Pith, wit, acerbia

Spiritual Warfare

I find the best stuff when I just browse random words. Thanks to spiritual-warfare.net I now know what weapons to use in the eternal struggle agaionst Satan. Satan made me design this page primarilly in black, with a woman dressed up just like a whore at the base of the screen! All his evil little minions whisper these things in my ears, and yet I can remain steadfast in my faith and fight them!

"For the weapons of our warfare are not carnal but mighty in God for pulling down strongholds, casting down arguments and every high thing that exalts itself against the knowledge of God, bringing every thought into captivity to the obedience of Christ" (2 Corinthians 10:3,4)

1. Our chief weapon in the fight against demons is praise.

So I'd like to praise my friends, both in real life and online. You are my comrades and co-conspiritors. I'd also like to praise my girlfriend Pix for her curvaceous body, her wonderful breasts and delicious buttocks and... oh no! Praise has led me into temptation! Time to break out weapon 2!

2. The Word of God

Is this like Indiana Jones saying Jehovvah and being stoned by the Pythons? "Snakes, why did it have to be snakes?" or am I confusing movies here... Maybe the word of God is the word that there was in the beginning. In the beginning was the clearing of the throat, followed by the Stutter of God and finally The Word of God and the word (if God was English) was "Bollocks". Let me just quote the Bible to back me up here:

"I have written to you, young men, because you are strong, and the Word of God abides in you, and you have overcome the wicked one." (1 John 2:14). Yup, bollocks abide in young men.

3. The Blood of God

After fear and surprise we have ruthless devotion to the Pope... or rather... intangible blood of an omnipresent deity. The Blood of God can be extracted from the Stones of God. Only at the full moon, and only if there is a coven of naked virgins dancing around you with crowns of thorns in their hair.

4. Prayer

Talking to yourself basically. Yeah, that will take you to a comfortable safe place with padded walls where you can escape the evils of the world with a box of crayons. Alternatively you're using a hands-free kit and you're on your mobile. Either way you deserve to be nailed to a tree.

5. The power of your testimony...

...will be used against you in a court of law. Because we already know that the best lawyers have sold their souls to Satan. Have you *seen* The Devil's Advocate? Not only are lawyers evil, but they'd have to be stupid too, so what if that chick at the end was his sister? That's no reason not to sleep with her is it?

There's then a long list of gifts, something akin to an Amazon wishlist from the looks of it. I just don't get it... maybe I'm just baiting.

6th Sense: Smell

You step into an elevator that would normally smell of stale food and stare blankly at your own reflection in the back wall. The strip lights above you cast a sickly ghostly light through the metal cubicle.

The doors are sliding shut and she gracefully slips between them, the mechanical doors jutter open again and a buzzer sounds, announcing an obstruction. She sighs and rolls her eyes at you as if to say "machines, eh?" before facing forwards and jabbing at the button with a her right index finger.

You realise that you can't smell stale food anymore. There's a scent tickling your nostrils... a warm, sweet smell that makes you think of fields somewhere. Were this a romance novel the scent would be overpowering and all-encompasing, but in this case it elicits a smile and a memory of somewhere distant.

You imagine a way of asking what perfume she's wearing without sounding like a stalker, then you think about how many combinations of smell could be the cause. Shampoo? Bodyspray? Sweat? Babypowder?

There's no way in hell you're going to be able to ask, worse still, the only way to exorcise the thought of the smell is to write it down and endure the comments and pouting of your girlfriend in a vain hope that she'll go out of her way to remind you whose skin you should be smelling... (please, please, please)

6th Sense

It was as I sat at my desk this morning, toiling away that a small puff of smoke and a noise similar to "bamf" announced the arrival of a tiny squat fat buddha hovering inches over my desk.

"Confuscius 'e say, 'tis a piss poor writer hoo resowrts ti stealing t'oter people's content, fer sure, fer sure, begorrah' "

I furrowed my brow and thought about this for a second before realising several things at once: the fat guy isn't really Buddha, Confuscius was Chinese and although he lived roughly around the same time as Siddartha he wasn't a buddhist, and he wasn't Irish either.

"E can pruvide yi wit better ideas, like me lucky charms..."

I said no thanks and instead decided to write about my senses. He disappeared again in another bamf of smoke leaving the faintest scent of sulferous bad eggs...

Lethargy

I've heard theories about leylines before, mystical channels in the planet's gravitational flux that can influence beneficial or detrimental events... but I always figured it was a load of shite.

Or so I thought...

Men, have you ever found yourself standing waiting for your girlfriend to come out of the dressing room after she's tried on every item in the store? Ladies, have you ever had to stand around as your man went through every rack at the comic store just in case he missed an issue of Big Boobzilla?

I reckon there must be sub-leylines that cause fluctuations in the world... whereas normally you'd love to browse through the racks of a Virgin Megastore, you find that one particular store will always leave you feeling dopey and dim-witted. Yes, you've discovered lethargy-lines.

I only mention this because I think I'm sitting on one at work today... I just cannot be arsed. I've tried drinking caffeinated drinks, I've tried wandering around and starting engrossing conversations but I find my eyes constantly dipping and my mouth straining to... to... to... YAAAAWWWWNNN!

Damnit.

Aug.27.2003

Bernard

The name Heidi Fleiss just conjours up mental images of a girl in the mountains somewhere looking after a small herd of goats and her pet St Bernard.

Only... in Hollywood he'd be called Bernie and have a drinking problem. You'd see him at AA meetings resting his front paws on the podium before barking out his piece as Christian Slater and Jack Nicholson gaze longingly at the oak casket of rum around his neck.

"My name is Bernhard and I'm a talking alcoholic dog. I carry the barrel to remind me. My higher power is all the support I need."

But you can just image the scene in the split-level doghouse in the hills at three in the morning as he hits speed-dial on his cell and waits for the connection:

"Sean, yeah, its me. Bernie. Your AA buddy, Bernie! Sean, I can't resist it much longer, I just have to take one sip... no, don't try and talk me out of it. I've been carrying this damn casket around with me since I was a pup, you don't think I can smell it? It seeps through the wood Sean, I can feel the vapors taunting me... uh... oh, reception is breaking up Sean, really shitty reception up here in the Alps, *cough, cough* yeah, that'll be it. Gotta go..."

Don't even get me started on the nymphomaniac goats in the poolhouse...

Aug.26.2003

Returner

He may think he's being ironic, but this site is pretty much entirely his fault. I can't blame Yen anymore, she's been gone for far too long now.

So now I'm back, from outer space. There's plenty of content you haven't read because it was never published before.

There's an entire series of Evil Genius tutorials
Another of horrible failures in 60's Pulp Sci-fi dates as well as a mish-mash of the usual stories and attempts at puns. I mean Jeez... there's so much to explore, even long-time readers are likely to find stuff they've never seen before, that was the whole point of taking so long to relaunch.

Also, if you're having trouble seeing the drop-down menus at the top of the pages let me know, I think there's a CSS issue in IE 5 browsers.

Aug.26.2003

Evil Genius (How to have been an) #6

So you wanted to be an evil genius? You wanted everyone to fear you and do as you told them to? You wanted to hover your finger over the little red button and laugh uproariously? You wanted to see your secret account swell to bursting point and your sexy second-in-command in the tight leather catsuit to fall madly in love with you?

You wanted to get away with it?

6. Take the money and run

So undoubtedly your base defences haven't worked, your lackeys are running in disarray and the volcanic island the letting agent had assured you was extinct is spraying lava all over your taupe walls and beige carpets. Its time to talk escape tactics.

You have three options:

1) Escape by air: bad idea. The invading troops arrived by boat and you can expect the sky to be full of Stingers and CWIS from their decks. Don't expect to go orbital either with the charred remains of your SS-19 ballistic missile smoldering on the pad after an aborted launch. You're staying on Earth one way or another unless you fancy facing the AEGIS cruiser of death.

2) Underwater: out of sight and 360 degrees for the enemy to cover, this has to be the best option, but you'll have to fight off the footsoldiers, Spanish waiters and Italian forklift drivers who will want to escape with you. A one-man sub won't take you far so you'll need an Akula with a crew prepared in advance, and you can expect that the escape-sub crew won't exactly stay quiet in the henchman's canteen so to keep the sub as secret as possible be sure to hire an all deaf-mute crew.

3) Into the heart of the planet itself: fancy being a bit more flamboyant? Have you ever seen this before? Do you think that anyone will be following after you? Its time to go magma baby, and follow the global currents to wherever they'll take you. The downside is of course that you may end up being boiled to death if the air con fails.

What next? Reinvent your identity and start again, of course! If at first you don't succeed...

Evil Genius (How to be an) #5

So you want to be an evil genius? You want to belittle the leaders of the free world? You want to mingle with the other tyrants and sell them your memoirs? You want to get that leaky Georgian nuke off your hands (sorry, hand and claw)?

You want to make some money!

5. One meeeeellion dollars!

The first world truth you need to accept is that we're beyond paper money here. This isn't going to be resolved with a briefcase full of Franklins, this is going to require a numbered account somewhere untouchable. Alternatively, consider what powers the world's economy, products and services and you may find that what you really want is to own certain key companies. The problem there is that the free market would make you the evil genius behind Microsoft and nobody would buy your products.

Holding the world to ransom isn't easy, but deciding what you're holding them to ransom for is even tougher. So you need to ask yourself, what is it that you really want?

Money is power, but money can be spent and power isn't much use when you threw the global equivalent of a 4-year old's hunger strike. If you did it once, what will stop you doing it again? Why negotiate with someone if they can just welch on the deal afterwards, you won't have shown yourself to be the most reasonable person on the planet when you show up gloating on CNN.

This has to be the toughest chapter to offer advice on as the world's despots never seem to know what it is they really want. So you need to dig deep and decide what your motivation really is. Money? Power? Revenge? Hatred of one particular race, creed, or color? None of those will make you very popular afterwards, as the long-standing implications of taking away other people's power, money or lives will likely make you the target for reprisals.

Herein lies the crux for your desire to be an evil genius, with every iota of effort you've supplied already aiming you towards this ultimate goal. Maybe you want the power trip, maybe you want to bathe in liquid gold, maybe you want to avenge the death of your mangey pet mongoose, maybe you want to save the planet from selfish people who won't recycle. In the end the ultimate motivation has to come from you.

Made your demands and seen your account fill up? Now you need to get away with it.

Evil Genius (How to be an) #4

So you want to be an evil genius? You want to order your stormtroopers to their deaths against invading Marines? You want to exert the extension of political power and terrorise your neighbors? You want to design tight uniforms and use leather with red highlights and jackboots?

You want to outfit your own private army, hoo-ahh!

4. Standing army

You inspire your legions with your ruthless savagery and strange predilection for petting the mangey mongoose you carry with you everywhere, you have honed their killer instincts in both world politics and international law and you've put a roof over their heads and you let them take Saturdays off to go to the beach. What you need now is a fighting force to rival those that will be sent against you.

A man who carries an umbrella is a man prepared for rain. A man who trains his own private army to the pinnacle of physical performance and arms them to the teeth is a man expecting slightly worse than rain.

You don't have to start off too extreme, start a LAN party and see who is the best at Quake or CounterStrike. Take the cream of the crop aside and see how they feel about gun-control issues. Mention triggerguards in conversation around the evil boardroom table and see who frowns and who nods. Shoot the nodders

This is why an island base is so important, you can set up shooting ranges for anything from pistols to anti-aircraft batteries and probably get away with it, assuming you're not situated beneath the flightpath for British Airways long-haul flights to Asia. I recommend the AK-74 assault rifle for a perfect balance of reliability and accuracy with rugged design and overall "terrorist" aesthetics. Don't supply your henchmen with grenades, they invariably go unused.

Base defence isn't all about your footsoldiers though, there are some useful natural defences such as cliffs, raging rivers, impenetrable forests, chasms, and even local flora and fauna that will cause even the most hardened secret agent some trouble, softening them up for your sharpshooters. Also, consider mines, both sea and land variants and machinegun nests. The old Normandy adage of a defender being worth three attackers will work in your favor when the 10th Mountain Division arrives on your beaches.

A quick footnote here about specialising some of your defenders to also act as pre-emptive strikers. Assassins can save you a lot of bother if the security forces of the world are following your money trail to the island base. Dispatch two of your best wetworks operatives for every one being sent against you and be sure that they never attempt the same execution method twice. Knives, strangulation, kitchen utensils, all are fairgame to keep the spies from knocking on your war-room door.

Feeling safe and insular now? Stockpiled supplies and sunblock 5 million at the ready? Then its time to make your demands!

Evil Genius (How to be an) #3

So you want to be an evil genius? You want to crash private functions and hold those rich snobs to ransom before escaping back to your hidden lair? You want to launch nuclear satellites with laser deathrays into orbit? You want to flex those interior decorating skills you've developed from watching so much daytime television?

You need to move out of your parent's basement, and fast.

3. Domicile for domination

So your footsoldiers follow you around and attack your enemies by your command, but they expect you to look after them now and not just slash at them with your claw-hand when you're angry. You need barracks, you need privacy and you need isolation.

Two words; Island Lair

An island is perfect, its isolated, its easier to protect against the Marines than a Corporate Headquarters in a city somewhere, it can't be sunk, it won't flood, and there's a limitless supply of coconuts and hench-chicks in bikinis...

...assuming you make the right choice of location.

There are millions of islands across the world, this works to your advantage. They range from the largest (Greenland, 840000 sq mi) to tiny atolls in the South Pacific that are barely out of the water. As with any real estate purchase you need to keep the three l's in mind: location, location, location.

You want to be within striking distance of your target, but also remain relatively anonymous, so don't buy the island with a massive cargo container full of cash! Staging a coup might work, but ironically in this case land-grabbing might be the way to go. Own 51% of an island and you can make policy. Policy like "On days that have a d in them, anyone seen will be shot at" will drive the natives away like your mother breaking out the baby photos.

Once you own the island outright you need to put your lackeys to work. Have them hollow out a massive underground complex. Don't go the cheap route and buy a volcanic island; extinct or not, that mound was once a lava pimple and it could be again without too much techtonic trouble. Play it safe and have a variety of secret entrances and exits added, but don't make your ventilation ducts just wide enough for a man in a tuxedo to squeeze through, spinning fan blades *can* be stopped.

A secluded landing strip and a dock for medium to large freighters is *imperative*. Also, consider resupply routes and trading/shipping lanes, you want to be close enough to raid them to replenish your fortunes, but not close enough that a strike force could sneak up on you too easilly.

Maybe you want to keep up the pretense that you've bought the island for benign purposes in whichcase a nature preserve, exclusive hotel or import/export tax haven will make you look slightly more legit in the eyes of the world. Don't forget to hire tree-huggers, Spanish waiting staff or inept Italian forklift drivers to complete the look.

Hire a cargo container, empty out your parent's basement and start shipping your whiteboards and blueprints to the island. One 747 for your henchmen and bikini girls with machineguns and another for livestock and bringing in your rusty old Georgian nuke (don't worry too much about mixing your cargo, three-legged chickens feed more people)

Congratulations, despite my advice you now own an archipelago of volcanic islands in the South China sea with a wild mongoose sanctuary and ICBM launchpad. But it looks like the Chinese might want it back, which means you need to think about base defence.

Evil Genius (How to be an) #2

So you want to be an evil genius? You want to steal nuclear weapons from former Soviet states and hold the world to ransom? You want the governments of the free world to shake at the very mention of your name? You want to be allowed access to the private executive washroom at the UN on pain of blowing up most of Western Europe?

You need help, and lots of it.

2. Thick as thieves

There is one very easy rule for determining if a government would be capable of maintaining the facade of a massive conspiracy: check how efficient their civil service is. Chances are if you're left waiting months for an appointment to meet someone about planning permission to add a garage to your house then the government in question isn't exactly hiring from Mensa. Civil servants aren't dumb, they're just under-motivated.

You want motivated people.

Bribery, coercion, threats of physical violence, shock therapy and brainwashing are all ways of maintaining control over your lackeys, but just looking at the private sector will show you that the best workers are sadists who do it for money. You will therefore need two things: money, and sadists.

Listings on Jobsearch.com for "brutish lackey capable of pummeling CIA agents" is not a smart way to find people. You want personal references, you want brothers of brothers and friends of friends, you want people that you could find again if you had to deliver deadly retribution on them for failing you *again*

However, enquiries of "and how's Billy, that kid we went to school with who pulled wings off flies" will be time-consuming and usually uncover that Billy has now joined the Peace Corps. You need a front. A front business that will serve as the legitimate mask your activities will hide behind.

An ideal start would be a litigation firm. Smart people. Evil people. Ruthless people. Business savvy, well-dressed, blood-letters. Root out those who have emotions, children or a Volvo, these are not the people you want. You want cold-hearted, single, Ferrari-driving professionals.

When you have your nucleus of sadistic lawyers you can start hiring their friends. Most lawyers don't have friends, they just have people who tollerate them, this is fine, there will be a pecking order, and you will be at the top. Don't worry about having to make good of promises of pension plans, dental or health as they'll probably not live long enough to see their first paycheque.

With your workforce in place and ready to get their teeth into the opposition you're going to need to find somewhere to house them. In short, you need a hideout.

Evil Genius (How to be an) #1

So you want to be an evil genius? You want to hold your pinky-finger up to your lips and demand outlandish amounts of money? You want femme fatale second-in-commands in tight leather catsuits barking orders to the polo-necked thugs who run around your secret lair? You want to be the one who finally kills that smarmy secret service agent in the rather nice suit who keeps seducing your femme fatale second-in-commands in tight leather catsuits and beating up your polo-necked thugs before blowing up your secret lair?

Start at the start, you need a name.

1. What's in a name?

Dr. Evil is a wonderful name, it implies meticulous years of study and professionality, combined with the simplest possible way of stating your evilness. Unfortunately the name is taken, its also likely to make people laugh at you, so try something else.

If you can't manage doctor, how about some slightly easier qualification? GCSE? Bachelor of Arts? Maybe even a level 5 NVQ... Maybe you should think in military terms? General, Admiral, Field Marshal... or if you're not quite as able at pulling off a General as you'd like why not Boy Scout?

Once you've got the title part sorted out you should proceed to the name that will strike fear into the hearts of agents sent to defeat you. Dr No didn't sound so menacing, he sounded petulant;

"Stop trying to blow up the world"
"No!"
"You're evil and you know it"
"No!"

How about something classical like "Machiavelli", "Nietzsche" or "Faust". Maybe something wild and chaotic like "Fury" or "Bedlam". You want it to be both imposing and menacing like a mother-in-law meeting your mistress.

Lastly you want to make yourself stand out. A distinguishing feature will both enhance your image and make you immediately recognisable to your foes. Nobody would think that Blofeld was just the hired help, he had those high-collared suits, the droopy eye scar and he was stroking that cat all the time.

Prosthetics, garish dress-sense, bizarre speech patterns or colloquialisms, all par for the course me old matey. Think pirates and you're in the right frame of mind, you never met a kind pirate, did you?

With your choices made I think you'll find that you're ready to progress to expanding your criminal network and taking your plan firmly by the reins with your one good hand (wave the claw in the air to punctuate your babbling rants).

Onwards to stage two Lance-Corporal Nemesis, BSC(pharmacology)!

Chunder

Hypothesis: Advertising works

Case in point: signs on the Tube declare that a new product (hereafter refered to as Chunder to protect the guilty) will save you from the embarrassment of asking for the morning-after pill in the pharmacy

Apply hypothesis to case in point: Advertising works, therefore everyone knows that Chunder is the name for a morning-after pill

Therefore: Asking for Chunder is sugar-coating asking for the morning-after pill and likely to be just as embarrassing

Aug.19.2003

Partisan

Riding on the Tube to work I now have less time than before to read my book. My current book of choice is PJ O'Rourke's The CEO of the Sofa. I found myself standing beside a young woman reading Stupid White Men. She clocked what I was reading, I saw what she was reading. The look we shared said it all:

"Fucking Republican"
"Fucking Democrat"

And yet, I'll wager that she's not American either.

Aug.18.2003

Port out, starboard home

Sometimes I worry that Pix and I are becoming snobs. We sneer at people who have chosen to have kids, we eat smoked salmon, and we have Wedgewood fine bone china teacups.

Well, to be precise, we have one Wedgewood fine bone china teacup. Pix uses it to make gravy for sunday dinners.

Yup... whenever I worry that we're becoming snobs that's all I have to think about.

Aug.18.2003

Bad Karma

You know that bit in The 'burbs where Tom Hank's dog has brought a bone under the fence from the Klopek's back yard and Rick Ducommun picks it up and says "Ray, this is Walter!" and they both start screaming and the shot zooms in and out? I just had one of those moments.

I wear my grandfather's watch, its a Seiko from 1973. I make the point as often as I can that it stopped within hours of his death. That's cause its a kinetic watch of course but I don't reveal that until I get to enjoy the look of spookiness on people's faces.

Kinetic watches are great, I never have to wind it up or worry about battery acid leaking through my wrist. It only fails me after long weekends when I haven't worn it for three days. This particular one has a dent and a scratch that I feel adds character and... oh, there's some gunk under the watch strap.

The strap is one of those metal linked ones with a clasp fastening, between the clasp and the links and all along the inside of the clasp there is a brownish gunk.

I started scraping the gunk out earlier with a tiny screwdriver as I sat at my desk waiting for a report to run on the SQL database when my colleague looked over and said:

"What's that?"
It's the gunk clogging up my grandfather's watch. Did I tell you that it stopped...
"Within hours of his death, yes, very good David. So what is that brown goo?"
I dunno... probably dead skin mixed with sweat.
"Dead skin from you or... from your dead grandfather..."

And that was The 'burbs moment. As I clutched the tiny screwdriver, the head coated in ichor, a tiny pile of my dead grandfather on the desk in front of me and the shot zooming in and out.

Aug.13.2003

Techneophyte

So I figured that since I was having a meatspace reboot and starting a new job I would try and do something about this apparent preconception people get that I'm good with computers..

I thought what I'd do was, I'd pretend I was one of those techno-phobes. That way I wouldn't have to have any goddamn stupid techie conversations with anybody. If anybody wanted to explain something they'd have to write it on a piece of paper and shove it over to me. They'd get bored as hell doing that after a while, and then I'd be through with having techie conversations for the rest of my job.

after J.D. Salinger

Aug.13.2003

Pimping Fluffy

I can't remember who had the idea, but I do remember thinking it was a good one at the time. I think it was Ethan's obsession with Julie Newmar's Catwoman that spawned the idea. We were probably all too full of tequila to shout his idea down, so we set about planning ways to give Terence's cat silicone implants.

It didn't take too long to find a Thai website that would sell us gel implants without too many questions. They were even willing to custom make some 60cc models, this would give Fluffy the feline-equivalent of Pamela Anderson bazookas. Greg joked that we should try and get Russ Meyer to make a movie about her. By now Terence's laughter didn't seem as genuine as before.

When the day finally arrived I have to admit to being somewhat nervous, having never performed breast augmentation surgery on a domestic animal before. All the instruments were sterilised to the utmost degree, the work area was pristine and all that remained was to catch and sedate Fluffy.

Greg drew the short straw, donning gloves normally used for handling barbed wire, a lead smock borrowed from a Radiographer and the mask he would use at our regular paintballing games.

I think it was when we had Fluffy sedated and spread-eagled on the metal table with the fur from her abdomen shorn away that Terence's resolve finally broke. he started shouting at Ethan with a fervor I had never seen before, probably fuelled by many fond memories of growing up with his trusty Fluffy, refusing to accept that perhaps the local Toms didn't find her as attractive anymore.

As Greg used the last of the ketamine to subdue Terence, Ethan handed me the scalpel and pointed at Fluffy's pectorals.

"Cut"

A few hours later Greg came to find me outside, my hands jiggling the cigarette I was using to try and calm me down. Ethan had finished the procedure after I'd passed out and Fluffy was already bandaged up and in the recovery cot. Ethan didn't think it would be a good idea for me to come back.

I never went back. Last I heard Ethan had taken to breaking into London Zoo and anesthetizing the polar bears before giving them Barbra Streisand nose jobs. Greg and Terence were parading Fluffy around the country as a prize specimen, pampering her beyond the wildest dreams of kitty-dom. As I understand it she's soon to appear in her own TV show after a stint on Blue Peter...

... as for me...

Aug.12.2003

Backfire

"Hey, I'm hungry"
"So?"
"So I'm giving you the choice between making lunch or providing sexual gratification."
"Fine... you want to go on top or shall I?"
"What? No, I wanted a steak sandwich!"
"Well then that just backfired, didn't it?"

I had to get my own lunch. Sex only works as a threat when only one participant wants it.

Aug. 9.2003

PK Dickian Dates #7

I had managed to wrangle an invite to one of Hollis' private parties and spent the evening trying to keep a low profile until the party shifted into that comfortable mingling stage.

I bumped into Stella at the buffet as she was dipping a carrot stick into a small dish of thousand-island dressing on her plate. There was a small pile of carrot sticks beside the dish and some of them fell to the floor.

"I'm terribly sorry, how clumsy of me." I introduced myself and claimed that I was one of Hollis' talent scouts, hoping against hope that she wasn't a telepath. As it transpired she was an animator. She demonstrated this by causing the viscid pink sauce in the dish on her plate to rise up mud-monster like and trudge across the surface of her plate.

I was enthralled.

So enthralled that I didn't realise what she was doing with her left hand until the animated carrot-stick man stabbed me in the ankle with a dessert fork.

PK Dickian Dates #6

She had to repeat her talent to me three times before I was finally able to repeat it back to her. I asked her how useful it was to be a parakineticist and if she made much money from it.

"No, no, sweetie, you missed the first bit. I'm an anti-parakineticist. In other words I negate the abilities of any parakineticists in the immediate surroundings."

I had to admit rather sheepishly that I didn't know what a parakineticist was capable of doing, having only learned how to pronounce it for the first time moments before.

"Well imagine that when you look at the color red you see yellow. Because you're the only one who sees through your eyes you don't realise that everyone else sees a different color to you. A parakineticist, through his own sense of conviction, could cause everyone around him to only see yellow when they looked at red."

So, its an offshoot of telepathy, I said as I dipped some asparagus heads wrapped in parma ham into the dish of hollandaise sauce.

"No, no, no. Telepathy would make you see yellow but you'd know something was wrong because before they came along you'd known about the existence of the color red. A parakineticist can warp the very fabric of reality and have you accept that red has always been yellow and always will be. The power actualises delusions within time and space and perpetuates them to everyone within a sphere of influence."

I chewed on my food and thought about this for a moment before asking how she knew her talent was working to negate the effects of parakineticists if they were able to warp everyone else's perceptions of what reality was. Surely that was like being the only sane person in an asylum run by lunatics? A rather insightful question, I thought. She didn't feel that way and tipped her gazpacho soup into my lap before leaving.

PK Dickian Dates #5

I knew she’d arrived when my watch exploded on my wrist in a shower of sparks and my portable uplink fizzled and died. I had been warned that she might have this effect but hadn’t realised just what the extent of her range was. The lights hanging thirty feet above me had dimmed slightly to announce her approach and when she stood in front of me and smiled my teeth crackled with static.

“Sorry I’m late, I had to walk. I have to walk everywhere. I’ve been responsible for so many brown-outs on the subway that the city has banned me from ever using it again.”

Every hair on my body was standing on end and my tongue could taste the ozone in the air. I was about to suggest we go to a nice homely Italian hovering diner I knew when I realised that she’d probably cause it to fall out of the sky.

“I know a place we can go” she proceeded to describe an organic restaurant that sat in the middle of a public green square on top of a nearby conapt-block. There was no automation involved in the preparation of the food; it was all done using a gas burning stove and saucepans. They even had permits to use burning torches to light the outdoor dining area.

As we headed out of the station a group of robots fell silent and made various gestures as they scuttled quickly out of harm’s way, one Priestbot crossed himself. A vending machine spat Can-D bars across the concourse with a shriek of electronic pain before its colourful display dimmed and blinked off into silence.

She was right; the place was fantastic, expensive, but fantastic. I’d never tasted food that was so fresh before. Everything seemed to be going very well, her conversation was insightful and unjaded by the influence of the media (she didn’t own an uplink) and I found myself on the brink of falling in love when she told me what she did for a living; she worked in sales...

PK Dickian Dates #4

Carla had sent me some pictures of herself beforehand, but I still had to stand outside the building until she made herself known to me. We took the turbo-shaft up to the 75th-floor, 20th Century style, revolving restaurant; neither of us had even been before and we’d agreed to split the cost. The turbo-car was stylised as a turn of the century replica, stainless steel walls and little green buttons that lit up once depressed. When the doors opened I had to wait for her to readjust herself to the soft lighting and carpeting before we could be seated.

When she sat in the green Paisley-patterned upholstered chair there was a ripple across the surface of her skin and her complexion took on a sickly tint. I quickly excused myself and asked the Maitre D if he could provide her with a different chair. He eventually located a solid Perspex chair, which must have been very uncomfortable for her, but that didn’t solve the problem, I was able to see her shrimp salad as it passed through her.

Carla explained that her conapt was almost entirely decorated in pastel tones and that she had become accustomed to not focusing her ability on one color anymore. Her brow furrowed and suddenly she was solid again.

The evening carried on from there, with Carla occasionally lapsing back into her chameleonic form and fading from view which was still a better compromise to the green. I told a few jokes that made her laugh herself purple, I thought the evening was going well until the bill arrived when suddenly she was nowhere to be seen.