Archive for the ‘Ken Brady’ Category
First Person
Friday, March 13th, 2009
No matter how hard you try, you can’t see your legs. Your arms are fine and you can pick stuff up, hold it in front of you. You pull a pistol from parts unknown and adjust your grip, get familiar with the gun’s sights. Your gloved hands look a little disfigured, but you’ll get used to that.
You don’t know where you are, except on the roof. You can see the city all around you to where it disappears in the mist. It all looks the same.
You drop through a broken skylight to the warehouse floor below. You grunt when you hit the ground and your vision goes red, a bit blurry. But you’re not badly hurt, just dazed. What a distance to fall and you didn’t even drop your gun.
You hear unfamiliar music playing from the warehouse speakers, and it makes you feel somewhat safer.
You walk around, inspecting shipping containers, wooden crates, forklifts. On a whim, you aim your pistol at one of the crates and pull the trigger. Though you’ve never fired a gun in your life, your aim is dead on, and the crate shatters, parts flying. Something flashing catches your attention. You walk to to the spot and look down, find a shotgun, some shells, and a box of ammo, luckily the same caliber as your pistol. You pick up the shotgun, jack the action once to make sure it’s loaded. Where the hell did your pistol go? You decide not to think about it.
You see a medic walk into your field of view. You swear he wasn’t here before. “You don’t look so good,” you hear him say. “Take this medkit.”
You do, and your vision clears immediately followed by a suspicious “100” that appears in the upper left of your vision. You turn to ask what the hell is *in* that medicine to make you see numbers, but the medic is gone. Oh well, you get the feeling you’ll see him again if you really need him.
You continue checking the place out, amazed by the amount of supplies for the taking, including a shit-ton of ammunition. You grab as much as you can carry, which is way more than you thought humanly possible. A persistent whine in the back of your head mentions something about the laws of physics, but you ignore that.
You hear the music suddenly get louder and more urgent, so you must be running short of time before trouble shows up. There are a lot of crates, and you decide the best way to get what you need quickly is to break them.
Now grab that flashing crowbar hanging on the wall and get to work.
Last Call for Alcohol
Tuesday, March 3rd, 2009
Guy walks into a bar, says to the bartender: “Give me three drinks.”
Bartender says to Guy: “What kind of drinks do you want?”
Guy waves dismissively. “Don’t matter. First drink takes the edge off today, helps me forget. Second drink helps me prepare for what’s next. Third drink opens a portal to a new world, a new life.”
Bartender looks at Guy. Hasn’t seen him in here before, then again he has. There’s always someone they remind you of. Always someone whose words sound like someone else’s. Spend enough time in bars and you know everyone.
Guy sits at the bar but doesn’t remove his coat or hat, just waits patiently for his drinks.
Bartender pours him a beer, says: “It’s almost last call. You gonna drink three drinks before you have to leave?”
Guy smiles. “No problem.”
Bartender looks around the bar. Thursday night, not very crowded, a few tables with some quiet conversation, nothing he has to worry about. He glances back at Guy, who has already downed his beer.
“Where will you go?”
Guy looks up. “Dunno. Somewhere else. I just want to start over.”
Bartender mixes a Long Island and sets it on the bar. “Maybe this’ll help,” he says.
Guy drinks for a bit, then pauses to say: “How about you? Where would you go?”
Bartender shrugs. “Hadn’t thought about it. I’ve never been to Russia.”
Guy finishes his drink, says: “Then give me a shot of your best vodka.”
Bartender pours a shot of Jewel of Russia, and sets it on the bar. He turns away, begins organizing his bottles, prepping for tomorrow. Then he says: “What if you don’t like your next life any more than you like this one? What if you jump from life to life and find that, no matter where you go, no matter what you do, everything in your life is exactly the same? The same problems, the same regrets, the same obstacles keeping you from reaching your ultimate goals. What if it doesn’t matter where you go?
Guy snorts. “Happens to everyone,” he says, as his empty shot glass hits the bar.
Bartender turns around to ask what he means, but Guy is gone, and a confused-looking Russian soldier holding a bottle of Budweiser sits in his place.