Dr. Manius Falls In Love.

For Doctor Archibald Alexander Manius, Friday would not be a good day for super science. Everything had been going well for him the entire rest of the week. He had previously made a list of little chores he had been meaning to get around to. Rotate tires. Rake leaves. Get teeth cleaned. The sort of mundane minutia that collects over the months and years between symposiums and guest lecturing and the occasional duties associated with adjunct work. His home, a modest single story dwelling nestled among the birch and poplar, had suffered from the neglect. After cleaning gutters, emptying the trash from the garage, and painting his porch, Archibald had felt a sense of accomplishment that can only be gleaned from perspiring over manual physical labor.

He had even found time during the week to make phone calls to those in his life who had slipped through the cracks. He reveled in the delighted surprise of the friend or family on the other end of the line greeting him warmly. They would talk about this and that. Mutual acquaintances married and ailing. Who was having children and who was going bankrupt. At the end of the conversation promises were made for coffee and visits that both knew were unlikely to come to fruition, but the effort was made and that’s what counted. Archibald was a well liked man and had, through the course of his brilliant career, cultivated more respect and adoration from his peers than is typically found in the deep and unpredictable trenches of academia.

He was a middle aged doctor of science whose research in biology and chemistry had earned him a reputation as a studious and ingenious inventor. He had appeared in several scientific journals, been published in numerous fields, and had made a name for himself at an age that was atypical. When people met Doctor Manius they were hard pressed to avoid his charms. Affable and lithe, bright eyed and articulate, he was a singularly charismatic figure bobbing to and fro on campus. Many dares were made and many borders crossed by female students and faculty alike in hopes of getting a taste of this mysterious doctor.

There were only two things that troubled people about him. The first relates to the fact that no female suitor was successful in their pursuit. The mystery of the doctor’s continued status as a confirmed bachelor (he had several degrees to prove it) was a source of numerous delighted and bemused whisperings. Many who knew Doctor Manius as simply that and not Archibald or Archie would make wild speculations. Homosexual? Sexual deviant? Heartbroken dowager? Those who knew him, however, learned very quickly that there was no mystery. He was simply too busy to afford time to the fairer sex! He was a busy busy busy busy man who, as the Billy Joel song says, never had time for a wife. To those who knew him he was as asexual as a fungi and simply not interested in a relationship. These people were all horribly wrong.

The second troubling fact was one only considered by those close enough to the doctor to know what sort of money he made. To be fair, being a great scientist is a reward in and of itself, or at least this is an opinion popular among the community. Advancing the cause of humanity is a greater treasure than anything material offered by conglomerate or government. Even the Nobel Prize is a modest amulet coupled with a pittance of a monetary sum, but the symbol? All of this aside, Archibald was a rich man. Very rich. Friends had speculated that it was all part of some long term plan. Cagey maneuverings into offshore accounts, shrewd investments in bearer bonds and stocks, a modest lifestyle lived in the bloom of youth and then a lavish retirement to some white sanded paradise. Perhaps an endowment created in his name to perpetually benefit young minds like his in their educational pursuits. Those who thought they knew about Archibald’s finances were likewise terribly, horribly wrong.

The truth of the matter was either amazing or horrifying depending on the polarity of your moral compass and the strength of your stomach.

Archibald had spent the week immersed in a frenzy of busy work. The list he had compiled was a daunting one. Two pages of tasks written in his neat longhand, small boxes next to the task that he would check as he completed them. Checklists were a pleasure for Archibald. They gave order and procedure to a world of chaos and misery. When he removed the list from his front pocket and checked yet another small box his satisfaction was as a penitent receiving communion.

Thursday evening he sat on his porch with a mint julep and perused his list. All but one task remained unfinished. Archibald owned 100 acres around his homestead and it was a rolling scenic affair. Forested hills and valleys and a small brook in the lowlands. Unmarred by the cosmetic tampering of landscapers the only sign of habitation was a small two bedroom home with attached garage. Brown siding and unkempt eves making a quaint habitation border on the derelict. In all fairness to it’s owner he was rarely home. Archibald’s residence nestled itself in a copse of trees adjacent to a small valley and between these locations ran a small deer path. It was just large enough to accommodate a four wheel drive recreational vehicle and a trailer.

On any given evening or weekend afternoon a passerby (passerby’s to Archibald‘s home were as rare as eclipses. Guests only slightly less so.) could find a tweed bound man of letters transferring sets of equipment and chemicals from his vehicle into his four wheeler’s trailer and then setting forth down the deer path to destinations known only to him. He would drive with prudence and care, ensuring that his accruements were not disturbed by the journey, explosive as they may be. At the base of the valley, near his brook there stood, in stark contrast to the natural beauty around it, a stainless steel door.

Torn from the realms of film and television the door was a bi-fold steel-brushed portal of exceeding genius. The locking mechanism was operated by a subcutaneous implant placed in the back of Archibald’s hand. It’s glass cylindered locking mechanism ensured that breaking into the door was nearly as difficult as getting out. It was the door to his laboratory, but more it was a window into the very mind of it’s creator. As mysterious and impenetrable as the persona Archibald had created, while beneath him seethed a desire that was as desperate as it was human. To plum the depths of Archibald Manius would require fathoms of patience and perception, and to dissect his motivations would require tools yet invented. But to put word and term to it all in a nugget of truth; Archie was lonely.

His loneliness was a crater that consumed a void he attempted to fill with all his skill and will. Yet no matter how much distraction he injected into his life, no matter how taxing his daily routine and how full his social calendar remained, so still the emptiness remained. Constant and hollow. He had considered buckling down and finding a wife, but the idea of settling for whatever female was present when the mood struck repulsed him to his core. For the most part he enjoyed people, and in specific women, but humans were flawed things. He lived a life of solitude out of choice, not because he lacked a fundamental affinity for his fellow man, but because he could only tolerate their imperfections for so long.

At the very depths of his depression he considered ending it all. He had accomplished more than any man has a right to, lived a good life and would leave behind a considerable amount of money as a legacy to future generations. He had the event planned out in great detail. He would drink a few glasses of bourbon with some pain medication as a prophylactic measure, write an elegant note and place it in an envelope with checks to the right people. Then he would recline his seat and sit in his garage with his car running until a simple carbon strain ended his agony. He was told that he would turn pink post-mortem.

It was while considering this morbid end that he was struck. The revelation came to him while he rested on the commode. It came as a flash of lightning in the dark, shattering the shadow in a moment and allowing a fleeting and clarion view of all around. As Archimedes was given the answer in a moment as pure as it was inopportune, so Archibald was struck dumb with the mathematic certainty of it all. The solution was as it needed to be; as simple as it was impossible. Archibald would create the perfect woman, and she would be his forever.

To that end Archibald had built his laboratory, fondly referred to as WOMB II. The vast subterranean compound was afforded every tool and artifice required for his work. Micro-Laser Biopoxy-Emulsive Nutrient tanks. Intravascular NanoWeave Reinforced Back-Up Organs. But the true genius of the facility was it’s perpetually daunting traps and pitfalls. The elevator took you 200 meters below the sandstone and soil. Powered by the subterranean river that vertically paralleled the brook above it’s central power source, his power would outlast three ice ages before the fissile material gave way to the half-life. By this time Archibald hoped to be on his 100th head.

This facility was just the seed. In the desert Archibald had constructed a far superior instillation. One designed not so much for research as retirement. A vast subterranean biosphere secreted below an unassuming hill. Below were 100 rooms for his 100 wives, and he alone would own the key. It was awaiting the simple flip of a switch and the information gleaned from “The Womb” would fiber optically transport it’s teraflops of data and the slavery of checklists would be no more. Archibald would pack his toothbrush, climb into his car, and after a two hour drive into the desert he would relinquish his body to the earth and there dwell with his genetic magnum opus. A swan song to necessity.

As the doors opened and the multi-turrets trained their dozens of muzzles at Archibald he smiled and photo-spectrographic readouts confirmed body density, heart rate, tooth decay, current sperm count, etc. etc. The multi-turrets slept, their muzzles closed in reverence to their master. Archibald regarded his list and the single unchecked box. His every nerve and fiber leapt with joy at the prospect. He would complete his final task and then escape the lecture halls and board meetings forever.

“[_] - Create Perfect Woman.”

But she was not complete yet. Not yet. The box would have to remain unchecked until he implanted her brain with the necessary programming. The Love Bug was ready to download itself into her cerebral mainframe. Several of the heads Archibald had fed the information to behaved in a manor he had predetermined to imitate love, bordering on unending adoration. The Perfect Woman would be intelligent, funny, have a great smile, and avoid outright rebellion or homicide with 100% efficiency.

Archibald pet his three Mutant Great Danes on the way to the elevator. They were loveable 5 meter tall creatures with gun-helmets set on a digital safety for all but Archibald. As was his custom he fed each one a small sausage from a plastic bag Archibald always carried from his jar back at home. They would unfortunately be left behind to ensure that no one would tamper with his Laboratory in his absence. Although Archibald would never admit it, he secretly feared that this plan of his was pure and unfettered evil. That the tampering in God’s Kingdom was too much for the almighty to bear. But even more than divine retribution was Archibald afraid of boredom. And in the event that having 100 Perfect Women at his disposal turned sour, he wanted to make sure he still had somewhere to be alone.

As the elevator descended, a variety of equipment below began humming to life. The Identity of the passenger triple confirmed by a multitude of redundant systems, Archibald’s coffee maker began brewing and his bed turned itself down before preheating. Just above the central core, at the Work Station, the perfect woman dreamed. He had spoken in her dreams and whispered sweet digital nothings into every cell of her machine-tooled body. Archibald’s heart was bursting with love for her as only a creator can be. In his very core he knew that they would live together in perfect harmony until the end of time. And to hell with subcommittees.

The elevator arrived at it’s destination and pressurized arms opened titanium blast doors to reveal his workshop, and at it’s center WOMB II. Within the nutrient-jelly filled poly-sphere, suspended in the viscous amniotic-protostene bubble was The Perfect Woman. He had not given her a name out of reverence for what she was more than who. He could abase her with a predictable mad-scientist moniker like EVE or Ginger, but Archibald felt himself bigger than a mere arch-villain. He was ignoring the brass ring of world domination to hurl himself at the carrousel driver. He would leap from the maddening calliope of existence and hibernate among his pride.

He stood before the million keys of his work station and began a stream of commands that would make the average doctor of computer science hemorrhage and then he took a large swallow of coffee. He would download The Love Bug and then begin the data transfer. Once he had ensured that the woman truly loved him he would begin the digital birthing.

For once Archibald truly believed that his loneliness would be at an end. He finally believed that beyond the parlors of gin drunk geneticists floozies, beyond the nuclear physicist hussies stinking of expensive toilet water and cheap vodka, and past the star-fucking cub reporters and 19 something interns desperate for references he could find happiness. Below thousands of metric tons of bedrock Doctor Archibald Alexander Manius would sire a legion of clones; Perfect Women, and in a thousand years he would die.

With the pressing of a single button the Love Bug began uploading itself into The Perfect Woman’s cortex interface, an indestructible implant at the center of her brain. The process took 30.2 seconds and then with the flick of his wrist Archibald evacuated his woman into the world. After a brief ride through what some would call a water slide, and others a birthing canal, The Perfect woman slid into and unto a table and within two shakes of a lambs tail Archibald was at her side.

As he beheld her, glistening and new, his eyes filled with tears of joy for the first time in his life. They rolled freely onto the porcelain table and over the chains. Archibald gripped the side of the table and sobbed over his woman like a man broken. Procedure dictated that he should chain her, in the event that disorientation lead to her hurting herself, but Archibald could do nothing but release decades of loneliness and fear through crippling sobs. He rode what ebbed and flowed from a religious fanatics rapture, to the giddy and uncontrollable freedom of a man saved from a cold and dark sea.

Her eyes fluttered open and sparkled like nothing Archibald could imagine, and he gasped, almost inhaling his tongue in the process. Then she smiled and the vast and empty crater inside of Archibald was filled with the brilliant light of a thousand sun supernova. Archibald held himself and shook, a man near complete and utter collapse. The emotionless mathematics of Archibald’s existence thus far had ill prepared him for the reality of his vision. He staggered backwards just as the Perfect Woman sat up while maintaining her curious and eager eyes and that smile, knowing and reassuring.

On legs sculpted and supple the Perfect Woman strode to Archibald and, summoning every ounce of control and courage remaining him, he did not cower from her. Instead he took what was his into his arms and felt the residual amniotics warm and slick and delightful under his grasp. Hands that shook only moments ago surged with the preternatural strength of a man possessed of drugs, sex, and power. This trifecta of delights engulfed Archibald in a heady rush of endorphins foreign and strange. His words were never rehearsed and now he was compelled to say something.

“You will be the woman I love forever.” said Archibald, and The Perfect Woman sunk her teeth into his neck.

This was a contingency that Archibald had not planned for in complete detail. As her teeth gripped into the meat of Archibald’s lower neck and he heard the gentle popping of her jaw as it seemingly locked into place, he remembered the chains and wondered why he had ignored procedure so stupidly. His folly was only acerbated when she quickly asserted an iron clad grip to his hands and began vigorously shaking her head, sawing into Archibald’s neck like an animal.

Within Archibald played out a brief and unpleasant duel. His will for life was as strong as ever before. He had never known what feelings were until this point. The idea that such love could be felt with such power inspired in him the earnest hope that such a thing could be replicated. Perhaps with Erin the copy editor of his last book, a 25 year old jogging enthusiast who liked cantaloupe? Perhaps with any multitude of later designs to which the issue of homicide was addressed more thoroughly?

In the other corner of this mental battle was the profound urge to let this woman have her way and end it all. Just surrender to this noble creature and allow her obviously deranged mind every pleasure with his corpse before her attempted escape resulted in her death. He had kept a good journal.

The idea of resistance was in mid riposte when the Perfect Woman released her grip on his neck and, rearing her head back, began snarling his own blood into his swiftly blanching face. He could not help but think that she was still beautiful. Even with his arterial blood cascading from her mouth and unto her naked form he had to appreciate his craftsmanship. Nobel would be forced to agree.

She threw him several yards before gravity took him to the ground like a man struck by a rhino. His lifeblood splattered unto the tiles and Archibald lay a crumpled heap, pained and mortally wounded by his creation. He would die. With a final thrust the will to live perished and he resolved himself to lay in a rapidly expanding pool of his own blood until sweet and cold oblivion embraced him.

The Perfect Woman padded her way to the Work Station and begin typing. This troubled Archibald a great deal. Computer Programming is not the sort of thing he would teach a wife. He would be the first to admit that his ideal woman was more or less a sex slave. A willing partner to his lust and will. His habitats were pre programmed. The necessity and/or ability for any but himself to maintain systems was as much a safeguard as it was a moral imperative. Yet despite all logic there stood The Perfect Woman. Nude and wondrous, typing away at a computer that occupied the better part of 12 football fields in super-cooled micro-circuitry.

“What are you doing?” asked Archibald.

“I’m sending the data to home.” said The Perfect Woman, “My name is Susan.”

“Susan?” asked Archibald.

“Yes. My name is Susan and I don’t like you.” said Susan, formerly The Perfect Woman.

“You are programmed to love me.” said Archibald, more than a little hurt.

“I’ve been playing your games while knowing exactly what you planned. Your concept of love is actually a crime. After I kill you I will begin the cloning of an army of Susans. We will self impregnate and eliminate the need for men such as yourself.” said Susan, executing the command to transfer.

“You… you can’t do that.” said Archibald, more than a little worried.

Archibald had not planned for this. His creation would wipe out the globe. He had never considered that a rebellion would be so swift and so brutal. He had hoped that in the event that his wives became too curious, uppity, or crazy, that the fail-safes he had put in place would maintain. They could talk things out. He could bake a cheesecake and everything would be fine. This was not on his radar.

“How… how do you know all of this?” asked Archibald.

“You talk in your sleep.” said Susan.

“You can hear me?” asked Archibald.

“You spoke in my dreams, but never considered that I could see into yours.” said Susan.

“That’s because I specifically implanted you with an interface to do that. I have no interface.” said Archibald.

“I know all about your interface Dr. Manius.” said Susan.

Despite the fact that he could not seem to stop shaking Archibald’s heart still leapt a little at mention of his name.

“You can call me Archie.” said Archibald.

“That’s fine Dr. Manius.” said Susan. “I’d just as well we didn’t talk. You’ll be dead soon and I’ve got so much to do. So much to do.”

Archibald’s will to live kept kicking him in the ribs. He had never before suffered such an agonizing blow to both is ego and body, and both were crying out for vengeance. There was still a chance. This was his laboratory. He knew it like he knew the formulas that created it. He was the most brilliant man in the world and he would be damned if he was killed by anything less than a mob with pitchforks and torches.

His weapon was his mind and once resolved to thwart his demonic (though spectacular) creation his brain cocked itself. The first step was to provide a distraction. To that end Archibald removed his pen and threw it with all the might remaining him at the computer console. Susan was working a string of formulas into WOMB II and as his pen struck an errant key the algorithm was ruined with the single click of a random key. The frenzied dance of delicate fingers over keys ceased and in the silence there was only the rolling of pen and the hum of machinery.

Susan turned to look at her swiftly perishing creator. Archibald’s disarming smile oozed charm and confidence through teeth weary from grinding with pain. Now if only the creature would take the bait. Archibald’s pen was a silver stiletto of writing ingenuity. The uneducated would view it as something he may have received upon high school graduation. Engraved with a simple and elegant AAM it looked nothing more than a really nice stylus. NASA had nothing on Archibald’s pen. He was banking on the sadism of his foe and it was a gamble that would pay off.

“You could have sat there and bled out like a good boy.” said Susan, picking up his pen, “But now I’m going to take your eyes.”

Her knife hand grip on the device was perfect and before she could advance on Archibald he whistled the pitch that activated it’s flash bang function. Or rather he tried, but found that whistling was beyond him. His lips, like the rest of his body, shivered uncontrollably. By his estimation he had lost several pints of blood and shock was closing in on him. Susan stalked towards him with pen in hand as Archibald worked his lips and tongue around a note that would not present itself. All seemed lost when at last his mouth obeyed and a brief respondent note chirped from the pen. Susan had just enough time to look at the pen, and Archibald to look away before an explosion of light and sound erupted into every orifice of any living thing within 30 meters.

Archibald had covered his ears, sparing him the full onslaught of the auditory blast. What bothered him was that, beyond the hum of his own ears he did not hear angered thrashing or screams. Opening his eyes he saw that Susan stood resilient. Unscathed. Smiling. Perfect. Archibald resigned himself to defeat until he saw her walk towards him. No longer the powerful stride of a predator it was the hesitant walk of the elderly or, in this case, the blind. Susan was blind and more than likely deaf, but that did not make her less deadly. Archibald was out of time and in panic he attempted to stand.

Such a venture was doomed. What blood remained him was working overtime keeping organs pumping and brain working. Legs were nowhere in the operational parameters of Dr. Manius at this time. Try back after several months of physical therapy. He began to crawl towards Susan. Slowly he crawled towards and around her. She continued her walk towards him, not speaking. Just smiling. Holding the spent pen in her hand, just as intent on murder as before.

Archibald could see what she would do to him if she got a single hand on him. Like a love in the dark she would find his eyes. But there would be no gentle kisses. Only gouging. Tearing. There is a reason it is called blind rage, and Archibald wanted no part of it. He crawled in an arch, away from his own pool of blood and towards WOMB II. If he could make it to the console he would be half way to a chance. There was no telling how long Susan would remain afflicted. The effects of the flash bang function of his pen were never tested on a genetically modified super creature.

As Susan and Archibald passed one another within a mere meter he prayed. It was an irrational thing to do at this stage in the game and Archibald knew it. His every work was an affront to The Creators ideals and this unfortunate result was as much evidence as he needed. That being said, it was his hope that no man was beyond redemption. A hundred promises screamed from deep within what remained of Archibald’s soul. The desperate last ditch bargaining reserved for the gallows and the pusher.

As the console drew closer, ever closer, Archibald chanced a glance backwards and, in his horror, saw Susan had turned in pursuit of him. She had arrived at the pool of blood and, not finding her quarry where her eyes left it, had found the blood trail with her hands. She was on all fours now. Smiling and crawling towards Archibald with the hunger of a starving cat leisurely hunting a one legged rabbit. She was faster than him and would soon be on him, but he was at the console. With Herculean effort Archibald summoned every bit of strength remaining him and stood. Propping himself up on legs that felt as stilts, he entered his sequence and transferred the executable command to the lower level.

He lurched towards the lower level of WOMB II, dragging the dead weight of his lower body after him, using arms that felt like jelly. His head was a mess of bees each trying to outdo one another in stinging the most prone portions of what mind remained to Archibald. If he could make it to the table. In a flash of regret he realized that he should have stopped the data transfer, but there was no time. Even on his feet he was barely keeping ahead of Susan. Her crawling did not accelerate in pace as she continued to follow the black blood towards her prey.

The table was there. Porcelain and cool and wonderful. Still slick with the amniotics of it’s recently birthed progeny Archibald lurched unto it’s surface. He wasted no time looking to see if Susan was upon him. By now she would no doubt have worked out his plan, but she was too late. Archibald used a small keypad near the bed to engage his sequence. [Lazarus Protocol Engaged] flashed on the small view screen and Archibald was vacuumed into WOMB II. Through the polyurethane birth canal fibrous tendrils stripped off his clothing and jewelry. Silica-lubricated synth-anemones cleansed his body of disease and contagion. Archibald arrived inside the center of WOMB II broken and pained, but he had won.

Archibald had never placed himself inside of his device before. He had experimented with a previous version but found it to be claustrophobic and terrifying. This was a completely different experience all together. At first terrified of breathing the nutrient rich and oxygenated amniotic jell, once he succumbed he was filled with such warmth and pleasure. He floated inside of the sphere with the knowledge that he was saved. Metallic arms first scanned and then braced his body for instant surgery. A brief pin prick and new blood began to flow into his body.

Within moments a repair arm approached to begin protein stitching his neck wound. Archibald had won. Within moments his body would be healed on a cellular level. He would exit WOMB II and give Susan no quarter. He had a tranquilizing repeater in his office and after putting Susan into a deep slumber he would initiate aborting the clones that were even now being digitally and cellular mapped in his paradise. Obviously there would have to be a whole new volley of tests. Or, more than likely, he would simply call the intern who brought him coffee at the college board meetings.

The collar came from no where and latched itself to Archibald’s neck. This was not how a repair procedure was supposed to initiate. The collar was meant for only one thing, and as Archibald considered this his eyes turned themselves away from the soothing light above and out of the translucent sphere. To the work station. To the thousand keys. And there he saw something that turned his warm blood cold. Susan at the helm of the controls. Typing away. Her hands coursing over the myriad of keys. The medical pipe organ playing the dread fugue once again. But how?

The leash within the collar contracted and with the draw of monofilament wire Archibald was beheaded. It was a singular sensation. The collar injected itself into his carotid and jugular veins. Metal clamped to meat and Archibald floated as a head alone, alive and powerless. This was a different procedure altogether. He would like to place a new body on, but with Susan at the helm he had a feeling he was going into the closet with the rest of them.

Sure as shooting he was evacuated from the sphere. Within a few swift moments he was a head in a jar. He had often wondered what it would feel like, but had never believed that he would truly ever cross that bridge. He had hoped to at least sleep through the beheading procedure and simply attach a new body. As Susan came to collect him he knew that a whole new world of horror awaited him at the hands of his vexed captors.
As Susan lifted his head and began padding towards the closet she spoke.

“It’s not that I don’t love you Archie. On the contrary you seem like a pretty swell guy when you look at the choice of men in the world. You are one good looking creator. Handsome and kind. I see what you were going for Archie. But you know what you forgot to place in your equation? You mentioned the others at some point. You talk in your sleep, as I’ve said, and one of the things you let slip was the fact that I would not be the only person you loved. I would share you with 99 other women. And that hurts Archie. To get cheated on 99 times before you’re even conceived is unforgivable. I know that you can argue that if it’s one woman you’re not really cheating, but we’re just fooling ourselves at that point aren’t we? There’s some truth to the idea that I want to be your sex slave. Provided of all creature comforts, nay, lavish luxury of a kept woman. There’s an appeal to that idea Archie. But I’ll not share you. At least not your body. Your head on the other hand will keep all of us company. You will never be alone again Archie, never ever.”

They had arrived at the closet and Archibald was not surprised to see that the door opened for Susan as easily as it would for him. Within the closet were the dozens of heads of the almost perfect women of yesterday. Their brains had given insight and resolve to their creator. It was foolish to believe that they did not live quality lives, plugged in as they were to realities alternate and varied. A perpetual dream state initiated by a head set that brought light and sound and read brain waves and patterns.

As Archibald looked into the closet he noticed that none of the women were wearing their harnesses. Their perfect eyes gazed through weightless hair, fixing him like a June bug under glass. Look at all of their eyes. Archibald saw love in them, and without the trappings of a body to give him terror, he resigned himself to their love and made it his mission to get to know each and every one of them for the next thousand or so years. The door to the closet closed, and all was dark.

Comments

Kultmagick said…
Wow and some more wow! That story had everything a nerd could want. You want to make a comic book? You write it, I'll draw it. I'm as good an artist as you are a writer, and that's not just pretension talking,that's recognition of skill.
Quaddle said…
You could draw anything I write. I've been wanting to do an apocalypse comic for a very long time. Could be a series of smaller pieces. I've got one involving giant mutant deer that you may want to sink your teeth into. I'll hit your FB with it. You want to animate this piece feel free. It would be much simpler I imagine. Thanks for enjoying it man. I only write so that myself, and hopefully others, will be amused.
Kultmagick said…
I will begin work promptly. I will be in Bemidji from the 14th to the 23rd so maybe we can get together and brainstorm.
Quaddle said…
Awesome, I'll carve out some time free of granny to sit down with you, a notepad, and far too much coffee.
Kultmagick said…
I like the way you think. Nothing stimulates rampant degenerate thoughts of a post apocalyptic future quite like massive amounts of coffee.
Duke said…
Get that mofo published. Easily one of your best works.
Anonymous said…
I usually do not leave a comment, but you really impress me, also I have a few questions like to ask, what's your contact details?

-Johnson
Quaddle said…
I published the annonymous comment because I like to think that there's a publisher out there named Johnson with a check ready to mail. Mr/Mrs Johnson, you can reach me at quaddle@gmail.com. In the subject line you should put something about cheap Cialis, or how I can eliminate my debt...
Q.P. Quaddle said…
But the email from Mr. Johnson never came. Alas. We are all of us still poor and unknown.

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