#rerun week

Brain Curds are barely-edited fiction, poetry, or just about anything else - drafted in a day or less. I really need to do more research on Liverpudlian slang. In true Brain Curd spirit (though the concept was yet to exist), I kinda just wing’d it. Wung it?

Oi, it’s been a long road to get to this point, hasn’t it? Every day, I wake up in a bloody tour bus at half-past five in the afternoon and play in a sold-out stadium in some big city. I swear, my ears don’t stop ringing anymore. It’s not even the speakers, it’s the fucking crowds making my ears bleed. Why won’t they stop screaming?

It was nicer when I was just sitting in my bedroom with a shitty guitar from the pawnbroker. No crowds, no yelling, just the worst webcam you’ve ever seen and a five meg internet connection. Those YouTube vids were just for shits and giggles, and they had to go and get two million views.

It wasn’t down to luck. I made a deal with the devil not even knowing it. I didn’t find out ‘til later that the Degenerati pulled strings to make me big. And well, they came around for payment. Joke’s on them, though, because I haven’t got the time to go on any of their spy missions, or whatever they call ‘em, since I never get a day off. The demand is too fucking high. That’s what my manager says, and it’s true, innit? Front row tickets are scalped for thirty grand, y’know!

Ooh, I tell you, it feels real good to write something again. Haven’t written a thing in years, honestly, since my wrist is so knackered from the guitar. I used to write all my songs, back when I still cared. It's a half-arsed effort now; artificial, really. My songs are written and produced by teams of 'hit makers,' or the usual gang of wankers as I call 'em. I think they’re all a load of rubbish, but the fans love it.

Before I blew up, I was sleeping on a couch. Now I sleep on a mattress about as wide as a couch, on a metal tube full of shit. A lateral move, really. Can’t say the money has brought me much comfort. But at least I might get back in the studio sometime soon to record the worst thing Abbey Road has yet been subjected to: a hit pop song in the making called “You’re So Tasty.”

Wait a tick, I need to go vomit. See you on stage!

Penned 2023.08.13

Of course, that does mean that Riley mysteriously went from being a helmsman to being a communications officer who started out in Engineering. But hey, it’s the Enterprise, where people move around and show up in weird places all the time. Why do you think McCoy constantly reminds everyone that he’s a doctor? He’s probably afraid that if he doesn’t repeat it enough he’ll wake up as a botanist one day with no explanation.

[...]

Unfortunately, while the music of Uhura distracts Riley from his predicament, it also distracts him from some other things—like the fact that someone else has crept into Engineering, with nefarious plans for the delicious dinner of fruity space cubes and milk that Riley has set aside. Although evidently the props department phoned it in on this one, because the villainous stranger is carrying that classic TOS prop, the Completely Unaltered Modern Spray Bottle, and as a result it looks rather like their plan is to poison Riley by putting Windex in his milk. 

[Image description: a tray showing a partly covered dish of red, yellow and green cubes, and a glass of milk. A gloved hand is reaching in to spray something into the milk from a clear spray bottle. Offscreen, Uhura is singing, “Tomorrow, a stop along the way.”]

Brain Curds are barely-edited fiction, poetry, or just about anything else - drafted in a day or less. Way back when I was still more actively workshopping Order of the Degenerati, I wrote some POV vignettes to get the hang of the characters. Some were more successful than others, but since I’m trying to reach BC#500 before the new year (on my end, anyway), you’re gonna see them for the first time! Welcome to Rerun Week!

God, I hate customers sometimes. And by that, I mean I hate customers all the time. Maybe it’d be different if I was paid better, but all I’m doing is helping Harvey pay his own mortgage.

Here’s an example of something that happened the other day: I was taking inventory in the back room when Kyle rushed in, saying someone was trying to return a book. Why he couldn’t handle it himself, I don’t know. He’s worked there longer than I have, but I guess he’s two pages short of a novella, so I’ll cut him some slack.

Anyway, I popped over to register one, and there was this large woman, soaking wet, wearing a massive fluffy purple coat. It was like Cruella DeVil got ahold of the carcass of Barney the Dinosaur. Anyway, the woman was soaked, and it wasn’t even raining outside so I have no clue as to why.

She handed me a book, also dripping wet, that was so water-stained I figured this couldn’t have been the first time it was submerged. It was then I saw her small lap dog - a dachshund, I think - sticking its face slightly out of her (also purple) handbag. It was staring at me, menacingly, but I had to focus on the task at hand.

“I’d like to return this book,” she said. “It’s defective.”

“In what way is it defective, exactly?”

“Two of the pages in the middle are blank.”

Conveniently, there was a bookmark still in the middle. It had a logo on it, I think from the Girl Scouts. Could have been part of a cookie box. It wasn’t soggy because someone had laminated it.

Sure enough, there were two blank pages. Now, I’m not one to accept merchandise with defects, as a consumer. But as a retail worker getting paid minimum wage, I wasn’t in the mood to take back a book soaked in god-knows-what, and I was honestly pissed off that I’d have to mop the floor after she left.

“This book is water damaged. I can’t accept it as a return.”

“But it was misprinted!”

She had a fair point. And her dog looked angry at me.

“I’ll see what I can do. But I’ll need your receipt.”

She fumbled around in her pockets, trying desperately to find it, and she pulled out a neatly folded square of paper. She set it on the counter.

Frankly, I was perplexed to see that it was dry, perhaps the only dry thing in her possession, and I was flattered that she would give up such a special object to me. Or perhaps I’m being sarcastic. Anyway, I unfolded it, and would you believe it? The receipt was for this book, but it was purchased from the Barnes & Noble all the way across town.

“Ma’am, you didn’t buy this book here. It’s from a different store entirely.”

“But you sell books, yes?”

I looked around at some of the several dozen bookshelves within my field of view, just to make sure. “Yes, we do.”

“Then can I at least get a replacement? Or store credit?”

Obviously, I was not supposed to do that. But at this point I just wanted her to leave, and I didn’t feel like calling the cops because mopping up water is much easier than mopping up blood. It wasn’t a popular book anyway.

“I’ll see if we have replacements in the back.” I said, and walked back from whence I came. Kyle was standing there in the back room, mostly still, muttering to himself about koalas.

“Is she gone?” he asked.

“She will be soon. I’m giving her a replacement.”

“Oh, okay,” he said, and continued standing there doing nothing.

“Why don’t you go get a mop and start on the puddles by the register?”

“Oh, okay,” he said, and continued standing there doing nothing.

Whatever.

I grabbed the book from the shelf. It was dusty, from years of sitting there, but I checked the middle pages and they were all accounted for. Honestly, I’d been meaning to read this one too but never got around to it for some reason.

I returned to the register, victorious. “I’ve found a pristine copy for you, ma’am. One hardback printing of Tales from Starved Childhoods by Cassandra Erica.”

“Thank you so much,” she replied, taking it from me. “I was really getting into it. The missing pages threw me off my rhythm, but now I can finish the book. It’s perhaps the funniest thing I’ve ever read.” She winked at me and walked away, leaving her old copy behind. I would have almost enjoyed the exchange if I didn’t have to mop the damn floors.

Penned 2023.08.12

[ID: Kirk standing in front of a chalkboard covered in doodles, looking dirty and exhausted as he yells, “No blah blah blah!”]

Perhaps in awe of this legendary bit of screenwriting, the kids shut up for a minute, long enough for Kirk to talk about how, if they don’t help the Enterprise crew, there’s soon not going to be anything left: no games, no Grups, no Onlies. All this does is prompt Jahn to give a nod to a kid with a club, who tries to come up on Kirk from behind, but unsurprisingly the preteen isn’t much of a match for him. Undeterred, Jahn continues his offensive, leading the kids to slowly close in on Kirk while menacingly (and annoyingly) chanting “nya-yah-yah-yah-yah.” Kirk tries to explain to them about the disease, how it’s going to claim them all eventually if they don’t let the crew help, but annoying sidekick boy attacks him from behind and Kirk goes down in the ensuing mob.

A moment later he staggers out again, now bleeding from a few places, and confronts Jahn head-on. Head-Jahn, so to speak.

Kirk calls a meeting, I guess so everyone can tell him again that they don’t know anything. His log tells us that they’ve been hanging out trapped by this thing for eighteen hours now, and you can really tell that it’s taking its toll because Sulu has already passed out at the table.

[ID: A screenshot of several people--Kirk, Spock, Scotty, McCoy, Sulu and Lt. Bailey--gathered around a briefing table with a coffee thermos and several information ‘discs’ on it. Scotty, Spock and Bailey are moving to sit down, Kirk is sitting at the head of the table, McCoy is sitting on the table at the other end holding a cup of coffee, and Sulu is sitting opposite McCoy with his head down on one arm.]

[ID: A screenshot of a middle-aged white man with short gray hair, wearing a blue jumpsuit over a dark blue shirt. The jumpsuit has a logo on the left breast showing a white hand with a stylized bird between the finger and thumb, with a sun symbol behind the hand. The man is smiling in a particularly smug, sinister kind of way.]

Dr. Adams warmly welcomes them to 'Devil’s Island’, definitely the sort of nickname you would give a kind, compassionate rehabilitation center with the best intentions towards its inmates. Kirk introduces Dr. Noel, who says please, call me Helen, so we don’t get all these doctors confused around here. Suit yourself, but if I achieved a doctorate, you can bet I’d make everyone call me Doctor. I’d make my family call me Doctor. I’d make people in the group chat call me Doctor. Some dude says he’s also a doctor? Good for him, but I’m not making way for him.

Kirk offers to check his phaser, but Dr. Adams says that won’t be necessary as long as he keeps it out of sight. Sure, those boring old prison regulations might not let you walk around with a lethal weapon at your hip, but we’re all friends here! What could go wrong? Now let’s drink a toast! Hooray!

[ID: Two Kirks sitting side by side at a table loaded with plates of food and various bits of dishware. One Kirk is wearing his usual gold uniform shirt, the other is wearing a jumpsuit that is half green and half blue. Standing behind them, tall enough to be mostly out of frame, is the android Ruk in his gray and pink robes.]

Korby watches smugly as Kirk is unable to trip up Kirkbot, before he sends Kirkbot out of the room. Then he finally starts to explain some things: he says that if he had continued the entire process he could have transferred all of Kirk into the android, uploading his brain, his self, his very soul into the machine. Which is either hyperbole or Korby has scientifically proven the existence of a human soul, in which case I think he really should have led with that one.

Anyway, Korby’s whole point is that with this technology humans can become functionally immortal by uploading themselves into android bodies. Kirk isn’t impressed; he says that’s the same old promise made by people like Genghis Khan, Julius Caesar, Hitler, Ferris and Maltuvis. Uh…okay, back up here. I don’t know what those last two guys got up to but while my history is a bit shaky I’m pretty sure none of the first three guys offered to turn people into robots. I guess you could kind of maybe make a case for some of the standard ‘improve the human race’ Nazi bullshit being adjacent to this, but I think Caesar and Khan just wanted to rule a lot of people, which is not particularly nice but really isn’t all that relevant to what Korby is doing. And I think the kind of promises they made were more along the lines of “if you surrender to me my army might not burn down your entire village.”