boyish face in a police lineup, but I once saw him trade his whole family for three chickpeas. Jack had never forgiven his mother for giving birth to him. He said later he wanted to hold out for some Garbanzos but they wouldn’t let him use words that big.

Having never been a fan of heights, he opted for the sawmill approach when the leguminous Petronas presented itself. Down came some poultry that worked for Fort Knox, the first autoharp ever to live up to its name, and the Big Guy with the rhymes. Big Guy took it pretty hard, having barely been introduced to the ground before they were forced to spend quality time together.

Jack wasn’t too cozy with the pocket protector crowd after that, having taken out the world’s first space tower with a 50cc Black and Decker. The eggs turned out to be electroplated, and the harp only knew Wagner pieces with racist undertones. But Jack turned the crater from the Big Guy’s high-speed dirt nap into a wave pool, and now the village’s tourism industry offsets the sales tax. Everybody and their dog is staying gluten-free, which means beans with every meal, but Jack’s harvest will probably outlast the iPhone 7.


Wading through the bullet spew!

3 Nov

You heard right! John turned into an action hero today!

Okay, not strictly speaking. (How does one speak strictly about action heroes?) But he was swinging on a chain, lowering rapidly into a cavern below a warehouse floor, while guards shot insults and small pieces of lead at him.

And he escaped with nary a dent! Well, except for the broken ribs, sprained ankle, busted wrist, various contusions about the face and hands, and swollen eye. Other than that – hunky dory. Arnie would be proud.

Seriously, it did occur to me that I was doing a 180 (okay, 175) on my stalwart position of yesterday.

But it’s all in the name of art! I still feel this guy could be a real guy. I think it’s pretty unlikely one of the guards could have scored a solid hit on him, what with the distance and the swinging and all.

What’s less likely is thatĀ these tools are all still using powder-actuated firearms! What the heck, future dudes? I can’t keep my sci-fi hat on long enough, my pulp fiction hat keeps knocking it off. Or maybe it’s bigger, and covers it up. I dunno. Strained analogy, anyone?

So far John has escaped prison in a truck-tank, been shot at by rifles and pistols, busted the barricade at the city, crashed his tank, and disappeared into an abandoned warehouse district (complete with rust, crumbling brick, sagging/perforated corrugated roofs – everything except a foreman wearing bifocals and a pocket protector, reading a newspaper that says “TYPICAL HEADLINE FOR 1940’S NEWSPAPER”).

Where are the gravipedes? The ratchetrons? The Rocketeers? (dammit, pulp hat, I said No!) I’m worried that I can’t keep my story straight, and if I did have any future tech, John wouldn’t have a snowball’s chance in a fission reactor of escaping the mess he’s in.

“Worried”. Eh, that’s a heavy word. More like – “aware”. Yeah.

Hell, I’ll just add all the lasers in on my 2nd draft. That I type on my Remington Portab-Gaahh!

Oh, in case you’re wondering where I got my inspiration (and becauseĀ pictures!), here’s a pic I took this summer, risking my life in an abandoned distillery.