So, I’m out of town until Sunday night, and it’s entirely possible I won’t have consistent internet access where I’m going. I’ll be darned if that means I’m going to miss my updates though. But I hadn’t exactly planned ahead, because I never plan or work ahead, because I didn’t get punished enough for not doing so when I was younger so it was never a life skill I learned.
What I do have for you, though, is a preview of something that’s been on the backburner for a while. I call it, The Beast. You might also call it, Wherein the Author Thinks He’s Hunter S. Thompson.
I was standing in the bathroom of the shuttle, a tiny closet of a room, so small and cramped and inscrutably designed that you were apt to hit your head and stub your toe and skin your knee all at once if you sat down to take a shit. At the same time, the dark wizard that had envisioned the room had seen fit to make the space immediately in front of the sink tall enough that I, six-feet-and-change tall, could stand up straight. I suspected that, somehow, a shorter man might not have been able to. I suspected that seven virgins were sacrificed on the altar of Buj’et Erh, the blind idiot god of cheap shuttles, when the room was being designed. I suspected that the blueprints for the bathroom were not constructed in some fancy program created explicitly for that purpose, but were, in fact, drawn up on tanned human skin in the blood of a catamite.
I suspected that the flight attendant not-so-gently rapping on my chamber pot door was ten seconds away from notifying a Federal Air Marshal that I was some kind of a terrorist with gastric distress.
“Sir,” the androgynous drone said through the door. “We’re approaching our destination. We need you to return to your stasis pod, Sir.”
“One minute!” I shouted back, as friendly yet firmly as I could manage. “Nearly done! I’m full of parasites, and brother-and-or-sister, you really don’t want me sitting back down until I’m done in here!”