#Rendar Frankenstein

Monday Morning Commute: A Best Friend’s Boy

a best friend's boy

I wasn’t supposed to be upset that Russell was dead.

Pops and Mahma explained to me when we first got him, years back, that he was mine to look after. After all, they reasoned, it was because of my begging and pleading that they agreed to go to a breeder in the first place. While it was true, Pops admitted, that we all fell in love with Russell’s soft whimpering and pouty eyes, he was mine to look after.

And that meant, in their parental estimation, not only enjoying the benefits but also dealing with the baggage. And to do so with the grace and poise for which our family — the Eldertons — was known.

So, needless to say, Pops and Mahma were none too thrilled when they found me cradling Russell’s body on the morning that I found him, gently and peacefully, dead in the backyard. I was crying, and they were disgusted, but I told them that Russell was my best friend and they should honor my feelings even if they didn’t agree with them.

I wasn’t supposed to be upset that Russell was dead, they told me. I was supposed to know that Russell’s lifespan, given his breed, was going to be short, they told me. I was supposed to stop crying, and when I collected myself I could go back to the breeder and get a new Russell, they told me.

But they’d never told me that it was risky for me to get Russell in the first place. They’d never told me that something’d gone awry when I was programmed. They’d never told me that I’d been glitch-maxxed for empathy.

I wasn’t supposed to be upset that Russell was dead, but he was more than just a human being to me.

He was my best friend.

—-

Welcome to the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE!

Now that you’ve survived another one of my brain-damaged attempts at drivel fiction, it’s time to discuss the upcoming week’s activities.

What’re you going to do to curb the blow of another workweek? What’re you looking forward to? What’s getting you jacked up and ready to embrace existence?

I’ll start.

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Monday Morning Commute: Unholy Water

Unholy Water

The well had dried.

Just to be sure, Louise through dropped a stone and listened eagerly, waiting for a PLOP! and a renewed hope. All she got was a THUNK! and a reaffirmed desperation. It wasn’t looking good.

Louise turned the pail upside to triple-check for any signs of water, and when gravity told her that she was shit out of luck she almost cried. She would’ve, too, if she wasn’t’ already so dehydrated. At this point, she was sure her blood was turning into dust and that her next period would look more like Lawrence of Arabia than Dracula.

“Fuck it,” Louise muttered, dropping the pail and looking to the sky. Not. A. Cloud. In. Sight. Her only hope – the only hope – of getting water would be to march down to Padre Sausalita’s house and knock on the door. Diligent as ever, the good Padre’d anticipated the drought and had pre-ordered countless gallons so that the congregation’d never run out of holy water.

The only problem? Louise had promised herself that if she ever saw him again, she’d kill Padre Sausalita. In fact, she’d promised herself that she’d drag his scab-ass to a big `ole mirror and slit his throat in front of it so that he’d be able to watch himself bleed out.

And Louise never broke a promise.

—-

This right here? This is the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE!

First, I caffeinate myself into enough of a frenzy to offer a bit of prose — call it microfiction or short narrative or drivel-fiction — for your reading pleasure! Then, I present the various means I’ll be using in the upcoming Monday-through-Friday to cope with the workweek. Finally, you hop into the comments section and offer your own anti-ennui elixirs.

It’s not much more than show-and-tell, but it’s a fairly well-attended event aboard SPACESHIP OL!

Okay, let’s rock!

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Monday Morning Commute: Subversive Verses

Subversive Verses

The Black-and-Blues were chasin’ me through the bazaar, gainin’ more and more ground than I’d thought they would’ve. Bastards. I pumped my legs harder and harder. Searched deeper and deeper in my ash-lungs. Ordered a drink when my bartender-heart flicked the lights and bellowed “Last call.”

Somehow, I burst outta the market without bein’ bludgeoned by `em. But that don’t mean that the lawmen’d given up. Hell no – you’d better believe that when the Black-and-Blues’ve worked up a thirst, they ain’t gonna stop `til they slake it with blood.

I pushed on, never stoppin’ until I saw her.

She stood at the end of the pier, smile beamin’ and hand extendin’.

We’d traveled the long hard road together, and there was no takin’ it back. None of it. Even if I’d wanted to – which you’d better believe I didn’t – there was no chance in Hell that’d we be able to undo what we’d done. The State don’t look too kindly on subversion.

And when you’re in the business of robbin’ banks and usin’ that money to fund off-world rockets for those who’ve failed all of the State’s prerequisite exams, well, y’better believe they’re lookin’ at you as subverts.

Feelin’ the heat on my heels, I ran to her, extendin’ my hand and reachin’ for hers. And when our hands interlocked, I clenched. Real goddamn hard, too. And that beamin’ smile of hers became a shootin’ scowl.  Which worked perfect, `cause once I put my blade to her neck she knew what I was doin’ but couldn’t protest through the pain.

The Black-and-Blues saw a subversive maniac threatenin’ to slit the throat of a woman. She saw the sonofabitch she loved takin’ the hard hit for the team, headfirst into the goddamn boards. And I saw the woman I loved walk away, untouched by the State and free to do as she pleased.

Needless to say, it was pretty fuckin’ righteous when she turned around and pulled out her heater.

—-

Welcome to the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE!

Now that you’ve slogged through (or skipped!) my drivel-fiction, it’s time that we all share what we’ll be checking out this week. What movies, albums, action figures, TV shows, video games, sandwiches, or other entertaining entities are you looking forward to this week?

Remember, you’ll be dead before you know it, so you might as well enjoy some life!

I’ll get us started!

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Monday Morning Commute: reunited and the blood’s gone cold.

reunited and the blood

They tryta tell ya not to worry.
“Don’t worry about it, everything will be fine.”

They tryta tell ya that it’s not really fuckin’ weird.
“What you’re feeling, right now, it’s perfectly normal.”

They tryta tell ya that what — or, I guess, who – you’re seein’ is familiar.
“Look! There he is! He’s opened his eyes! See, he’s waving to you! Wave back!”

But I’ll be goddamned if I ain’t never seen nothin’ less familiar.
“Go ahead – go into the room and give him a hug!”

And I’ll be good goddamned if there ain’t nothin’ I’d ever wanted to destroy more.
“Here, let me bring you in! I can only imagine what waiting for The Reuniting has felt like.”

Unfortunately, turns out that paperworkin’ and payin’ and waitin’ all felt like shit, and that shit felt like gold compared to this shit.

Unfortunately, turns out that bein’ Reunited with your once-dead son don’t feel so good as they tryta tell ya.

Unfortunately, turns out that seein’ your once-dead son openin’ his eyes and wavin’ at ya don’t feel so good when ya could only afford to upload his mind into a bootleg clone.

They tryta tell ya not to worry.
Worry.

—-

Come one, come all, step right up, folks: this is the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE!

First, I spit prose-nonsense at you (that’s the stuff at the top). Then, I try to apologize for it by sharing a list of pop culture detritus I’ll be chewing on all week (that’s the stuff you’ll see after the jump). Finally, you hit up the comments and tell us what you’ll be entertainment-consuming this week.

Right this way, hombres!

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Monday Morning Commute: Grace & the Face of Annihilation

Grace and the Face of Annhilation

Welcome to the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE!

What’s the deal with the MMC, you ask? Well, this is the weekly feature that sees me vomitin’ a bit of short prose at you, and then apologizin’ by way of showin’ off the worthwhile entertainment I’ll be checkin’ out throughout the week.

Then, if you’re not totally repulsed, you hit up the comments section and tell us about the movies, TV programs, video juegos, rap songs, snacks, and other delectables you’ll be chompin’ on so as to make the workweek a bit more bearable.

Yes, you’re right — it is sorta like show-and-tell for Internet Maniacs. Let’s boogie, y’bastards!

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Monday Morning Commute: The Easy Winter

The Easy Winter

“Let’s keep things in perspective – it was an easy winter.”

He thought of the foals they’d lost. Breathing labored and desperate. Eyelids too gummed up to open. Hot blood draining into cold snow.

He thought of the job they’d botched. Hyperdrive malfunctioning in subzero. Automatons screaming in death throes. Too few minerals for too many men to two-time `em all.

He thought of what this life’d cost. The honor. The glory. The woman.

“Easy winter? Hombre, there ain’t no such thing.”

—-

Welcome to the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE! This is the spot for sharin’ our survival tactics, the showcasin’ of wares we’ll be relyin’ upon to survive the workweek. `Cause it’s lookin’ bad out there, folks, so if we’re goin’ to keep the gaspipes from our lips, well, then we’re goin’ to need something to keep us gaspin’ for oxygen!

I’ll start this rock’n’roll dance-off!

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Monday Morning Commute: Electron Elixir

electron elixir

Welcome to the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE!

What’re we going to do? Well, first I’ll share a bit of word-nonsense that I brain-bloodletted. Then, I’ll run through some of the pop culture and slop culture I’m devouring in the hopes of filling the existential void this week.

Then, if you’re feeling kinky, you can hit up the comments section and share the ingredients you’ll be using to create an Anti-Ennui Potion.

Okay, time to rock!

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Monday Morning Commute: Remember the Bloodletting

Remember the BloodlettingOne time I got my ram stolen.

It was the morning of the Harvest Festival. My thirteenth Harvest Festival. And as such, I was going to get to prove my Worth to the Tribe. I was going to sacrifice Demeter, the family ram, in front of the Great Altar, and in doing so I’d be acknowledged as a Member Whose Voice is Heard.

It was to be a bloody, gruesome, and glorious rite of passage.

But I woke up to Skinny Tina, my kid sister, screeching “He stoled it! He stoled Demeter!”

“Who stole Demeter?”

“Peter-Boy!”

Peter-Boy was my rival, and not in no friendly way, neither. His family’d provided more for him than they’d ever should have. And the Tribe’d provided more than it should have. But he just couldn’t get his shit together. So when he lost his family’s goat just a week before his thirteenth Harvest Festival, he found himself in the most unenviable position of not having a viable sacrifice for the Great Altar.

No sacrifice, no way to prove Worth to the Tribe. And let me tell you, the stink of trying to prove your Worth during your fourteenth Harvest? It don’t dissipate quick.

So when I gently instructed Peter-Boy to “Give me back the ram or I’ll tear your goddamn lungs outta yer chest” it shouldn’t’ve been no surprise that he’d flash a blade. But! It shouldn’t’ve been no surprise to him when I flashed my own. We darted and slashed and dashed, and when it was all over there was a clear victor.

That nite, I became a Member Whose Voice is Heard. And I did it by spilling blood for the second time that day. And it was bloody and gruesome and glorious.

—-

Welcome to the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE! Remember way back in kindergarten when you’d have to bring in something to show the class? And then you’d tell the class all `bout it? And everyone would get excited? And then you’d kinda forget that you were even in the Indoctrination Camp school in the first place?

Think of the MMC as the same idea, just amplified in importance. What sort of pop culture, subculture, and uncultured nonsense are you going to consume to stave off the Void this week?

I’ll get us started!

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Monday Morning Commute: Drink of the Chalice and Dream of the Sun

drink-of-the-chalice

Standing in front of the starcruiser’s big bay windows, Lonnie stared into the abyss of the chalice in his hands.

“G’head now, m’boy, no needsfer delayin’.”

“But, but, Grampa…I…I don’t wanna. It smells bad.”

“Maybe so, maybe so. But if we’re gonna kick this baby into hyperspace, we needta go to sleep first. So be a g’boy and drink up.”

Lonnie’s gaze shifted from the chalice to bay windows and then back to the chalice. He thought, just for a moment. A single moment. Just long enough to remember Momma and Poppa and Brother Reggie and how good it felt to be on terra firma, grass between the toes and sun upon the brow. How good it would feel, again.

And then he drank.

“Thazzaboy! Okay, Lonnie, y’goan to your sleep-pod now and I’mma set the coordinates!”

“Sweet dreams, Grampa! Hope you dream of the sun like I’m gonna!”

“Thazz right! Thazz right! Dream of the sun!”

And with that Grampa took a swig deep enough to empty the chalice. And then he sat down in front of the big bay windows of the starcruiser. And then he started to dream of the sun. And then he dreamed of his son, and dreamed of his son dreaming of Lonnie. And then he wept and wept and closed his eyes tight.

`Cause when you’re two hyperjumps away from home and you’re out of fuel, all you can do is dream of the sun.

—-

This is a public announcement. The MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE has been commandeered. My name is Rendar Frankenstein and I mean you no harm. Join me and we’ll discuss what the fuck we’ll do in the hopes of getting out of this workweek in one piece.

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Weekend Open Bar: UNHOLY MATRIMONY

Unholy Matrimony

[Whelp, this weekend is it. Samantha will officially become Samantha Omega this weekend, as she and I get married after a year and a half of planning. Trust me, Mr. and Mrs. Omega’s Open Bar will be flowing on Saturday evening.] [0101001010REDACT+DELETE]

Listen up! CAFFPOW is gettin’ hitched on Saturday! As such, he’s going to be a mess of matrimonial bliss, green-medicinal smoke cloud, and bubble-spirit brain-smash! Hell, I’m not even sure this post’ll list me as the writer, since I’m just messin’ up something CAFFPOW already wrote.

That’s right, you sons-of-bitches — it’s Rendar Frankenstein back in the house and I want to know what the hell you’re doin’ this weekend!

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