She was always going on about this and that, and her outbursts were normally triggered by his habit of cracking open a can of mutogen after walking in the door every night. This night, though, she was different.
"Frank... Frank, you've gotta go. You've got to leave. It's not because you're a monster." She sniffled. "It's because you're an asshole."
Without a word, Frank took his jersey and left for the ballpark. He was going to party hard that night. He didn't need her. He didn't need anyone.
"Here, now you take the next panel. Take the drill. You gotta do everything the first time, right? Just don't push it too hard. You push it too hard, you knock off the scaffoldin', send us all to early retirement." I looked behind me, into the colorless fog of the nebula. My stomach turned.
"Hey, kid. Hey. You could beat up any president, who'd you want to give a sock in the mouth?"
"I, uh, d-don't--"
"I'd beat up Washington. George Washington. You make a country, how come you gotta make Rhode Island so little for? It's idiotic."
"Um. Ronald Reagan."
"Ha. Don't say that too loud, kid. Captain voted Reagan in '96. Says he's gonna vote for him again in 2000, if we ever get home."
I looked behind me again, this time less afraid. Earth was out there somewhere. I knew I saw it, even if I could not notice it. "When we get home."
When I pointed my flashlight at him, he brandished a femur of an animal that... well, it sure wasn't a farm animal. The West coast was even stranger in the 28th century than it was in the 21st.
Did he want to kill and eat me? His frenetic sign language suggested to me that he did not, since we rarely bother talking to our dinners, but there was no way to tell for sure. I don't know how such a primitive society ever came to be champion of this Earth. Then again, if nobody did nothin' about it, kudzu would rule the world.
"Dogs don't know that they're gonna die. That ever occur to you?"
"No. But neither do I."
The only thing worse than staying in a bio-regeneration chamber for three Moon-weeks was staying in a bio-regeneration chamber for three Moon-weeks with a couple of philosophy majors. I groaned.
(Cliff Lee decides not to run out his own grounder. Via The Fightins)
Andy baked a cake, took it out of the oven, then disappeared through the double doors, only to return a moment later, rolling in a swivel chair he took from the lounge. He just pulled it up and sat in front of that cake and looked at it.
"Andy. Why you watching a cake? Cakes don't do nothin'."
He swiveled and stared at me. "When's the last time you looked at the news?"
"I don't know, yesterday?"
Andy flipped on the television. "Asteroid hit Russia. Talkin' about shock waves comin' in...." The anchorman chimed in: "approximately thirty minutes." Andy point. "'Bout a half hour."
That was twenty minutes ago. It's getting windy. The cake is cold.