Even a God/dess needs sustenance.
A (literal, not figurative) God/dess, fallen on hard times, forced to work 9-to-5 to make a living, in the absence of offerings et cetera. And how the lowly mortals around them feel about it.
Make it as light-hearted or dark, as uplifting or Schadenfreudic(?) as you please. – RecklessPrudence
(#00424 - A049)
[AN: Considering that 99.99999% of Gods are arseholes…]
Grace tried to hurry past the street market. Goddamn hippies were bad enough, but now there were goddamn foreign hippies selling all kinds of weird foreign muck. All in their hemp shirts and in a haze of whacky ‘baccy and crystals and assorted bullshit.
They were everywhere.
And half of them spoke some damn foreign lingo.
All she wanted was to get some beers for the boys at the 7-11. Not trip over damn foreign hippies and their weirdo bullshit every day. And some even tried to talk her into sampling some.
Honestly. You go out once a Sunday to spread the Good Word of the Lord, and everyone takes that as licence to be an asshole for the rest of the week.
There was another one in the 7-11. Buying up armloads of cheap munchies and chatting with the damned foreigner staff.
Grace got her cases of beer and, juggling them in either arm and wrestling her trolley behind her, made her way up to the counter where the hippie was counting out coins.
He was a nickel short.
Grace glared at him. At his weatherbeaten sandals, his worn-out jeans and threadbare shirt. At the calloused hands and the T-square tucked into his worn, rope belt. At the long hair and scraggly beard. At the dark brown skin and too-big nose.
She half expected him to have a damned-foreigner accent so thick you could build out of it. But instead, he spoke perfect English. “I’m very sorry about this. Would you have a nickel to spare? I guarantee it’s for a good cause.”
“Get a job, hippie,” she growled. One keg on the counter. “I GOT TWO OF THESE, SANCHEZ! TWOOOOOOOO!” She put the other one in the trolley. “RING ME UP FOR TWWWOOOOOOOO!”
“I am serving this customer, ma'am. Please to be patient?”
Grace puffed. “It’s hot. I’m in a hurry. The boys need their beers. Can’t you just bend your pissant rules once and ring me up. I ain’t gonna come back if you make me wait hours for two cases of beer.”
“Promises, promises,” muttered Sanchez. They were all called Sanchez or Diego or Juan. Whatever happened to good, honest, Christian names like Matthew or John?
The hippie searched his pockets. “I could have sworn I had that nickel…”
“What’s the matter, hippie? Your drum circle got the munchies?” Grace growled.
“No. I’m doing a bun run for the shelter down the street. And FYI? I have a job. I’m a carpenter. Just like one of my Dads.”
“Fuck. A fucking gay hippie.”
“Adopted, thank you. I just happen to have a good relationship with the man who fathered me and the man who raised me.” More digging around in his pockets. “Not one coin for Christian charity?”
Grace slapped the notes on the counter and shoved the other case into her trolley. “I got better things to do with my time than wait around for some bum to find a coin.”
*
Max watched her go. “Good riddance to bad rubbish, eh?”
“There’s that nickel,” Jesus pulled it out of thin air. He shook his head. “How did I go so wrong?”
Max shrugged. “You didn’t write it all down, straight away, I reckon. You want someone to know exactly what you said? You gotta be specific. You gotta get it writ down. That’s why everyone remembers the Leviticus and nobody remembers the Love Your Neighbour.” He rang up the bread rolls and tuna. “You can really feed everyone with this lot?”
“I’ve done more with less,” Jesus smiled. He looked out the shop windows in the direction the woman had gone. “All this time in what they call my Father’s country, and not one of them recognises me…”
Max bagged the purchases before ringing up the beers for the books. “Keep up the hope, eh? I recognised you.”
“May one become many,” Jesus joked. “Better days to come.”
“See ya around. And say 'hi’ to Gautama for me.”
Max stuffed the angry woman’s change into the tip jar. He kept wondering what it was like to not see the divine figures one worshipped. What it could possibly be like to miss seeing all the angels in their midst.
Some folks were just born blind, he guessed.
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Romantic vs Classicist*
A seemingly eternal argument between some friends and I.
*As defined by a philosophy student who was party to some of them - he later admitted he got the definitions from ‘Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance’.
“Form follows Function. A well-built machine, designed to last decades if not longer, has a quiet craftsmanship, an economical beauty, which no amount of pointless frippery or gilding - or, indeed, curved plastic - can ever match.”
“But much art has no function, as you would define it. Would you say that the Mona Lisa, or the Sistine Chapel are not beautiful?”
“They’re in a different category altogether, we’re talking about things that have an intrinsic function, don’t change the subject. And yet - find me one wasted brushstroke, on either of those. Gaudiness is tacky for a reason, and it’s one that should be applied more generally.”
“You speak of economical beauty, but I remember you raving over that machine that, in your words: 'had care lavished over every detail, no matter how minor.’ How does that match any definition of economical?”
…And on and on. It’s been going for years, seriously. (I may have embroidered the dialogue a little, but the points are the same) – RecklessPrudence(?) [AN: Forgot to check. Sorry]
(#00423 - A048)
“Care and attention to detail are essential for form and function to be compatible. You can have a machine that does the job and looks ugly. You can have a machine that does the same job and looks like a poet made it.”
“Poets don’t build things. They write poetry. Tha-that’s why they’re called poets, dummins.”
“That’s not the point and you know it.”
“All I know is I’m g-gonna be in trouble with Paige.”
“Rabbit, for the third time, that refrigerator was not 'giving you the eye’. It doesn’t have eyes.”
“It ain’t my fault I’m too be-beautiful for this world.”
The Spine sighed and wondered, not for the first time, why Pappy had built them all with human-shaped bodies. With all the inherent human wants and desires somehow inveigled into their robotic makeup. “Rabbit…” he shook his head. “Why do we have to have this conversation every time we enter a white goods store?”
“Y-y-y-y-you stay away from me, ya bunch'a hussies,” Rabbit edged away from a display of blenders.
“They’re not even turned on, Rabbit.”
“With us around? Are you ki-k-k-kidding?”
This was why he always asked Mr Walter if he was certain he wanted robotic help with the heavy lifting.
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Pugs.
Because you can’t say Peter Lorre and not get my attention. Something to do with an Uplifted pug or pugs. Possibly freaking everyone out with their good intentions couched in their minion-ish voices. – weirdlet
(#00422 - A047)
Buddy, Igor knew, was not the best dog for the negotiations table. Buddy would literally say ‘yes’ to anything, provided someone was scratching his ear.
Igor… tried.
He had Buddy fitted up with the Diminished Responsibility locator bracelets, of course. And told Buddy to 'heel’ even though he hated it. It smacked of their slave-days, but Igor really didn’t want Buddy roaming around and getting dangerously lost.
Together, they went from trade-booth to trade-booth, trying to find someone to take their cargo.
“Excuse me,” he said. “I believe we have a cargo you might find… most advantageous.”
The cogniscent in the booth went wide-eyed and scooted unsubtly away. “It’s illegal, isn’t it?”
“Nothing illegal. I checked to make certain.” And then Igor made the mistake of laughing. That laugh was a deal-breaker. It chased away clientele. And it kept bubbling forth whenever he was nervous.
It wouldn’t be so bad if there was just one cogniscent race that wasn’t viscerally terrified by his voice or his laugh. He was getting tired of seeing personal safety screens raise between himself and a potential customer.
They had a profitable cargo. And no-one to sell it to. Not even the perennial drunken fool Hwell Barrow would buy from them.
Igor sat miserably under a sculpted tree and wished -not for the first time- that he or Buddy could safely eat the apples that grew on it. “I could try surfing the text-nets,” he told Buddy. “But there’s always the face-to-face factor. Nobody likes the blind trades. Nobody.”
“Has anyone ever told ye that ye sound like Peter Lorre?” said a musical voice on the other side of the tree.
The speaker was a tall humanoid with skin so dark it made it troublesome to distinguish her features underneath her glowing eyes. There was a mop of long, wild, white hair, but the focus of Igor’s attention was the gold nehru vest.
“My apologies for disturbing you, Ambassador. We will… be moving along…” again, than damned nervous chuckle.
“Don’t you bluidy dare,” she said. “I never said didnae like Peter Lorre. And besides, I consider meself the honorary patron saint o’ lost souls around here. You fellas need a JOAT.” A sharp-toothed and honestly frightening grin. “And I’m his agent.”
*
Rael the JOAT took one look at the three of them and said, “No.”
“Aw come aaaaaawwwwnnnn…”
“No.”
“Look 'em in their poor little faces…”
“They’re Uplifts.”
“Freed Uplifts,” corrected the Ambassador.
“They’re illegal Engineered Life Forms,” added Rael.
“So are you. And?”
“You and I both know that I’m officially a grey area. The residents of Nufurria knew exactly what they were doing.”
“Aye, but it wasnae illegal there until the Galactic Alliance stepped on 'em good and hard.”
“No. There is nothing you can say to change my mind.” Rael folded his arms and turned away.
Ambassador Shayde said the magic words. “Mutton and clootie dumplings…”
*
Rael the JOAT insisted on doing a very good job. Igor insisted on learning the recipe for the magical Mutton and Clootie Dumplings. And Buddy… got the tummy-rubbing of his life from Ambassador Shayde.
All parties should have been happy, but Rael the JOAT seemed determined to be grumpy.
“I’m a leader amongst my people,” he growled. “I should not be known to do business with… waifs and strays. Especially legally dubious waifs and strays.”
Shayde made a noise. “Call it charity work an’ puff yer feathers, then. Someone’s gotta help 'em out.”
“Why does it always have to be you?”
Shayde plucked a litte piece of lint off his shoulder. “Because somebody once helped a wee stray by the name o’ Rael once. I’m payin’ the favour forward.”
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Challenge #00421 - A046: A Peculiar, Yet Typical Argument
If no-one from the future comes back to stop you, is it really that bad an idea?
“Yes it is,” said Rael, gently shoving Ambassador Shayde onwards. “Especially when time travel is a theoretical impossibility trapped in the realms of science fiction.”
“They said tha’ about goin’ tae the moon. Now look at it.”
“That’s not the point and you know it.”
“Ach, why’d ye have tae be such a killjoy?”
“Because I’m desperately trying to avoid a disaster.”
“Nah. Reckon ye love puttin’ yer hands on me. I’m irresistible.”
“Moving on! Now! Before the bad thing happens!”
Laughter. “Ah, kiss me an’ get it over with…”
Just another day of sharing public space with the unintentional comedy duo of Ambassador Shayde and Rael the JOAT.
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Lady slings the booze.
It’s been shown that Mystique (in her comic incarnation, at least), when her ability to focus is sufficiently thrown-off by illness, drugs, emotional shock, or othersuch concentration breakers, that her ability to shapeshift is disrupted, to the point that she can’t maintain a form, often shifting uncontrollably/unconsciously or even sporting features from multiple recently-assumed forms at once in a Picasso-esque jigsaw. Once I learned about that, I couldn’t help but wonder just what sort of awkward/amusing/embarassing/etc. situations might occur if this sort of problem occured to her Evo incarnation when she got drunk… and then I immediately thought of you. Take it away, Nutter!
(#00420 - A045)
There’s a million stories in this ‘burg. Many of 'em you just plain wouldn’t believe.
I’ve seen some things.
Weird…
Things…
You wanna hear an example. Of course. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
It was late. Most of the regular barflies had gone home. Poured into cabs or thrown back into the gutter. The rest were sliding into that state where the world just fails to matter.
I was doing everything I could to give those bums the hint that they should leave when the door slammed open.
She looked like a classy dame in the beginning. Sharp and dangerous and the kind of woman who’s an extreme sport, if you get my drift. She ordered the hard stuff.
An extreme, extreme sport.
I could like her, but I had a home to go to and she was the only one paying. But she didn’t care about change, either; so I could stay technically open for however long she wanted to be my guest.
The crazy stuff happened after the third bottle. Girl can hold her liquor.
Or, should I say, the thing that looked like a girl could hold her liquor. Its liquor. I don’t even know.
She started… oozing. Without dripping. Her features just sort of melted and rippled. Even her clothing got that 'tired candle’ look. Parts of her started changing around. One hoof. A tail. One wing. Bits and pieces of famous people. I shit you not. And her voice… well…
You know that thing they do on youtube where they make some song sound demonic? Like that, but live. Happening right the-get-the-hell-away-from-me in front'a me.
Freakin’ disturbing ya know?
And then - swear to God - she/it/whatever looks at me and says, “See somethin’ you like, handsome?”
If I wasn’t already celibate, I’d have turned.
“Naw,” I said, cool as a cat. “Just watchin’ the drinks. Wouldn’t want anyone takin’ advantage.”
Apparently, I’m too sweet to live.
Whaddayamean what’d I do? I kept the drinks coming until her friend came and got her. None of my business what wants a drink in this dirty town.
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Challenge #00419 - A044: So Long, Lefty Loosey
It turned out the galactic standard for things that screw onto other things was the opposite direction to the international Earth standard.
“What the– this screw isn’t turning.”
“It’s an old-Earth vessel.”
“Yeah? So?”
“They have it backwards. Counter-clockwise loosens their screws.”
Sigh. “Typical human insanity. How hard is it to learn ‘Counter time, fix it fine’?”
“Given the trouble they keep giving us about it? Plenty.”
“Humans…”
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Challenge #00409 - A044: Intergalactic Ambassador Spot
“We’re here to conquer yo-
Awww lookit the cute little fuzzy. Whooosa fuzzy.”
Sir, the aliens seem to have become distracted.
Only humans, they later said, could take a pursuit predator and make it completely servile. And for some time in the Galactic Alliance, it was something of a mystery as to where and when dogs originally hailed from.
Some refused to believe that such a useful animal could come from the same planet as “a bunch of cogniscidal apes”.
And yet…
When humans invaded the luxury cruiser in the Bleizal star system, the dogs on board stopped them. Not through their training, as the dogs were calming security animals for some of the more nervous passengers.
The humans evidently found them - cute.
Heavily armoured human solders stopped in their tracks and lowered what had to be weapons.
“Oozawiddlefuzzywuzzycuteiddledoggieeeee,” was heard emanating from their collective helmets. Alongside repeated coos of “Oooh, doggie. Aaaaaawwww…”
The humans spent some time touching, rubbing and embracing the dogs. This allowed many on board to escape intact.
According to securicams, the human invaders stayed cooing over the dogs for twenty minutes before shooing the animals away and leaving without their usual trail of destruction.
Dogs became essential for interstellar travel safety.
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Challenge #00408 - A043: Releasing Pressure
Carbonated drinks: for most creatures, a harmless fizzy beverage.
However if your species happens to be incapable of burping to release the gas, a painful experience. Perhaps not deadly, but certainly not comfortable.
Gox stared at the beverage. At the perpetual bubbles within. In his experience, bubbles came out and never came back.
This was one amongst the many new things he was dubious about encountering as a reluctant ambassador.
“Why do the bubbles form?”
“It’s a human thing,” said the Gyiik host. “A mild acid that produces relatively harmless gas. It has the amazing property of making beverages tastier.”
Amazingly, it did. How the Giik had managed to add the acidic components to Poba juice was beyond him, but the bubbles did something with his tongue.
Gox probably drank too much, too fast. It was the temptation of taste without the forethought of pondering what happened to the gas.
Gox very soon found out the difficult way.
He got halfway through a sampler of alien foods before the growing pocket of gas made itself known in the form of physical discomfort. A really horrible physical discomfort.
“What is one supposed to do about the gas?” he quavered.
“Most belch,” said the Gyiik.
“Please? What is ‘belch’?”
Which is why it has become vitally necessary for all restauranteurs to know what is safe to serve their customers, before they try any. Nobody wants to handle the results of gas-forced diarrhoea ever again.
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Challenge #00407 - A042: Temptrotica’s Big Test
Aaand another one
http://callmegallifreya.tumblr.com/post/73660380194/littlemissmochablue-lalonde-strider-i-want-a
[AN: I would consider it a courtesy that the original poster of these ideas is notified that said idea has become a thing. I can’t always do so myself]
Life was generally easy for a succubus. For starters, she never had to go hungry, so long as there were MRAs in the world.
It usually went like this:
1) Find the nearest neck-beard with a trilby on his head who mistakenly called it a fedora.
2) Smile at him
After that, it was just giggling, flirting, and free alcohol until he decided that he was owed sex and she got a free feed.
Nobody would miss them anyway.
Not tonight. Tonight, the only trilby-wearing neck beard in the club was propping up the counter in extreme disinterest. Sipping club soda and evidently trying not to fall asleep.
Temptrotica bumped into him accidentally-on-purpose and made sure his water spilled all over her front. “Oh! Aaaaaw…”
The guy handed her the paper napkins. Handed them to her! Any other neck-beard she knew would be falling all over himself to lay his hands on her copious breasts.
Maybe he was one of those rare, self-diagnosed ‘gentlemen’ who thought manners paid for sex, too. Temptrotica did her best to show off her assets as she mopped up the spill. “Thank you. It’s so nice to meet someone who respects personal boundaries.”
“You’re welcome,” came the neutral reply.
“Usually, I have like, a dozen guys trying to stick their whole arm down my cleavage…” Hint, hint.
“Yeah, I can see how that would be a pain.”
What the hell? “Can I sit here?”
“Sure.”
He was handsome enough, in a neck-beardy way. Not the usual gamer-chub that came with the hat and the hairstyle. His body-speak didn’t say Leave Me Alone, but it didn’t say I’m Looking, either.
“What’s a gentleman like yourself doing in a nightclub like this?”
He pointed to the water. “Designated driver.”
“Religious?” she asked, since the uptight ones had interesting hidden depths. And amazing energy. She could often leave those walking away pleasantly surprised.
“Allergic.”
“Wow, that’s got to suck. How do you even have a good time?”
“Well, for starters, I usually don’t let my friends take me to a nightclub so they can score.”
“Where are your friends?”
He scanned the crowd. “Those fucking shit-holes abandoned me again! Fuck. I could kill those shits…”
“Why are you even friends with them?”
“I’m starting to question that, myself.” He smiled and said the magic words. “Want to get out of here?”
*
It was a nice night. He certainly knew how to have a good time. But he didn’t touch her. He didn’t look. And he certainly wasn’t getting any creepshots. She’d know.
“Charles?”
“Yeah?”
“Is there something wrong with me?”
“What? No! You’re perfectly… perfectly… uhm… hot, I guess.”
“We should be making out or something…”
Sigh. A shameful droop of his head. “It’s literally not you. It’s me. I’m… asexual.”
OH. “Shit,” she shook her head. “I was starting to think my game was broken.”
“Wow. That’s it? No amoeba comments? No 'how do you survive’? No 'so you don’t have junk’ bullshit?”
“No, I’m familiar with all the varied kinks. And un-kinks. Y'see…” She sighed and looked away. “I’m a succubus.”
“Wow. Sucks to be you, tonight.”
She thought about this. “You know… it’s actually nice to have company that doesn’t want to get into my pants. Do you… like… physical contact?”
“Well, yeah. I’m not aromantic. It’s just… people expect things. It’s difficult. I actually cultivated this look so that ladies would avoid me.”
“And I hunt people who look like that because they usually think they’re entitled to sex!”
They laughed. Held hands for the first time in the evening. It felt nice to get cozy with someone.
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Challenge #00406 - A041: One Sad Afternoon on a Street Corner of NuFurria
Found another one
http://deathcomes4u.tumblr.com/post/73661805922/buggy-heichou-rotking-johnthedragon
Walking was a problem. And it was a problem because of Boxing.
When an owner got tired of their Uplift, or the cute Bull-Terrier/Wolf pup became too big, or it chewed the furniture or peed on things or otherwise acted like a dog who the owner hadn’t bothered to train… they were put in a box, and left on a corner, and told to wait for someone to take them home.
And every single time someone walked by, or slowed their car, the Boxed Uplift would look up in hope and optimism. Watch the humans who might own them pass. And wish.
Sometimes, they would get food from the kind-hearted. Sometimes, they would slink into the alleys and become a Stray. Sometimes, they would sit and wait in that box until they died of exposure or starvation or both.
One in twenty would get adopted into a home that wanted them. One in one hundred would actually find the loving home some boxes proclaimed they were free to.
Aelki had been writing reports about this to the Cogniscent Rights Committee for the better part of a Galactic Standard Year(1). As a Hitchhiker, there were morals and laws she had to uphold that went beyond the normal travel advisories.
The Rules of the Loyal Order of Hitchhikers were many, but the good ones managed to float upwards into the low numbers. Rules like, Don’t judge, or Don’t interfere were vitally necessary for survival, but the really good rule of, If you have to break the rules, break them good and hard, was an escape clause that a Hitchhiker could live with.
Aelki knew from watching that this particular Uplift was a chimera of wolf and any breed of dog known for its muscles. Bred or made for the arena and left on the corner with only the box to cover his dignity. There were no scars in his fur. Which only meant that the scars were on the inside.
This, she knew, would require the Big Towel. And more time on Nufurria, busking and storytelling and outright begging for a flight anywhere the heck away from Nufurria.
“Hi there,” she said to the big dog. He towered above her, even in a sitting position. “Would you like to come home with me?”
A smile full of fangs that could bring nightmares to any kind dentist. A frantically wagging tail. “Home please? Yes please! Clothes please?”
She helped him put a towel around his hips. Fastened it in place with a safety pin. “This will do for now. We need to go shopping for something that will fit you. I’m Aelki. What’s your name?”
Confused, the giant dog picked up the box he’d been sitting in and read -painfully- the first word he could understand. “Or… Oray… O'Ranges.”
She wanted to cry, but she had to smile. “Good boy. Let’s go on an adventure, hey?” The Cogniscent Rights Committee was going to hear about this even if she had to carry O'Ranges into their offices herself.
(1) Twenty-four hours in a Standard Day, ten Days in a Standard Week, four Weeks in a Standard Month and ten Months in a Standard Year. Only humans find this confusing.
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