Destroy All Monsters

Hey y'all, thought it was about time I posted again to let you know what marvellous events have been transpiring in this dizzying rock and roll lifestyle that I lead.

There's been a lot of beer, for sure. And pirates. New political parties too. The marvellous elixir known as 'tache grower' was a winner. And lamb marinaded in coke (as in of the cola variety) is also highly recommended. What else? Dinner in the perv dungeon of a fancy restaurant, much quaffing of absinthe, the quest for a kebab in monsoon conditions (but it was certainly worth it), oh, and World of Warcraft. Goddamn it's good.

And as always, there's many projects afoot - Oops, I broke the universe, a comic about ill-advised science and the end of all things. And another comic idea (possibly called the W-men) that pits the mutants who got the crap powers against each other, the heroes being led by Confessor Saviour, a wheelchair-bound preacher from the deep south, who offers nothing but abuse. I'm sure that Bat-fingers and Nipple-eyes could fit into that set-up pretty well.

And as if that wasn't enough, I should be off to London this weekend to talk to a film director! Well, I'm going to meet up with Simon, drink many beers, and discuss Gotham Of The Dead, which could be the movie event of our generation. Or at least be a hell of a good laugh to film.

Man, I'm sure I had much more I was going to write about.

Nope. Guess it's time for linkage.

First up, mad science, courtesy of Tim.

And this is just a genius idea. I mean, meatbots? Hell yeah.

Finally, what can I say about this? Quite terrifying.

OK, enough with the links, now I shall subject you to my latest adventure in literature. Feel free to skip to the end or set fire to your monitor. In fact, if you're reading this on a Mac, I insist you set fire to your monitor. You might want to soften it up with a few axe blows first, though.

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Staring at the sun
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Phosphorescent runes impose themselves upon my vision to tell me that the night cycle has begun. In fact, the cycle began almost 15 secondarys ago, but my chronometer is slow, and my empathic crystal burnt out in a plasma fight last year. At first I couldn't afford to repair it, but now I choose not to. I've come to enjoy the silence of being out of the psychosphere, and I don't miss those parasitic soundbites trying to crawl into my brain. I caught pyromania almost as soon as I had the crystal installed, and I haven't been able to flush it out since.

I think that's why I spend so much time in the tower blocks, as high off the ground as possible, staring up at the bloated sun that fills the sky, like the seething eye of some astronomical leviathan. I spend many primary divisions each dual-cycle just watching the liquid geography of the solar surface roll and change, peaks and troughs of planetary scale emerging and disappearing again before my eyes. I track the sunspots as they swell and cluster, looking to the naked eye like malevolent, gaping holes in the iridescent flesh of the star. I have become quite adept at predicting the eruption of solar flares, the epic arcs and whorls of star matter that Golgotha throws at us in frustration, triggering spasms of metallic colour that ripple across the helioshield.

Without the helioshield, Downward would be just another burnt rock skimming a dying star, but beneath it Melanoma City festers and spreads, bathed in the sporadic oily rain that is our price for sanctuary. Nobody seems quite sure what the helioshield rain actually is, but we're assured it isn't dangerous. I know that's a lie, because everything on Downward is dangerous.

I have this recurring dream that begins with the shield generators exploding, but the helioshield doesn't vanish instantly, it slowly ebbs away, fading moment by moment. There are screams and panic as Golgotha grows brighter and the temperature rockets, holos scramble and short out, people haemorrhage as their implants go haywire. Fires start spontaneously, fuel detonates, exposed skin begins to burn. It becomes too bright to see, so bright that retinas shrivel and eyes start to boil. There is no screaming anymore, just the roar of the firestorm. Rock softens, metal liquifies. Melanoma City is scoured out of existence.

It's beautiful.

But another night cycle is here and Melanoma City is still holding on. Here on Downward, as elsewhere, day and night cycles are meaningless, a psychological throwback to a time before biorhythms could be programmed according to personal choice. In reality, it is always day in Melanoma City, Golgotha demanding our constant attention as it churns above us, refusing to sink from our sky.

Another night cycle is here, and the call to prayer sounds from the temples of the Pessimistic Order, power chords reverberating around the artificial canyons of the city. Bloat bugs buzz drunkenly around the tower blocks, photosynthesising in the amber light before dropping into the darkness of the streets to breed. Holos shimmer and crackle on walls and roofs, mostly advertising products that can't be found in this system, if anyone still makes them at all. A convoy of converted beetle trucks rumbles along the Moko bridge, painted in the colours of the Null Convergents, the ore scoops replaced with fearsome gun turrets. A sudden chorus of projectile weapon fire opens up in the Sluice district and gradually falls silent in rattling bursts.

I realise that my proxy is chattering, and unhook it from my armour. I tell it to speak, and it starts to imitate the voice of Drumlock, although it gurgles and foams as it does so. I think it has an infection, which is unsurprising, seeing as I stitched it together myself using off-cuts from the flesh markets. Without a functioning empath crystal, this is the only way I can be contacted, something that infuriates my colleagues.

"Mephisto is back in town." Through the mucus, the proxy copies Drumlock's low, sombre tone as closely as possible. "We have a positive ident at the works terminal."

I've been waiting years to hear this news. "Gather the clan at Halla's. We move before the cycle is out." I jab a thumb into the proxy's nerve cluster to shut it down, then shake off the slime and stow it.

I knew that Mephisto couldn't stay away from the city - it's in his blood as much as it is in mine, the need to live under the unblinking gaze of Golgotha once more. Hopefully he still thinks that he killed me, which will lend me the element of surprise. If only he had a face that could register the shock, that could register the pain. There's going to be a lot of pain. He'll suffer for what he stole from me, and before he dies he'll tell me where it is now.

And then I'm going to get my soul back.

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Right, that's your lot. I'm off to get some lunch, but before I go, here's a fun fact for you:

More people are killed each year by falling coconuts than are killed by sharks.

Goddamn coconuts.

"You want him! You need him! You love him!" - Crazy Frog ringtone advert.

This is a sick, sick world that we live in.

Laters,

M