Read the masters, steal shamelessly and style independently.
Read the masters, steal shamelessly and style independently.
“When You’re in Our Cloud, We’ll Know What’s on Your Mind!”
Brash, young billionaire, Taylor McQue, built the world’s premier cloud storage company, the McQue Dynamic Data Corporation, from the ground up. He grew a company that was internationally recognized, affording him the life of a one percenter. The Company’s “Intelligent Cloud” had the capacity to store a person’s lifetime of human memories, in the form of pictures, letters, movies and notes.
McQue wanted to go further.
Through lost love, betrayal and pure genius, McQue developed the ability to live forever by storing his own biological brain’s thoughts, attitudes and experience, in essence “himself,” in a computer database. After downloading “himself” into a database server, he has the ability to then upload, “himself,” after his human body dies by loading his digitally stored mind, into a fresh, newly grown, blank brain and healthy body, thus ensuring his survival.
What if a billion dollars could buy you a guaranteed tomorrow -Forever.
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I was recently in a medical center for a visit with my doctor, and on my way to her office, I found myself momentarily captive in an unescapable temporary prison cell. I was riding an elevator twenty-two floors up, with a pair of obtuse, loud and unruly young brothers accompanied by their intensely demure, mousey mother.
After elevating a few floors their mission became apparent as to why they were in the hospital, the trio was going to visit the children’s grandfather who was recuperating after triple bypass heart surgery. The surgery was the result of a massive heart attack the older gentleman had five days earlier. As the elevator’s cables wound back on their spools, the car climbed closer and closer to the twenty-second floor.
With clear distress in her voice, the boy’s mother reminded them, their grandfather would be in a great deal of pain, and he may not seem like his usual jovial self. The two boys immediately began to compare the worst pain each of them had ever experienced. The younger of the two exclaimed, the worst pain he ever felt was “brain freeze” from drinking a frozen Slurpee too fast. The older boy was nearly in tears as he relived sliding down the climbing rope in Gym Class. He was about twelve feet up hanging on the rope with both hands when he began to slip. Instead of letting go and landing on the safety cushion directly beneath him, he hung on tightly and slid down, both hands gripping the rope, burning and tearing his fleshy palms the entire way down. His hands required an antibiotic ointment to be applied twice daily, prior to being wrapped with sterile gauze leaving him with hands, that of a mummy for a full week.
Their mother remained silent as we passed the twentieth floor, she was getting ready to face her greatest pain. She was especially close to her father, in part because she was an only child and because her mother died young. She was old enough to endure the torment, depression and truly deep pain her mother’s death inspired.
Upon arriving at floor twenty-two, the mother led the boys out of the elevator to their grandfathers room, she grew pale and moved in a trance like state with each step toward his room. She knew she was likely to acquire a new high point on her pain scale. A tear welled, she wiped it away quickly. She smiled at her boys and said, “let’s see Poppy now,” as cheerful as possible.
The cheer was a lie, when she saw her dying daddy she confirmed she had indeed felt a new high point, a ten out of ten, on her pain scale. Looking at her frail, confused and small father was overwhelming and horrendously painful. This is the worst pain she has ever endured, this is her truth. As is a young boy’s rope burn, his worst pain ever, a true ten out of ten on a pain scale. And the youngest brother is entirely valid when he reported his worst pain ever was “brain freeze” the result of a quickly consumed Slurpee.
After three more floors up, I got off the elevator and checked into my doctor’s office for my appointment. Included in the paperwork I was asked to complete, was a document titled: The Standardized 1-10 pain scale rating. Question number one asked what was my level of pain today?
I quickly thought through the elevator ride and noted that for individuals, pain is extremely personal. Without understanding what a ten out of ten represents, without knowing the reference point a subject uses to compare their pain, a one out of ten pain scale is entirely flawed and irrelevant.
If the worst pain I’ve ever felt, a ten out of ten, was after I survived a brutal auto accident that left me with multiple broken bones, a ruptured spleen and a punctured lung and this is my truth, the boy with “brain freeze” claiming this is his worst pain ever experienced, should be treated equally. Shots of morphine for pain control for both the auto accident victim and the victim of the dreaded “brain freeze. After all, one mans rope burned palm is another mans double amputation, and loss of sight.
I’ll take the physical pain, a true ten outta’ ten, hurt like a son-of-a-gun pain, over the emotional pain, painless tormenting pain. The physical stuff is easy, temporary. The words, “I hate you, you’re ugly,” or “I’m leaving you” even a simple spit ball shot at the back of my head by a school mate, that, for me, truly is the greatest pain I’ve felt in this life, an absolute ten out of ten on a pain scale.
I’ve noticed several similarities between; being a serial killer, and being a writer. Hell, right off the top, in each profession, you; make your own hours, work alone, make little to no money, the reward is in the joy of the process. The writer and killer can find orgasmic highs and penitentiary gallows lows, in each endeavor. Interesting that both writers and serial killers typically work under pseudonyms, just an observation: Mr. Jack (D.L) “The Ripper” Edison. To be continued and thoroughly vetted. Or, crap, the whole situation may require absolute avoidance, were I to find a dead body under my bed. Be that the case, least I’d know, I’m not a fuckin’ writer. So, until I get a whiff of decaying flesh where I sleep, I’ll keep my pen to paper and tell myself, I’m a killer writer.
A love story. I really love this story, I can’t wait to write it. I have to iron out the simple dynamics of inter-species love, the small stuff like; how the hell is a God damn, tree swinging monkey, gonna fuck a sea dwelling Manta Ray, that he happens to fall in love with, and who’s gonna raise the little monkey-manta prodigy? TBD. But, I do love it. I read a similar story, not long ago, the theme was somewhat reminiscent, but it was done in black and white: no colored allowed.
Apparently humanity has evolved
A “mass killing,” requires four or more victims, as to be properly qualified
I’m dragging my heels regarding this aspect of evolution, I have not evolved
One single; senseless, random killing, remains to strike me as massive
I will not evolve
It was a Tuesday -the first of June.
I was in Chicago.
I was looking around for the cocktail waitress that was wearing all white: dress,
I saw her a second ago, she dropped off what looked like a tall White Russian to the
dark haired hottie dressed in pink, across the room from me.
I started crying out for the bar wench; I wanted a double Canadian whiskey.
After a minute I was really yelling for my drink, trying to get a little
attention, when I noticed I was laying down -completely horizontal.
I was wearing blue; a tight, light blue suit.
The music was playing so softly, I could hardly hear Aretha sing, “I Say a Little Prayer.”
I didn’t know which club I was in because I didn’t recognize the wristband I was
wearing; I took a close look and saw that it read, Little St Mary’s Hospital/Maternity Ward.
I never did get my cocktail. I was fifty-three minutes old -recycled again.
When she came back into the room, the chick in white gave me some milk and as she
walked out of the nursery I cried, “sweet ass!”
I can’t believe the big guy really did it, he actually took me into the doctor’s office to get the occasionally threatened “big blue shot.”
When we first got there I was relieved, happy even, because they didn’t take my temperature. I always did hate where they put the thermometer. In hindsight I should have known something was up. That was always the first thing the doc had done for twelve years in a row every time I went in to see him.
There never was a real threat about “big blue.” Dad would say it once in a while if I was misbehaving or if he was a little frustrated with me. It was his way of letting me know that I was getting out of hand. I always knew daddy would never hurt me. Ever. I had him wrapped around my paw paws ever since I met him when he picked ME to go home to live with him (my two sisters were so jealous!) when I was seven weeks old. If I did get a little rowdy and hear him say, “keep it up Coco and you’re gonna get the big blue shot!”, all I had to do was give him a “shot” of my big brown eyes and maybe a few lick’s on his face and all would be forgiven. He was such a sucker!
After so many long and good, good years together we saw a lot of change. I remember the first time I realized mommy wasn’t going to leave and that I’d have to share her with my daddy, I was mad but I forgave him. Then a few years later when dad and mom brought home a puppy and the puppy wasn’t going to leave… man did that stink at first. I love and miss all of you.
Dad I know you always had a special love for me even when I shared you with mommy and sister.
We got old over the years daddy. My hips got bad and your back was broke. When we were really hurting we took our pain pills and anti-inflammatory meds together and even with your bad back you still gave me a boost up and down the stairs or when I had trouble standing up.
You always took care of me dad, even when you couldn’t take care of yourself.
Thank you daddy.
I’m not sure where I am but I do know I feel great! I miss my daddy, mommy and little sister but oh boy do I feel good. It feels so nice to run and jump again, to swim and… SQUIRREL!
My eyes are good, my hips feel good, I’ve got all of my teeth, I swear I feel two years old again daddy. I’m seeing some old friends and meeting new ones. In fact I saw all three Bailey’s today, Sundance and Silver yesterday. Everyone I meet and play with keep telling me to be on the lookout for a rainbow. I’m not sure what they’re talking about but I’ll watch for it.
Daddy, it’s hard not being together with you, mommy and sister. I miss you all so very much and I know you all miss me terribly. Thank you daddy for making the tough call and getting me out of the pain and panic I was in. I am ok and I still trust you. I would have done the same for you dad and given you the “Big Blue Shot” had the roles been reversed.
I gotta tell ya though pops, I got the last laugh about “big blue”… the color of the shot was actually pink… SQUIRREL!!