Challenge #00068: Looking Back, Looking forward
A reunion of the tall woman and the future good guy at day 74 of the training course he pursued. Another nice guy makes an appearance.
Common belief tells us that it takes three months to make a good habit. And one to form a bad one. So far, he was on day 74. His third day back into the real world, with his new perspective on many of the problems that the ladies of the world encountered.
Most of them were men. Lots of the rest were caused by men.
And after the Sympathy Chair, he had a lot more respect for the so-called ‘weaker sex’.
So he came here, the day before he was due to start a new job. The bar where he met her. He learned her name was Vicky, but he still called her the Amazon in the privacy of her own head. She was supposed to be a regular, but so far… she hadn’t turned up.
Until today.
He recognized the avenging angel on the back of her biker jacked before he recognized her. “You’ve recoloured your hair. Looks great.”
She startled. Boggled. And finally grinned. “That’s a big change,” she said. She stood to shake his hand and clap his shoulder.
“Just get a room, ya faggots,” mumbled someone from a booth.
The eye-roll from the waitress/barmaid told him all he needed to know. The man in the booth was the kind of ass-grabbing, tit-leering entitled prick he used to be. Once upon a subjective eternity ago.
“Show off the merchandise, Vicky,” he advised.
She unzipped her jacket, showing off her magnificent chest.
“Her eyes are up there,” he said, helpfully pointing out Vicky’d face for the Nice Guy in the booth. “And she’s married. I missed out on all that.”
The Nice Guy made a tiny little squeaking noise.
He gave the man a card. “These folks will help you out. I’ve been where you are and I got better.”
Tomorrow… he was going to be some luckless Nice Guy’s Wing Man. Carefully guiding someone away from being a prick and into being a Gentleman.
With any luck, he could get the guy to sign on to the rest of the journey.
[Muse food remaining: 13. Submit a prompt! Ask a question!]
Challenge #00066: Post meltdown
The conversation between Kelly and Duncan post meltdown due to Scott’s revenge.
“…fucking bitches…”
Kelly did some paperwork while he waited. This particular disturbance needed some analysis beyond, “This looks like Essel’s work.” No. Not Essel. Adrien, Sara Louise. She had things in her permanent record that escalated in complexity. This was the first time her MO had included co-conspiritors.
Co-conspirators Kelly noted, who had complained about Mr Matthews and had not had a follow-up to their complaints. In fact, their complaints were actively discouraged on the basis that Mr Matthews bought in more revenue.
Now that he was re-reading those complaints, he was starting to wonder if that revenue was worth it. The girls’ song, the meltdown, and tirade against ‘the bitches who deserved it’ were all out on YouTube. Quickly going viral.
He’d mercilessly left the parents’ phone calls to Lynnette the secretary, with a script about a full investigation underway. He had to get Duncan’s story from the man himself.
“….gunna kill the fucking bitches… gunna get that tranny whore…”
“That 'tranny whore’ has enough resources to sue this school, and your entire family, into oblivion,” Kelly informed calmly. “I would not repeat any such death threats in a public forum. And I am once again legally obligated to inform you that you are being recorded.”
“…shit… Um. I didn’t really mean it?”
“Nice try,” Kelly said, voice flat. “YouTube’s already repeating your threats in the auditorium on an infinite loop. After you’re done explaining yourself to me, the police are waiting for you to explain yourself to them.”
“Explain myself?” Mr Matthews screwed up his face. “What’s to explain? Those bitches and that goddamn trap fucking deserve it.”
“I’m sure the female population of the school would tell me you deserved it,” said Kelly.
“What? What did I do?”
“Fifteen counts of molestation, five counts of rape, two hundred separate complaints of verbal abuse… any of this ringing a bell?”
“Rape? I never raped anybody.”
“So you always got enthusiastic consent?”
“Um…”
“It’s rape if she doesn’t say 'yes’. Remember that, Mr Matthews. Especially if you aspire to being a senator, one day. The last thing you need at any point in your career is anything resembling a sex scandal.” Kelly signed some more reports. “Similarly, ladies dress to suit themselves, not…” he checked a complaint, “for you to 'play grabsies’…”
“They wouldn’t be showin’ if they didn’t want it…”
“And on that note, calling the muslim women attending, 'frigid prudes’ for wearing their scarves is not appropriate, either.”
“They gotta show a little skin if they want a man, amIright?”
“You’re a long way from 'right’, Mr Matthews. You’re a racist, sexist, ableist, sizeist, ageist… idiot. And the only thing in your court is the fact that you won this school a few trophies.” Kelly glared at the boy for the first time since he surfaced from the shock. “That coin will not be worth much in the face of the rest of the evidence against you.”
“Huh? What evidence?”
“Almost every student attending this school has a case against you and your… cronies. I have vulture lawyers informing me of the class action suit. You are facing jail time. And so are your friends.”
“What? It builds character! Those little wussies need to toughen up!”
Kelly sighed. “You can’t be convinced. You are an abuser, Mr Matthews. Good luck explaining yourself to the police, because the entire school has been reporting to them all afternoon.” Kelly let them in. “Gentlemen. His parents are unavailable to supervise. I will be acting in loco parentis.” Then he faced Mr Matthews and said, “Do yourself a favour and shut up.”
[Muse food remaining: 11. Submit a prompt! Ask a question!]
Ooh, ooh, another one!
Show humanity’s reaction when they find out, after however long of xenopsychology study and then however long the knowledge takes to dissemminate to humans, that they are regarded as a species, insane. Both the “official” reaction, from the leaders of the species, and the unofficial reaction when the person on the street finds out.
(00065)
Earth’s reaction to the approaching fleet was predictable. The first parody images with popular, fictional, media space vessels were online within seconds of the first genuine images hitting the web.
The first Lolpix hit the web seconds later. Most of them were in the theme of invasion.
The polite request in English that the world leader or leaders gather for some discussion of important issues. One of which was the lawsuits from some of the surviving ‘dump’ colonies.
The bone of contention, according to Earth, was the Galactic Evaluation of their species.
“Insane, but mostly harmless? Insane? We can’t possibly be an insane species. We’re not all like that.”
The lizard in the lead showed a picture of a red cabbage. “What is the name of this vegetable?”
“That’s a red cabbage.”
“And what colour do you perceive?”
“Uh. Purple?”
“We have a complete list containing hundreds of items. Would you like to view it?”
The list, like any list that should never be seen by mere plebs, got out into the internet the second someone put it down to step out of the room.
Lynn read it over her morning coffee. “Hey, love,” she said to her beloved. “Says here the aliens think we’re nuts.”
“isn’t that what you’ve been saying for decades?”
“Well… yeah. Still stings a bit.”
[Muse food remaining: 12. Submit a prompt! Ask a question!]
Got three for you today.
Two of them are fanfiction, though not for one of your usual fandoms, but something that …actually, you introduced me to back on the Nutboard.
First off, the non-fanfiction:
In-a: Space Station
With-a: First Contact delegation
While-a: Member of the alien delegation begins to get an inkling of how utterly insane Humans are, compared to the rest of the GalaxyAnd the others:
How did Lady Ekaterin Vorkosigan react to hearing some of the details of her new husband’s previous life, and how much corroboration was necessary?
General Harloche looking up Miles’ classified files after he leaves, to find out how he got all those medals, including the Cetagandan Order of Merit.
[AN: Please, please, PLEASE submit prompts separately! If not, I have to do them all at once and that kind of steals time from other things, like RL duties, adding fics to my queue, and working on that dang novel]
(#00062)
Everything really big, like the Galactic Standards, was resolved by committee. The issue currently up to debate in this one was whether or not to accept the human species into the Galactic Alliance. Since they were pending members, they were not allowed to conduct their own business, own vessels, or otherwise inveigle themselves into the system.
But they nevertheless managed to do so anyway. Humans had an uncanny knack for finding loopholes. Like Alliance business partners who technically owned a majority share. Or Alliance owner/pilots who they hired on their own bizarre adventures.
Almost all of them, disturbingly, very profitable.
“I have read the reports,” said Ambassador Nif'xand'l. “And I regret to inform the committee that I have discovered some… disturbing trends.”
Other assembled ambassadors murmured and nodded. They had read some reports of their own.
“These humans, despite their short lifespans, seem to have an appetite for risk.”
“I have at least two hundred separate incidents of property damage and injury following the phrase, ‘hey, watch this’,” reported an avian.
Several amongst the ambassadors shuddered.
A Chitanian in a breather-suit tapped at his comm, which said for him, “Their ideals of humor are frankly perplexing.”
“Humor is a cultural construct,” said Ambassador Vriis. “Which leads to the question: is human culture toxic?”
Murmur, murmur, murmur…
“No complaints have been made,” offered the Ambassador for Jezz. “Nothing to significantly alter their status from Mostly Harmless.”
“I am rather fond of their tea,” said Ambassador Nox. “It shines up my feathers a treat.”
“Humans sold it to us as a furniture staining agent,” said Ambassador Vriis. “It’s only been two hundred years. They already recognize that other species have differing uses for differing trade items. That takes some species millennia…”
“We have already apologized in full for the Nayblar Incident,” said the Chitanian through his comms.
The Chair rang a gong for peace. “We cannot deny their cogniscence. They are readily adaptable, they communicate in any way possible, they have already proved themselves more than efficacious for trade.”
“They have a disturbing tendency to mount food on sticks.”
“Thank you, Mi'igraw,” the Chair politely codified, Shut up, I wasn’t done talking. “As I was saying, given their progress under our restrictions, dare we let them out of our sight? Conversely, dare we let them interact under their own recognizance?”
That let out some alarmed babble.
“We have discovered in excess of three hundred colony worlds in various states of upkeep.” Including one on the verge of complete collapse and self-canibalism. “We have yet to discover their origin planet. Which has two names. Earth-Terra.”
“Does it really exist? Or is it one of their elaborate 'jokes’?” Of course Jezz had to object. They were immediate neighbours to Noz, a Terran colony originating from one of their continents (or islands, it was never made clear) called Oz-trail-yer. Anyone who had been subjected to Drop Bear stories was bound to be suspicious.
“Perhaps their planet of origin is still wrapped in one-way wormholes,” allowed the Ambassador for Gebra. “Each colony has stated it was rich in such a resource.”
“And they used them to throw away their undesirables. Each of our species has fallen to such temptation in the past, but we realized it is not a permanent solution. Nor a healthy one. These humans seem to just keep doing it…”
“Then there are the other… disturbing idiosyncrasies,” said Nif'xand'l. “If you please, I would submit a compilation for the committee’s consideration.”
“The Chair recognizes G'Hx'vd'loq and their submission of evidence.”
Nif'xand'l put up a display hologram. A human female in skin-tight, sparkly attire was apparently gliding across a smooth surface. “This is performance art. They call it 'figure skating’.”
“Is she supposed to be moving backwards?”
“Yes. And she is moving across water ice by means of blades attached to her boots.”
The hologram recording leaped into the air, spinning, and landed on one foot. The assembled ambassadors gasped.
“This originates on their home planet,” informed Nif'xand'l. “Before reliable freezing of water ice was invented. They formed this art on frozen lakes.”
Murmur murmur MURMUR murmur…
“This,” a different hologram. Human males in bulky armor apparently throwing themselves at each other for possession of a leather ovoid. “Another human activity. A sport. They play this for fun. At first, I believed it to be a substitute for battle, to aid in curbing their hostile and warlike tendencies. Then I discovered the cultures most enamored of this… game… were the most warlike.”
“Contrariwise, the Britanian sport of Soccer forbids physical contact, but inspires the most warlike behavior amongst its followers.”
“They invest far too much involvement in recreational activities and those who excel at them.”
“And then there’s the food,” said the Ambassador for Gyiik. “Look at this.”
“The chair recognizes Gyiik and their submission.”
It showed a plant. A purple, leafy ball.
“Is that the crop they call 'cabbage’?” asked the Chitanian through his comms.
“Yes,” said the Gyiik. “They call this one Red Cabbage. And this,” a root crop, also purple, “is a Red Onion!”
“They are not colourblind,” said Nif'xand'l. “They have the most creative vocabulary for colours that I have ever heard.”
“And yet, these are called red foods.”
“Perhaps it is their 'irony’.”
“No, it is not universally applied. Other purple crops are called 'purple’.” The Gyiik threw up one pair of her hands. “It is enough to make Nyomnahm, Goddess of Bounty, weep…” She wiped at her own tears. “Look, you. White chocolate.”
It looked like an inoffensive creamy chunk.
The other ambassadors leaned forward for an explanation.
“It is clearly not white. And the essence of chocolate, the cocoa, is not present. It is neither white, nor chocolate!”
“They have an obsession with accumulating wealth. Even the colonies who have been amongst us the longest.”
“They have a dangerous desire for the things that cause short-term pleasure and long-term harm.”
“A disregard for personal safety in the name of entertainment.”
“An unholy want to show unrealistic things for entertainment… and to make them appear realistic!”
The chair rang the gong several times. “We must consider the question. Do we allow humans to join, or do we allow them to manage themselves and sever all association?”
“I, for one, would like to at least know what the flakk they’re up to.”
The room filled with variations on agreement.
“They contribute significantly to mercantile endeavours.”
More agreement.
“I like their food-on-a-stick.”
“I move that the human species be reclassified as insane, by merit of overall behavior.”
“Seconded.”
“In favour?” asked the Chair, taking note of those who stood or otherwise indicated their approval. “The Yae’s have it. The human species is nominated Insane But Mostly Harmless. Under these conditions, do we accept them into the Galactic Alliance?”
It was a grudging Yae. After the second tie. And finally won after a heartfelt plea by Ambassador Mike the Gyiik.
(#00063)
Ekaterin sat opposite General Guy Allegre in the otherwise bland and featureless room. It was one of the sealed variety with baffles technological and mundane to prevent anyone listening in. There was, no doubt, some authorised surveillance occurring, but it was also strictly electronic, unsupervised, untamperable, an inaccessible save to the chief of Impsec, who was in the room.
A room like this said, plainly and clearly, This is slit-your-throat-before-viewing material, and no horseshit. Ekaterin began to wonder if a minion was going to bring her her Vorfemme knife should such an occasion arise.
“Thank you for your time, Lady Vorkosigan,” said Allegre. “I am to brief you on some of Lord Vorkosigan’s -ah- past adventures.”
She nodded. “He talks in his sleep. Frankly, I find most of it perplexing, rather than informative.”
Allegre rolled his eyes in a surprisingly effective and communicative manner. Which meant that he knew about Miles’ annoying little habits, too. “Would you prefer the summary in order chronological? Or… order baffling?”
Ekaterin bit down a smirk. Much as she loved Miles, he could get to be an outright puzzling and hyperactive git. “I think I would prefer chronological. His more baffling nightmares seem to blur missions.”
“Quite.” Allegre cleared his throat. “Lord Vorkosigan gained Impsec’s attention when he left Barrayar a Service Academy reject and almost came back as an Admiral of a mercinary fleet… An event that resulted in the demise of his bodyguard-batman Sergeant Bothari. We recommended that the best place for him was -ah- where we could keep an eye on him.”
The birth of the little Admiral. Oh yes.
“His first assignment under military command was a notable failure on paper, but nevertheless bought to our attention the lingering psychological effects of an extended term serving at certain posts. And the inadvisability of placing certain elements in exile there.”
Kyril island. Camp permafrost. Ekaterin had heard little about it, apart from the idea that being the weather man there was the worst post imaginable.
“Afterwards, a fact finding mission under command in the Hegen Hub highlighted his… difficulties… in the traditional command structure.” Another throat clearing. “He disobeyed orders, went AWOL, and rescued the Emperor with the help of his pet mercenaries.”
Now the Emperor’s own Pet Mercenaries and Plausible Deniability.
“Goodness,” said Ekaterin. “Where does one of the Empresses of Cetaganda fit in?”
“That would be his diplomatic mission. Sent to be nothing more than a political olive branch, he managed to stop a war, rescue a… princess of sorts… and acquire one of the highest awards Cetaganda could offer.”
“That would be the 'nightmare gene-groves’, yes?”
“Quite.” Allegre flipped through some events. “Aquiring unique personnel,” Taura the Unforgettable. “Freeing an entire concentration camp,” the Snoring Marilacans and the demise of Ensign Murka. And Sergeant Beatrice. “The Komarran clone plot,” Mark. “And of course you’re familiar with the Komarr Incidents.”
“Intimately,” said Ekaterin. “He did inform me of most of this himself.”
“Yes,” said Allegre. “But this,” he handed across the collected files, “is the unedited version.”
Oh dear. Ekaterin was glad she had since learned to speed-read. Miles could put a fine sheen on anything.
(#00064)
Haroche sat behind the only other desk that could unlock the universe. Gently caressed the interface. He’d got rid of his boss - who was gassing about retirement but seemed determined to stay until he died. He’d got rid of that damned paranoid dwarf. And now he had penultimate power.
Ultimate power would only be achieved once he figured out how to steer his Emperor.
The last time the Emperor slipped his Imperial security was… hm… quite a long time ago. And rescued by the apparently incompetent nepotistic dwarf.
Further reading revealed that said dwarf had a cover as a mercenary fleet Admiral… who had liberated planets, foiled incredible plots against Barrayar… and was incredibly dangerous when riled.
It shouldn’t matter. The mutie dwarf had been removed from Haroche’s sphere of influence. Or influence-ability. He should be no further harm.
He had five minutes to relax before he got the news that the damned hyperactive mutie was now an Imperial gods-damned Auditor.
Aimed at him.
Fuck!
[Muse food remaining: 13. Submit a prompt! Ask a question!]
Inspiration!
All of my lovely readers have been very good at sending in prompts for me, so I thought I’d try and inspire the aspiring authors out there.
So here we go:
Include the words, “put down the bubbles and nobody gets hurt”.
Have fun.
Challenge #00061: One Fine Day During the Festival of Live Performances
Include anywhere: cashews, a drill press, silly men and a whistle.
There were times, she swore, when the station was overrun with humans. Like this one. The Festival of Live Performances bought them out of the woodwork.
She’d already passed four living statues and an eight-foot bride on the way to work, and got a cashew bar off the bride for the Minutes she put into the hat. Ant'il would have to donate it to the food bank, later. She wasn’t too sure about who would win in her biology versus cashews.
Still, the festival also bought in business. She threw open the usually shut partition that shielded her work from public view and set up the hazard rope to keep curious fingers out of things that could -say- shear them right off.
People watching people make things often became people buying things.
It was when she was busy at the drill press, whistling while she worked, that one of the live performances came to her. A cluster of humans (of course) dressed up in chain mail and tabards. Some were dressed in burlap, carried enormous backpacks and, for some reason known only to them, two coconut halves which they bought together in a specific rhythm obscure to Ant'il.
“How may I help you?” she risked.
“It is I, Arthur, son of Uther Pendragon, from the castle of Camelot. King of the Britons, defeater of the Saxons, Sovereign of all England!”
“Really?” Ant'il put the latest part of her work safely away and discretely hit the kill switch for the entire machine shop. She wouldn’t have trusted this lot in a pillow factory.
“And this is my trusty servant Patsy. We have ridden the length and breadth of the land in search of knights who will join me in my court at Camelot. I must speak with your lord and master.”
“Ridden? On… what?”
“A horse, of course.”
Horse. Oh yes. She’d seen a juvenile at a petting zoo, once. Leggy creatures that walked around on one talon and ate vegetation. There weren’t any here, though. “There are no horses. You have been using coconuts to imitate the sound.”
“No we aren’t,” said ‘Arthur’.
Oh, Powers. It was one of those performances. Where the goal was to get some hapless bystander irritated to the point where people started throwing money.
“If I get angry now, will you go away?” asked Ant'il hopefully.
[Muse food remaining: 12. Submit a prompt! Ask a question!]
Challenge #00060: Nice Guy Becoming Good Guy
Clarity, confidence, the nice guy and when someone finally listens and learns.
It started with a T-shirt. It read, If you think the world is full of assholes, maybe you’re the asshole. He knew he wasn’t an asshole, so he called the guy in the shirt one as he passed the other way.
Then there were the billboards and adverts. It was for a men’s charm school, he figured. He didn’t need that noise. He did charming things every day and still got turned down, rejected, and otherwise refused by the bitches that were everywhere.
Even the fat cows turned him down. Even the ugly ones made other plans.
What the hell was wrong with the women of the world.
Then, late one night, the TV spoke to him while he was mindlessly eating chips off his chest and flipping channels.
“Hey,” said the handsome guy on TV. “Are you tired of sleeping alone? Spending late nights eating snacks off your chest while flipping through the stations looking for anything good? Need a lady in your life?”
“…yeah…” he whispered. To all three.
“You need Progress For Men,” said the guy on TV. He named the exact same charm school he’d been avoiding. “Just take a look at what it did for me.”
It showed some really amateur footage of a younger, handsome guy getting turned down, getting drinks thrown in his face, and getting laughed at. “I thought I was a nice guy. I thought I was making all the right moves. The ladies that told me otherwise? They were all bitches. They wouldn’t even play The Game.”
“Yeah, that book is a piece of shit,” he agreed.
“Then I tried the Progress For Men free evaluation trial month program. It opened my eyes. When I signed up for the intensive program, I was already on my way to becoming a better man. You can try it, too.”
What the hell. His life wasn’t going anywhere. Hell, maybe there was a resort and a gym.
He signed up for the evaluation and trial and made an appointment to get himself evaluated.
The clean, clinical office had a fattie black chick behind the counter. They’d done everything to dress her up, but a sow in a skirt was still a pig. Then a bombshell in the same uniform turned up and it was all he could do not to get a boner.
He eagerly followed her into the evaluation chamber. A small, white room with a desk and two chairs. He didn’t remember the questions and, frankly, spent most of the interview trying to hit on the frigid bitch.
He had to come back the next day for another interview, but he didn’t mind. As long as there was eye-candy like that, he didn’t care.
Then they had a guy interviewing him. Sort of average guy. Nobody he felt threatened by. And they had weird-ass questions.
“How many times a day would you use ‘bitch’ to describe a woman?” or, “What’s the first thing you look for in a lady?” and, “What do you expect out of this program?”
“I expect to get laid every time I try to pick up a girl,” he said. “And if I don’t get laid by the end of the trial month, you don’t get a red cent.”
The guy interviewing him raised his eyebrows and ticked a checkbox on his clipboard.
“What’s your type?”
“Any girl who’s not a bitch. Or a slut.”
It went on for hours. He hadn’t noticed with eye-candy, but with Geoff… it took forever. He went home confused and bored and angry.
And got woken up at the buttcrack of dawn by someone in the sports version of the Progress For Men uniform. This one had a stylised wing emblem on the left side of the chest.
“What the fuck…?”
“Hi, I’m Craig. I’ll be your Wing Man for the trial month. Get your shorts on. We’re going jogging.”
He slammed the door in Craig’s face. Craig got in a mariachi band to play Lady of Spain until he came out in exercise gear.
“Your type of dream girl,” explained Craig as he bounced along. “Is the type of lady who looks after herself. She’s going to expect someone who looks after himself, or is at least making an effort to do so. Ladies have standards, too.”
“…godthishurts…” he panted.
But Craig was right. There were lots of shapely ladies in the park. Some doing Tai Chi, some jogging, some biking… It was an undiscovered smorgasbord.
He ran into a light pole while checking out the hot bodies doing yoga stretches. When he came to, there was a pretty little thing pressing an ice pack to one side of his face.
This was the most contact he’d had with any chick since he’d left home.
“My fault…” he managed to keep Craig’s ground rules. Blame yourself and play it cool. “First day in the park. Too many… way distracting sights. Yaknow?”
“Oh, I saw you looking.”
“I’m a guy, I can’t help it.” Craig cleared his throat in the background. Oh yeah. Blame himself. Undersell. “Everywhere that wants to sell anything does it with bosoms and buttocks… Gets to be you look for them anywhere you can see them.”
She helped him up. “If that’s the case, maybe I could run beside you? Make sure you don’t run into any more poles?”
“I’d love a bodyguard,” he said.
Craig ran behind, coughing or clearing his throat when he almost blundered. And things went well. All the way to grabbing a coffee and a bagel and introductions.
Her name was Cindy. She was a therapist at Mind and Body. She liked old time rock and roll and had a body that looked like it wouldn’t quit.
“Now,” said Craig, sitting him down at a roadside cafe table. “Describe Cindy.”
He did. Hair colour, height, tits, ass, legs.
“Would you recognize her in a suit?”
“Uh…”
A girl sat down with them. Professional gear. Little tablet. “Hello, guys.”
He didn’t know her, but she acted as if she knew them.
“You remember Cindy,” said Craig the wing man.
“Oh! I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I have to confess… I was not looking at your face.”
“Yes, you mentioned that. Is your friend helping you out?”
Rule five. Tell the truth. “Yeah. He’s my wing man.”
Things actually went well with Cindy. She told him, honestly, that within the first five minutes of meeting a chick, a guy should look directly into her eyes for at least eight seconds. Should watch her mouth when she talks, and never, ever talk to her chest. No matter how 'out there’ that chest was.
He found her jogging the next day and ran with her. Talked with her. He had to admit he found it hard to stay focussed on her face with that skimpy outfit she had on.
“You try finding modest exercise gear for ladies,” she said.
He took it as a challenge. A challenge he failed. There was nothing on the racks, anywhere, that didn’t scream 'slut’ to the universe at large. And really weird, they never had anything for the fatties that really needed to exercise.
He put politer words around it to Cindy, of course.
“That’s society for you,” she said. And she explained privilege and how it worked against anyone who didn’t fit a very narrow mould. How the world was set up against anyone who was not white, skinny, or well off.
It opened his eyes.
He wound up sleeping with Cindy before his deadline, but now he wanted to pay for the rest of the course.
Girls like her didn’t need assholes like him.
Maybe, when he came out of the other side, he would be someone she deserved. Or someone that a lady like her deserved.
It wasn’t enough to be a nice guy. He had to become a good guy.
[Muse food remaining: 7. Submit a prompt! Ask a question!]
Challenge #00059: Nice Guy Syndrome
Anywhere in the story: “Fate, it seemed, had a sadistic cruel streak in regards to his love life.”
There had been Jodie. First love. Perfect tits. Perfect ass. Perfect smile. And a perfect already-boyfriend who was five times his size and really, really territorial. He paid for her in bruises and blood, and just when he thought he was going to get luckier than he ever believed, she set him up for a very public humiliation.
Jodie was also the perfect bitch.
His next crush was Tiff. Tiff had a wild streak, just like the purple streak she put into her auburn hair. She wore her skirts short and had legs that went for miles. She always smiled at work, but when he caught her off-duty, she always had other plans.
Plans that were lies.
He believed her, and always found out that she was somewhere else and usually alone. He knew because he started following her. Started surprising her at the places she liked to be. Boring, staid places that no real wild child would go.
Bitch sent him to sensitivity training and got him fired.
Still, he learned something. He learned that you had to play it slow and careful. Girls were always taught to be on guard. You had to get past their defenses. Be nice.
He was nice to Clara. Always thinking of her as she slaved away at being everyone else’s outbox. Always offering to fetch her coffee, snacks. Always offering to do some of her tremendous workload. He invested his time. Made her laugh.
Then the bitch put him in the friend zone. Tried to set him up with her ugly friends.
He turned the dial up, tried to make it clear to her that he wanted more. Flowers. Chocolates. Jewelry.
Bitch somehow got him fired.
He tried speed dating. Those girls had to be some kind of desperate to speed date. He quickly found out that they were also the kind of sluts who had dated at least twice, before.
He tried the clubs. The most action he got was laughter in his face or a drink following the same destination.
He even tried online dating. None of the bitches he contacted ever emailed him back. And some of them used to be dudes. Euw.
Fate, it seemed, had a sadistic cruel streak in regards to his love life.
He found solace in alcohol next to a big, muscly dude at the local bar. The bitches that came and went behind the counter never smiled for him and almost always called him names.
The TV showed some kind of fatspo dating service informercial infotainment thing that would not fucking stop.
“Fat fucking skanks need to loose a few pounds,” he said into his beer.
“She ain’t all that fat,” said the big dude. He had an amazingly high voice for his height.
“Still needs to get the gap going on. And better tits. And a better face.”
“Pot, kettle, black…” muttered the big dude.
“What?” he turned on his stool. “How is my body that any of your business?”
“Bet she’d say the same thing,” the guy gestured with his brew to the screen.
“She’s just another bitch in a world of bitches,” he downed more beer. After his life, he needed beer.
“Ugh,” said the big dude. “Let me guess. You’re a nice guy. You should get what you want because you do the things that anyone calling themselves a human being would do. Meanwhile, you call anyone with breasts a ‘bitch’ or a 'whore’ and wonder why they don’t like you.”
“They don’t like me because they’re bitches.”
“Of course…” the dude rolled his eyes. “And it has nothing to do with your flabby ass, your pasty face, or your creepy attitude.”
“What? I’m in great shape.”
“Pft! Yeah. For a freaking marshmallow. Ever think that women want someone who looks better than you, who acts better than you, who is actually better than you?”
“But those guys are all jerks!”
“Maybe they’re just jerks to you.” Big Dude drained his mug. “Because you’re being a creep to a lady.”
“And what do you know about it?”
Dude turned towards him and unzipped her jacket.
“You’re a girl?”
“Try to say that with less of a sneer,” she advised. “'Bitches’ hate it when you pronounce their gender with a sneer.”
“Did you used to be a man, or what?”
“No, I come from a long line of tall people and I took up muscle-building so I could fend off all the transphobes out there who judge by looking. Listen up, 'nice guy’… You’re not nice. All those 'bitches’ out there who keep turning you down? They can tell. Us ladies have some finely-tuned bullshit detectors and you send them all off into the red lines.”
“That’s crap! If that was true, no real man would ever get laid!”
She laughed. “Attitude like that just leaves you in the Forever Alone club. And for your information, I’ve met plenty of real men. None of them were like you.”
“Slut,” he sneered.
“I said 'met’, genius. Not 'slept with’. A real man views a lady as more than her physical parts. A real man 'gets lucky’ when he finds his one true love and settles down with them. A real man thinks of a woman as a person first.” she sighed. “But you already believe I’m a 'tranny’ with issues. You won’t listen and you won’t learn. Too bad for you.”
She tipped the waitress, who winked and gave her a thumb’s up. Probably a lesbian.
“MOMMY!”
He stared. Three gleeful children ran to hug the muscly mountain. They were clearly hers. The man following them was also clearly their father.
But… he was tubby. And pale. And balding. And a geek.
This was a real man?
“So how was the meeting?” said the alleged real man.
“You don’t want to hear about boring old biker stuff, do you?”
“Yeeeesss,” chorussed the kids.
“We missed it,” said the 'real man’. “If it wasn’t for Vicky’s sniffles, we’d have been there.”
He couldn’t understand. Listening to a woman talk? Was that all it took? But no, that shit landed him in the friend zone. What the hell.
“I see you found another Nice Guy.”
“Yeah. He won’t learn.”
“Pity.”
[Muse food remaining: 7. Submit a prompt! Ask a question!]
Challenge #00058: Zen and the Art of Renovating
Begin with: “Citrus fruits, once rotten, never failed to induce a melancholy state of mind.”
Citrus fruits, once rotten, never failed to induce a melancholy state of mind. Shayde had just found one in the bottom of a surprise refrigerator that had been buried under a feral stand of alien vines that, once it had conquered the rear right corner of her garden space, had died.
There was also something moving in the clouded tupperware on the second shelf.
Shayde sat, contemplating the orange that had once turned green, and had since gone black.
“How’s the garden?” said Rael.
“How much red tape is in it tae jus’ kill this mess wi’ fire?”
“Too much,” said Rael in the tones that forbade further inquiry.
“And callin’ in animal control on tha’ thing?” she indicated the inhabited tupperware with her machete.
Rael peeked. “I’ll go get the blowtorches.”
[Muse food remaining: 8. Submit a prompt! Ask a question!]
Challenge #00057: Unlikely Treasures
Chicken feathers, a glass eye and a grasshopper.
“The least you could do is pitch in,” grumped Hwell as he alternated between shovel and pick.
“The least I could do,” argued Axand'l, “is go meditate while you indulge yourself in this… adventure holiday.” He tisked at the thought of wasting time on frivolous things. “As it is, I am recording this for edutainment purposes.”
Hwell rolled his eyes as if to say, Saurians! to the universe at large.
Humans… show them something that looked like a treasure map and they just went crazy. Apparently, the mere existence of some hidden valuable that they might be missing out on sent them into a flap. Hwell had gone overboard on this item, tucked between the pages of some pre-loved cellulose books he’d picked up at something called a flea market.
Axand'l considered himself lucky that some bizarre human idioms were not at all literal.
The map itself was old. The paper had rusted and the markings on it looked like they might have been done by a child… but they matched archival maps of this area, and there had been an X. That was all the human needed.
Must not kill and eat the profitable mammal… Axand'l kept the vidcorder steady and tried to think of suitable narrative for the finished piece. Alas, he was not a documentarian.
Finally, there was a metallic ‘clunk’ as Hwell’s spade hit something.
Axand'l started to quietly pray that it wasn’t a vital service pipe.
It was a tin box. The sort of tin box that was usually used to house small snacks. The writing was incomprehensible and the previous form dented from the weight of the earth above. Hwell was almost glowing with victory. He was cackling. Cackling in humans was always a bad sign.
Axand'l put one leg behind him, ready to run away. Just in case.
Hwell vented some curses as he struggled with a seal no mortal hand could manufacture. It finally burst open, almost spilling the contents.
“What?” said Hwell.
Inside the tin, nestled in some colourful wrapping paper, was a treasure some child had buried and forgotten. Axand'l could identify the desiccated remains of an insect, some generically white avian feathers, and what appeared to be a glass eye for a squid.
“But–” whimpered Hwell. His visions of extraordinary wealth had been shattered.
“It’s your treasure,” said Axand'l. “Finder’s keepers.”
[Muse food remaining: 9. Submit a prompt! Ask a question!]