Fun Facts about Mot City, August 25th!

Good afternoon everyone!  Today's Fun Fact about our beloved city is brought to you by Local Crocs Union 313!  Join their union and get a free Croc T-shirt and all the tripe you can eat!  Crocs only, please.  Yes, we are racist.  Deal with it.  Local Crocs Union 313! 

Today's fact comes from us from a special guest.  Stanley Jones is a Representative of Middle Mot's district 17.  Mr. Jones also happens to be a Gator, one of the few non-human members on the Mot City Authority Council.  Mr. Jones has been on the council for ten rotations. We met with Mr. Jones outside of Bunch o' Beans, a local synthesized coffee shop in his district.  We asked him about the political system and what it is like to be one of the few non-human members of the Council.  Here are the fun facts he provided to us:

You know, this coffee is quite horrible.  Does anyone know what type of synthesizer they have?  It needs a serious tweaking.  I need to find a new place that stirs in more blood into the water.  It's so weak.  Sometimes I wonder what the coffee tastes like in Lower Mot, where they actually have the money and space to grow coffee crops...

Oh, sorry to go off on a small tangent.  So you want to know what again?.... ah.  Okay then.  I'll tell you what it's like inside the system.  

I'd like to pretend that I am doing some good for my district, but the human-run council rarely asks for my input.  Wait... let me back up real fast and explain something real fast.  There are fifty districts across all of Mot City.  There are approximately thirty million humans, two million Crocs and a million Gators, give or take.  Non-human species are obviously in the minority both in the general population and within the Council.  Aside from myself, there are two Crocs who represent Upper Mot districts.  That's it.  Three out of fifty. 

So, yeah.  We rarely get to say anything.  I think they like to show us off to the people as a sign of progress, but we never actually get to do anything.  Mostly I just sit there and wait for my hand to be called upon for a vote on something.  Occasionally I meet with Governor Bolgerd, but that is very rare these days. 

What was that?...Yeah, I used to think my job was about doing something good.  After being ignored for so many years, it starts to wear at you, you know?  Now I just try and milk the system for my own personal gain, pretending to fight for my district while taking bribes from corporate and mob interests.  It makes life more bearable.  

Wait.. are you recording this?  You little shit!  Turn your holorecorder off or I will eat you I swear-

Fun Facts about Mot City, August 23rd

Today's Mot City Fun Fact is brought to you by Virtual Convenience Stores: No one virtually microtoasts burritos like Virtual Convenience!

Today's fun fact came from a young human by the name of Flass.  Flass is a detective for the Middle Mot Major Crimes Unit.  We caught up to him outside the detective headquarters buying a tube of meat-like product for lunch from a robotic vendor. Here is what he had to say:

So you want to know about the inter-species gang war between the Crocs and the Gators, eh?  Let me tell you what I know.  

No one knows how it all started.  Some suspect it goes all the way back to the beginning.  I'm talking millions of years.  Some sort of split along genetic lines, I don't know.  One rumor is no better than the other.  Some say it was a war over star-crossed lovers, while others think it's all about proving dominance.  I don't know for sure. All I know is that the blood runs deep between races, and when needed, that blood also drips down the streets of Mot and splatters its pattern all over the walls.  

The Gators...Upper class gangs, if that makes any sense.  They reside mostly in Lower Mot and run a good portion of the Middle.  They run money laundering, cyber-hacking and upper class drugs.  You heard of that new drug, V-87?  It's supposed to enhance holo-devices, make them seem more real.  It's all the rage.  Created by the Gators, and addictive as shit.  As for the Crocs... Well, cheap drugs, illegal wrestling and prostitution are all signs of a middle to lower-class mafia.  They are all over Upper Mot and war constantly with the Gators in Middle Mot.  

I suspect the mutual hatred combined with the desire to control Middle Mot is what has caused so much violence and death.  There is little sense in it, but humans can be just as racist and bigoted as these two races.  The difference is the level of violence we feel, I guess.  That and we don't eat those who get in our way.  Something to consider.  

Anyway, I'm gonna eat my tube of meat now.  We good?  Have a nice day, and enjoy the synthesized sunlight. 

Fun Facts about Mot City, August 21st!

Today's fun fact about our wonderful city is brought to you by Pharglaxote: synthesizing your organs for eventual replacement for fifty years.  Trust your organs to Pharglaxote!

Today's fun fact is written by a wonderful human named Sturgid, who we met outside of Slippery Vance's Puke and Punch, a local dive bar in Upper Mot:

Yeah, I got a fact for ya.  I found out something today.  Did you know that there are holes between levels?  Yeah, that's right.  Upper Mot, which is where I live you know, has holes all over the god-damned floor that lead into Middle Mot.  I got a friend who knows the holes, and gets paid credits to show the Crocs these holes, man.  He says the Crocs use the holes to escape and find ways to get past the police.  Dealing drugs, man.  They also run all the credits through the illegal wrestling matches through these gaps, man.  It's cool as shit.  They lead down tubes that take the Crocs to safety. 

My friend's got a map of it all, on his holo-implants.  He says he's gonna have enough money soon to buy his way to Middle Mot.  Lucky bastard, finding a way out of this shithole.  I'm tired of the leaky roof and the water that tastes like filtered urine.

Say, you got any change?  I traded my rationed water for some credits to buy synth booze.  Please?  Come on man.  I gave you a fact, you jerkweed!

The thrill of the trails.

Trails have minds of their own.  They are truly the ones in control.  All the constructive devices that are set to control you while careening through the scree and brush mean nothing when the trail decides you've had a good run, and it is your turn to feel its true nature.

When the first accident happens, and you fly off your bike and into the scree, scraping your knees, legs, and hands (thank goodness for gloves), slamming your shoulder into the tough ground, you quickly realize that all the caution in the world means nothing when you are at the mercy of the trail.  The trail is the god here.  The trail is what determines your will.  The trail is what makes your bike nothing more than the vehicle upon which you will crash.

Against significant odds, the question becomes, "Why do it?"  Because the god taunts you when you lie bleeding.  The trail is a challenge.  It provides the thrill, the danger.  Because eventually, the trail can be ridden.  The trail can respect your ability.  The trail sees your desire and thirst to ride its treacherous body of work.

And that is why we do it.  We do it because the trail demands your attention.  The trail sees your thrill, and says, "bring it on!"

Another day, I will see Rattlesnake Gulch on equal footing, and I will gain the trails respect.  The thrill of it will drive me down its steep slope again, and I will make it, even if I have to add more scars.

It is the thrill that drives us down the trails.

VERY rough intro to a new story idea.

Stanley Jenkins was in trouble.  He just didn’t know it yet. 

Wait.  That’s a lie.  He knew he was in trouble.  He just didn’t know who would kill him first. Both the Crocs and the Gators wanted him dead.  The Crocs wanted to kill him and eat him, and the Gators wanted to feast on his intestines first before killing him. Since Stanley had an adverse reaction to the whole death thing, he did the only thing his cowardly and meek soul knew how to do.

He ran. 

He’s sitting at an airport right now, in fact.  He’s left behind every aspect of his life in order to escape the situation he found himself in.  His girlfriend, his dad, his three-headed talking dog, all left behind, thrown away at the need to survive.  About five minutes ago he bought a shuttle to Saturn IV, an outpost near Saturn’s moon, Titan.  The outpost is a great hiding place for those smuggling meat into the Solar System.  It’s also a great place for people to hide when being chased by angry reptiles with weapons and an insatiable hunger for killing those who they believe wronged them.  It also has a wonderful space resort, with the best space racquetball court in any nearby galaxy.

Sitting in his chair, watching the holographic news anchor drone on about stock prices, the rising cost of fresh fruit, and the failed attempt by religious cult to blow up Mercury (it offends their god for some unknown reason), he attempts to look nonchalant.  His blue eyes have been replaced with dark brown eyes, done through a black-market surgeon.  His mustache was shaved off, and a scar was manufactured across his upper lip.  He is wearing a beanie to hide his balding head.  He attempts to eat his chocolate chip cookie-flavored snack ration, but it appears his nerves are not allowing any food to go down without a serious case of heartburn. 

A Great Dane sitting next to him sniffs the snack ration.  “Hey Human male,” its vocal modification system says with a hint of a British accent, “Are you intending to eat that snack ration, or may I partake of its delicious flavor?”  Stanley tears open the snack ration a little more then hands the ration to the dog.  “Most obliged, good sir,” the dog says before shoveling the entirety of the foil-wrapped mush into its impressive maw, swallowing the ration and the food in a few chews. 

“Attention, passengers of Shuttle flight 16540 to Saturn IV,” the robotic voice of some long-dead celebrity dispassionately comes on over the loudspeakers,  “Your shuttle has been delayed for the following reasons.”  Another voice, male perhaps, comes on then to offer the explanation for the delay.  “SEVERE EXPLOSION IN FUEL TANK 6.  HELP! HELP! AGGH! (which is then followed by ten seconds of static).”  The nice robot comes back on air.  “We apologize for the delay.  If your flight is to connect to the RFT (short for Really Fast Travel) hub in Saturn, we will attempt to route you to the hub on Pluto.  If you are running from someone or something other than law enforcement, please see the ticket office for further assistance.  If you are a normal passenger, please see the ticket counter for a voucher for another shuttle.  Thank you for using Escape Airlines!” 

Stanley looks up, as if the speakers are actually talking to him directly.  He stands up and shuffles over to the robotic attendant, his already tightened jaw compressing in growing frustration. 

I have to get myself out of this, he thinks to himself.  I can’t let the alligators or the crocs win.  Too much is at stake. 

The robotic attendant, an X-34 model created by Escape Airlines before the great Robot Revolution 20 years ago, sees Stanley walk into its view.  In order to not make humans feel awkward next to the robots, the X-34 models were created to look like gigantic yeti-like creatures, with shaggy black fur and everything.  Eight feet tall, sharpened teeth and a menacing mug had the opposite reaction to what the designers had intended. 

Turns out, robot designers need to get out once in a while and see the world.  Oh, and companies need to stop hiring insane designers who believe yetis are some sort of status symbol to adhere to.  That would help as well. 

“How can I help you, human?” the robot growls, its animatronic mouth moving in non-realistic fashion as spittle flies from its furry lips.

“Yes, my flight has been grounded, and I need another ticket,” Stanley says, removing a touch of yeti spit from his chin. 

“What is your name, human?”

“Stanley Jenkins.” 

The yeti robot’s comically large eyebrows furrow in concentration.  “Processing…PROCESSING!...Jenkins, Stanley, ID # 444-555-7898, from Salt Lake City, Utah.  If this is accurate, please say so.”

“That is correct”

“ERROR,” the yeti yells.  “What is correct?”

“Your previous statement,” Stanley says the frustration of the whole situation growing readily apparent in his eyes. 

“ERROR.  The last statement this robot said was ‘ERROR.’  Please elaborate.” 

“Okay, let’s forget it.  Let’s just start over.” 

“ERROR.  Starting over is not possible with this model.  Starting over tends to cause a rapid deceleration of this robot’s nuclear core, annihilating everything in a three-block radius.” 

“Go back to verifying who I am then,” Stanley says wiping off another round of yeti spit. 

“ERROR. This robot does not know how you are.” 

Stanley threw up his hands in anger.  “Piece of shit yetis!” he yells as he kicks the yeti in what would be a yeti groin if yetis existed (which they do, just not in this reality).  Quick as sound, a yeti arm thrusts out and snatches Stanley’s arm and pulls Stanley into a vicious yeti hug. 

“WARNING,” the yeti robot says, spit flying fast and furious now,  “Yeti abuse is not allowed, and is considered a crime.  This yeti is holding you because you committed a violent act towards itself.  You are now being publicly berated as security is called.  Shame on you!  Your mother must have raised you to be a criminal.  Is your father in jail?  You have no morals,” the yeti goes on giving Stanley a tongue-lashing as Stanley looks around in surprise.  Everyone is starting at him, judging him with their eyes and snouts as he stands, struggling to breathe, caught in between the vice-like furry appendages of the X-34 model. 

            To his horror, in addition to the two rotund security guards turning the corner down the causeway, a crocodile who was sitting a good distance away stands up on its hind legs, its trench coat opening just enough to reveal some sort of weapon attached to his long and scaly body.  To his right, an alligator wearing sweatpants and glasses puts down a virtual newspaper and eyes him.  The alligator bares his teeth in surprise and happiness as he starts walking towards Stanley as well, crawling on all fours in the alligator way.

            Surrounded by enemies on all sides.  Two fat security guards.  A croc.  An alligator.   And to boot, locked in the arms of a stupid yeti robot that can’t understand basic commands. 

            It is doubtful that Stanley’s horoscope for today read that his plans would be thwarted in such a way (his in fact reads, “You will deliver a gigantic pizza oven to great gig on 7^th east, you know the one with the happening jive piano…If you are reading this, help me.  HELP ME!”).  As he groans in pain, waiting for his eventual death or arrest, he asks himself a question he has asked himself again and again over the last year. 

            “How the Hell did this happen?” he groans between spasms of pain. “I just wanted to help,” he manages before the pain of a rib breaking nearly causes him to faint.

            Indeed.  How did it get to this point? 

Gus' Poetry Hour Starring High School Gus, Poem 2

I call this one, "Well, Someone's Gotta Die." 

Shadows reign across the land.
All I own you hold in your hands.
Sand falls like hail from your delicate fingers.
All that I realized it still malingers.

Fragile bones, so brittle and twisted,
Devouring all I hope to be resisted.
The hourglass of hope, full of light,
Now fill itself with the darkness of night.

And still I sit, watching you burn,
Seeing your mind and soul twist and turn.
Scream out loud, the Gods cannot hear you!
Deny them the sacrifice fit to be true!

The clouds become black, so fitting now,
That you've rebelled against the why and the how.

Stare me down,
I'll make you drown
In the footsteps of pain,
Where you will grow insane,
And cry for the blood red sky. 

Gus' Poetry Hour, Starring High School Gus

For your viewing pleasure (or for laugh-out-loud hilarity), here is a poem from a journal I kept during High School.

None of these are titled so I'm gonna make up titles as I post these. 

Something about Ham.  

Teach me what you've learned.
I'm just a bit concerned
You have a short time to teach.

Your life is simple and plain,
But mine is hard to contain. 
I've got a short time to learn.

I can't understand what you say.
You've mumbled every word today.
We've got a short time to see.

Anger begins to scorch my eyes.
Now you're teaching little white lies.
We've got a short time to live.

Panic hits me hard in my chest,
You are full of shameful unrest.
Life gave up on me. 
You on the other hand, laugh.

You can still see.