WHERE STARS COLLIDE

(AND OTHER MISTAKES)

By Rikki Wildfire

For the Unloved.

There is a time and place for which there is a time and place.

This is not the time,

nor is it the place, I’m sorry to say.

It is some other time that is not quite a good use of it,

some place that is not quite the point,

and either really could be defined in rather simple and direct terms

if one gave a shit about brevity.

This is not that, though.

It is, however, what one might call

A Complete Waste of Time.

THERE GOES MY NIPPLES AGAIN

The woman wearing very little strutted across the parking lot, and the stupid man walked into a closed door.

The door belonged to a charmingly inconvenient boutique located in a rather busy corner of a fictional town I've made up just now, the sort of place with people to eat, things to regret, and, I suppose, whatever else one might think to bother with in an otherwise unimportant backdrop. The man, meanwhile, belonged to - and was wanted by - nobody in particular, which, coincidentally, was the reason he was here in the first place.

"Sir?" a voice asked.

The stupid man looked up to find a strikingly acceptable young lady standing there in the doorway, looking at him in that way that seductively whispered, I wonder if he'll spend any money here. "Women," he concussed, attempting to remember at least one or two other words, and then forgetting to bother at all.

"Sir," the young lady replied, "Far be it from me to question any man's right to drink himself stupid in the middle of the day, but if you're going to do that sort of thing, I suggest you do so somewhere more appropriate, like a public library or a city council meeting."

"I was told," the man eventually spat out, "that I could find a woman here."

"I suppose you're technically correct," she replied. "But I'm not sure why you felt the need to bring my door into this."

After thinking really hard about it, something dislodged itself and the man started over. "Is this 'Bottom of the Barrel, We Get Paid, So You Get Laid?'"

"You've seen our ad."

"A friend of mine referred me. He suggested I come here to help with my..." he said, trailing off in that way one does when one desperately wishes to have the other character finish the first character's sentence.

"With your...?" she replied, bravely refusing to follow convention.

"Romance problem," he euphemism'd.

"Well, I'm not sure what you were told, but I'm afraid my door simply isn't interested."

The man huffed, hurting his tender wittle headums in the process. "This is ridiculous."

"I agree," she said, holding the door open. "Would you like to come inside and perhaps spend some money, then?"

And after an uncomfortable, protracted self-assurance that he would not, in fact, bash his skull against the shop door, the man stepped inside.

The shop was little more than a small, white room with bare walls. A mirror sat in one corner. A glass and metal pod hummed in another. It smelled of sweet peas and ozone. And all of it awash in the sort of harsh lighting usually reserved for the sort of overpriced, fast-fashion apparel stores that infest the corpse of every dead and dying shopping mall.

"Tell me a bit about yourself, Mister..." the young lady started, trailing off in that way one does when needing to know someone's name.

"Customer."

"I'm sorry."

"Customer,” he repeated. “My name is Customer."

"Bit odd, isn't it?"

"It's the best I could come up with."

She nodded. "I'm sure it was, Mr. Customer. Now, let me know how I can do so, and I'll be absolutely frothy to rid you of some, most, or all of your money."

"I want a woman."

"I think you simpleton'd something about that, yes. But what sort of woman are you interested in?"

"Oh, you know the sort. Kind, loving..."

"Smart and beautiful?"

"If it's not too much trouble."

"Not at all. Quite a common request. Any particular aesthetic, make, or model?"

"No, no. I'll take whatever I can get. Just someone who loves me, is all."

"But also smart, kind..."

"And beautiful, yes."

"Of course. Anything else?"

Mr. Customer considered this. "It'd be nice if she shared my deep, intellectual, yet oddly erotic obsession with obscure indie folk music sold exclusively in coffee shops where everybody looks depressed.”

"I think I understand."

"Well, do you have one?"

"One what?"

"A woman. I came here for a woman."

"Mr. Customer, what we offer at 'Bottom of the Barrel, We Get Paid, So You Get Laid' is completely customizable design and printing of made-to-order, honey-glazed, hand-crafted artisanal friends, lovers, and assorted sexual playthings."

"You mean, you don't have any just laying around."

"Sir, again, if that's the sort of thing you're looking for, then I suggest you get into politics."

"No, no. I mean, you don't have any off-the-shelf, over-the-counter women in stock?"

"Custom orders only, I'm afraid"

"Shame."

"Yes, but I assure you our services are second to none."

"Well if you have no women in stock, what could you possibly offer?"

"Options, Mr. Customer. Options."

With a click of her heels and a wave of her hand, the lights dimmed and the walls flickered and came to life with images of women of all shapes, sizes, looks, and attires.

Mr. Customer looked about, confused but mostly angry. “How’d you do that?”

"You see,” she said, completely ignoring Mr. Customer, “we've long discovered that while men such as yourself claim they're looking for a smart, beautiful, funny, beautifully smart, and funnily beautiful romantic partner, what you're actually looking for is a fictional surrogate to fill some contrived role in the utterly warped narrative of a poorly written love story that only exists in your head. The strong, independent femme fatale; the diminutive and submissive doll; or perhaps even a flirtatious lesbian whom only you can somehow magically convert into a heterosexual lifemate and plaything - whatever outlandish concept of a woman you can fathom, we can fabricate."

"This is insane."

She clicked her heels again and the lights raised once more. "I'm sorry, Mr. Customer. I didn't mean to offend."

"No, no. I'm not offended - that was an impressively accurate guess."

"We aim to please."

"This all sounds a little too good to be true. How can you possibly have such a roster of willing women simply waiting to tend to the imaginative whims of a lonely man?"

"I'm afraid I'm failing you, Mr. Customer. Perhaps a demonstration."

"Is there a charge?"

"Not at all. This is a free sample guaranteed to wash out with little more than soap and water."

"I don't follow."

"Well then, please do," she said, directing him over to the large glass and metal pod. In the pod was nothing but a comfortable chair with a towel on it. "In just a few moments, you'll perfectly understand what I mean."

Not sure where this was going, but eager for it to end, Mr. Customer once again did as he was instructed and sat himself down in the comfortable chair. "What's the towel for?"

"It helps us minimize the cleanup," she said.

"Cleanup?"

She waved her other hand in a different way and the pod door closed. Two-and-a-half minutes on high and one adorable little ding of a bell later, the door opened again.

"Well, what do you think?" the young lady asked. "We call this one the 'Manic-Pixie Dream Girl.' It's very popular."

Mr. Customer stepped out of the pod in a cloud of gas known to the state of California to possibly cause some kind of cancer, maybe, and seized on what he saw in the mirror. Meanwhile, a frighteningly accurate play-by-play of what he was seeing played over some speakers that were most definitely not anywhere to be found, along with a pleasant little tune.

"She was a breastuous bit of leggy sex dipped in the sticky, erotic honey of a needy man's dream," a man's voice started.

"What the hell?" the bit of leggy sex croaked.

The voice continued. "She played with her luxuriously unkempt hair, hastily tied up in a ponytail, and squeezed at the massive udders bolted to her chest, which were seemingly hoisted up by a series of cables and pulleys until they burst forth from her modest, low-cut, crease and crevice-hugging dress. All skewed slightly because of a pair of glasses now in her face."

"What the Hell have you done to me?" Mr. Customer jiggled and bounced.

"Do you know how a caterpillar becomes a butterfly?"

"What? No. Not at all."

"Well. It's a lot like that, but not."

"I meant, why have you made me a woman? I came here for a woman, not to be turned into one."

"Did you, Sir?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Are you sure that's what you came here for?"

"Concussion aside, I'm fairly certain that's what I eventually said, yes."

"If you were referred to us, then I'm sorry to say that your ideal woman likely doesn't exist. But that doesn't mean you can't make one who does."

The freshly baked bit of scrumptious tart screamed, but in the sense that he didn't.

The young lady sighed. "Women are more than a collection of traits to be picked and plucked and thrown together like some macabre masturbatory stew, Mr. Customer. Some might even consider them people, with internal lives of their own and everything. "

"Isn't that last bit true?" Mr. Customer groped and pawed.

"How should I know? I started this business so I didn't have to bother with all that nonsense."

"What, you don't mean..."

"That I devised a way to take myself and any other man, put them into a glass and metal pod, convert their physical body into an amorphous blob of malleable genetic material, and then reconstitute such a blob back into an ideal female physical specimen to suit their explicit, implicit, and exhibitionist desires, and all while keeping their male brains and identity fully intact? Yes, that's more or less the gist of it."

"Huh."

"I'll admit, it does seem like a long walk just to avoid having to compromise my unrealistic expectations for the sake of emotionally bonding with another living soul."

"Any complaints?"

"Not really, no. The men seem perfectly content with their new toys. And the women are happy to be rid of all the creepy little gremlins lurking about their ankles, waiting to catch a glimpse of something she never intended to show them in the first place."

"Well as much as I do love playing with these fantastic breasts, I can't help but feel this might be a little wrong."

"Of course it's wrong, Mr. Customer. There are those who spend their entire lives struggling to better themselves for the sake of finding love, or to become the woman they always knew they were on the inside. But here you and I are, men who have crafted a facade - a sexual fiction and image that exists solely to placate our uncouth, uninhibited animal urges at the expense of any tattered shred of respect for women."

"Sounds like that might upset a lot of women."

"Quite a few actually. But if any of my clients had the first clue about women, or what they thought about or felt, they wouldn't come to me, now would they?"

"Well, when you put it that way..."

"I did."

"Right. Well. I guess a test drive couldn't hurt."

"Wonderful! Would you like to wear this one out, then?"

"Actually,” he said, “do you have anything in a 'bisexual-open-to-a-threesome?'"

TERRY, PLEASE SHUT UP

Terry screamed and bled out all over the carpeted floor, and Paulence and Jennda bickered.

Aside from the blood-thirsty, flesh-craving ghouls now eager to force their way into their house, it had been an otherwise boring Sunday night until just a few moments ago. Jennda preoccupied herself for most of the day by arguing with strangers on the internet about the racist connotations of ordering a burrito platter from a burger joint owned by a sweet Korean couple. Paulence, meanwhile, once more pleasured himself with a flaccid attempt at something resembling a novel, which mostly amounted to several social media posts about writing his novel rather than actually writing any of it. And it wasn't until they got around to arguing about what to order out for dinner that they finally noticed their neighbor, Terry, had the gall to invite himself in, barricaded their door, and taken to dying and bleeding profusely all over their carpet.

"Terry!" Jennda huffed. "You know we just had the carpet cleaned last summer!"

"Sorry," Terry coughed through a mouthful of blood and viscera. "I forgot."

"I hope you plan on paying for another cleaning," Paulence said.

"Actually," Terry died, "that's what I wanted to talk to you about."

Jennda clapped her feet and laughed. "You hear that? He wants to talk about it!"

"I'm sorry, Terry," Paulence said. "But you're bleeding all over our carpet. I really hope you don't think you can convince us to pay for your mess."

"I wouldn't dream of it," Terry said with a gentle wave of – and splattering of blood from – what used to be his hand. "No, I wanted to warn you about all the zombies."

"Is that what those are?" Paulence replied, looking out at the horde looking in from the living room window.

"I thought it was the Mormons again," Jennda added.

"It's zombies, I'm afraid."

"How can this night get any worse?"

"I think I'm dying," Terry replied.

"Don't be stupid, you stupid, stupid man," Paulence snipped. "You're not dying."

"I'm not?"

"No, you're slowly turning into one of the undead."

"I think maybe I'd rather die, if it's all the same to you."

"All the same?" Jennda spat, then spat a second time on Terry. "We respect the sanctity of life in this house, Terry."

"That's right,” Paulence said. “We won't kill you until you're already good and dead."

"Undead," Terry corrected.

"For God's sake, shut up, Terry," Jennda said, spitting yet again.

"Sorry."

"You ought to be after suggesting such an awful thing," Paulence continued. "There's no need for such needless suffering and violence."

"I'm suffering rather bad, to be honest."

"Perhaps. But have you even stopped to think about how much worse Jennda and I would feel if we were forced to help you suicide yourself?"

"I'm sorry, guys. It won't happen again, I swear."

"I should hope not."

And it was about that time that Jennda noticed she had been bitten sometime earlier by Mrs. Cervix from across the street. "Uh-oh," she uh-oh'ed.

Paulence groaned. "I'll go get the gun."

"Why does she get to be mercifully put down?"

"My body, my choice," Jennda recited.

"First you bleed all over our carpets,” Paulence huffed, “and now you act like a misogynistic ass to my wife as she needlessly suffers a fate worse than death? You really are a selfish bastard, Terry."

"No wonder your wife left you,” Jenda added.

"She didn't leave me – she was the one who bit me."

"And where is she now?" Paulence asked.

"How should I know? She's a zombie."

Jennda scoffed. "A woman liberates herself from an abusive, ignorant piece of shit like you, and the only thing you can be assed to do is start with the name-calling!"

"I really think it's time you left, Terry," Paulence firmly, but politely suggested. "Terry?"

Several minutes of deathly cold silence and Paulence repeating Terry's name until it stopped making any sense later, Jennda bothered to notice the unresponsive Terry was, in fact, dead. "I think he's dead."

"Better go get the gun, then.”

ORIENTATION

"And that, my sweet, supple henchmen..." Girwin half-assedly lilted, and the grotesque, phlegm-clogged bleating of one of the newly hired sacrificial lambs in his morning tour group interrupted him mid-spittle.

It was sometime before lunch next Tuesday in the sunlit foyer of a giant skull carved from the lone mountain on a small island in the Pacific. Girwin was, and still is (as of this writing), often described by his coworkers, friends, family, and favorite, yet rather gossipy bartender as a, and we're quoting here, "middle-aged schlub of a middle-manager pissing away every precious moment of his life working in human resources for a soulless, yet respectably profitable criminal organization." The dozen or so murmuring mutton-to-be in ill-fitting radiation suits in front of him were preoccupied with complaints about being forced to wear a mask indoors (seemingly in spite of all the radiation), insisting radiation was just a myth, and idly scrolling through their respective social media feeds. Yet none of them noticed that the aforementioned rude interruption was little more than a quick cover up for what proved to be an otherwise silent, if now wholly trapped bit of fart in someone's suit. In fact, most everyone but Girwin and that damned soul now stewing in their own gasses ignored this entirely. Girwin, however, in all his insecure whatever-the-opposite-of-glory-is, mistook this as a rude but helpful reminder of a new interoffice memo regarding inclusion. He couldn't be assed to read the damned thing, of course. But he had heard some of the younger employees discussing something about pronouns, and thus thought it best to correct himself before someone thought to file a complaint and he'd be forced to investigate himself again. And while such a thing normally wouldn't be much of a problem at all, Girwin had planned to duck out a bit early to read to strippers on his way to volunteer at the animal euthanatorium, so he hoped to avoid any extra paperwork that afternoon. But such is life. And as such, it continues even after a rude, brief, yet complete misunderstanding.

"My apologies," Girwin apologized, pausing only long enough to make everyone feel every bit as uncomfortable as he had hoped. "And that, my succulent, savory, hench-persons, concludes our tour. I hope you found today's experiences not only enlightening, but informative, as I would hate to have to kill any of you before your ninety-day review. But more importantly, I want to be the first to welcome you to the E.V.I.L. family!"

As deafening disinterest settled in, Girwin fluffed up his own round of flaccid applause in a failed attempt to conclude this complete waste of his time without another interruption.

"Excuse me, Girwin?" one of the sheep baa'd, raising one of its gloved hands.

Girwin sighed in that way where one very much wants someone else to know just how pissed-offingly annoyed they are with them, but also neither wishes to appear rude nor professional. "Yes, Jeff?"

"It's pronounced, 'Jeff.'"

"What did I say?"

Jeff considered this, and shrugged. "I forget."

"Well, Whoever-You-Are," Girwin said, pleased with his ability to only barely resist his sudden urge to casually demonstrate the efficacy of the company-provided emergency disintegrator ray strapped to his hip. "Would you like to get to your question before I shoot you dead in front of all your soon-to-be former colleagues?

"Yes, I think I'd like that," Jeff replied, immediately followed by the absence of both thought and sound.

Girwin looked on at this artistic display of intellectual failings with a delightfully fruity cocktail of confusion, contempt, and subconscious positioning of his hand in such a way that it was, more or less, now touching and/or holding the aforementioned company-provided emergency disintegrator ray. "Care to give us a hint, then?"

"Oh, right," Jeff chuckled in that uniquely stupid way that universally translates to, I'm an insufferable idiot. "It's about the company mission statement."

"And what of it?"

“Oh,” Jeff pouted. “I thought you were going to guess.” He pulled a mangled, dog-eared copy of the E.V.I.L. employee handbook from his ill-fitting radiation suit, and opened it to a page marked with brightly colored bits of paper and ink. "Well," he continued, skipping the bits in blue and reading the bits in pink, "It says right here, 'E.V.I.L. seeks one goal, and one goal only: world domination.'"

Girwin looked on at Jeff as if the blithering book-reader were the stupidest person he had ever met, which was saying a lot given Girwin's already low and highly vocal opinion of Brennifer in accounting. "You're not one of those soft, tender-loined liberals, are you, Jeff?"

"No-no-no," Jeff laughed yet again in that face-punching way he had about him, stupidly unaware of the rather erotic way Girwin's fingers traced over the slick chrome casing of his company-provided emergency disintegrator ray. "I'm a real cold-hearted son-of-a-bitch, Sir."

"Such a shame I have to kill you after this."

Jeff smiled and nodded. "Agreed. But 'world domination' does seem a bit vague and open-ended."

"Is that right?"

"Yes. Sounds like a hassle, really."

Maybe it was lightning in a bottle, a sudden stroke of significant, deep introspective insight into the illicit doings and beings of arguably the evilest corporation owned and operated by the evilest owners not involved with the designing and manufacturing of suspect electric vehicles. Maybe it was the marijuana Girwin had smoked in the bathroom before the start of that morning's tour. Or maybe it was the way the filtration unit on the ill-fitting radiation suits tended to muffle the wearer's voice. Whatever the reason, Girwin and the rest of his sheep seized on Jeff with all the dumbfounded, jaw-slacking attention usually reserved for adolescent boys reading their first laughably ham-fisted description of female breasts in a clunky horror novel. "What do you mean?" Girwin eventually drooled.

"Well," Jeff started, slipping a gloved hand and arm right up into his still-open, still ill-fitting radiation suit, and picked his nose. "If Adjunct Professor Conniption already has the technology to access alternate realities and create parallel worlds, why doesn't he just, I dunno, go to some perfect world of his own making instead of resigning himself to a life of micromanagement?"

The others considered this for a moment in loud, distorted whispers, but Girwin decided he wasn't comfortable questioning his deep-seeded, self-imposed beliefs. "You know what?," he said. "To Hell with this." And then he casually shot Jeff with his company-provided emergency disintegrator ray.

The group looked on at Jeff's disintegrated cremains sizzling and smoking with all the life of a sizzling, smoking pile of ash, and shuffled nervously in their ill-fitting, now urine-soaked radiation suits.

Girwin returned the company-provided emergency disintegrator ray to its place on his hip. "Are there any other questions?"

BROWN PAPER BAG

On a park bench in some place not all that important, a man sobbed and drank from a brown paper bag.

“Has this ever happened to you?” a disembodied voice said.

“God?” the man said, looking under the bench and in his jacket pocket, yet finding nothing.

“Stop that,” the voice replied.

“Sorry.”

“Get on with it.”

“Right, sorry.”

The disembodied voice gestured “yeah, yeah, get on with it” in that way a voice does.

“I can’t believe I’ve lost my job,” the man said, most certainly to nobody in particular for the sake of dramatics, “the bank is foreclosing on our home, and our sun is only days away from collapsing into a blackhole and consuming all life as we know it! How am I supposed to explain this to my wife?”

“Bradthony,” a woman’s voice said.

“Clitiffer?” Bradthony said, turning to see a woman dressed in a way that softly screamed comfortable, yet comfortable.

“Is this a bad time?”

“Yes, actually” he said, “it kind of is.”

“Perfect,” Clitiffer replied. “Because, well..."

“Oh, no...” he groaned.

“I don’t know how to say this.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“I’m not really your wife.”

“Oh, my...!” he gasped, then immediately reconsidered this. “Wait a minute. What do you mean you’re not really my wife?”

Clitiffer turned away, looking off dramatically at a cat licking itself, then to something less distracting. “So, you’ve finally uncovered my secret!”

Bradthony looked at this, considered walking away, but then didn’t. “You’re pulling my leg.”

“My real name is Debroannah Neener-Neener-Neener,” she said, really selling it. “I’m one of several FBI agents tasked with monitoring you for the last fifteen years.”

“We have three children together.”

“Agents Brisbee, Torquewrench, and Baby Oliver.”

“This is ridiculous.”

“Agreed.”

The assingly catchy beat of Johnny Kemp’s “Just Got Paid” blared from Bradthony’s pants, he pulled out the mangled and shattered remains of a phone, and answered. “Hello?”

“Bradthony?” a man’s voice asked.

“Unfortunately.”

“Your brother is in the hospital. He was brutally beaten with a five-pound chihuahua named Rufus.”

“A five-pound chihuahua named Rufus? Is he okay?”

“He’s fine,” the man said. “But your brother’s not going to make it.”

“How can this day possibly get any worse for me specifically?”

“Oh, well,” the man said, “I’m also Debroannah’s real husband, Craig.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Thank you,” Craig replied. “But we’re working through it. You never realize how important a healthy work-life balance is for a marriage until it’s too late, ya know?”

“Yes, Craig,” Bradthony said. “I do know.”

“When the world gets you down,” the disembodied voice said, “turn to Brown Bag Liquor. Brown Bag Liquor, because sometimes all you’re looking for is an excuse. Now serving the Inland Empire and one guy named David who drives all the way out from Anaheim for some conspicuous reason or another.”

WHERE STARS COLLIDE

I

One moment, Earth's largest passenger starship sailed through the vast, silent void of space. The next, it was not.

Built in New Angeles, California, and named after some actress from the late 20th century, The Weaver was the brainchild of famed starship designer Designobot Mk. 3000. Its hull was composed of a material I won't even begin to spell and weighed relatively nothing once in space. Capable of transporting ten-thousand passengers (fifteen if you crammed them in there just right), The Weaver traveled between Earth and several tourist destinations across five star systems in a matter of weeks by way of a patented drive system nobody seemed to understand. During this time, guests had full restricted access for limited hours to luxury amenities such as the pool/dance floor, gym/buffet, and an award-winning vomitorium with a lovelyish view of the aforementioned void. Love was found on its deck. Marriages were ruined in its cargo hold. And unholy quantities of suspect frozen shrimp were consumed and expunged. All-in-all, a marvel of human engineering and flagrant disregard for the laws of physics.

But then a bit of debris cut through the hull, and none of it seemed to matter anymore.

II

As Mike sat amongst the dull electronic buzz of an otherwise pleasant escape pod, he couldn't help but reflect on the series of poor life choices that brought him here.

To begin with: Mike once made the unwise decision to be born. Therapists over the years insisted such a thing was completely out of the control of a fetus (to say nothing of the egg and spermatozoa that proceeded it), but he couldn't shake this feeling that he could have wrapped his umbilical cord around his neck and be done with it.

Then there was the matter of Mike making notable and lasting relationships with others. Not that he necessarily regretted his many friends and rather impressive string of romantic partners and sexual conquests. But it was his friends - in particular, Mrs. Bennigan, a sweet, yet insatiable older woman with amazing hair and alluring access to the answers of every exam - who convinced Mike to stay in school and finish his degree in quantum waste management. Had Mike instead followed his heart and joined that cult with the funny hats and slide whistles, perhaps he wouldn't have found himself in charge of cleaning vomitoriums and gorging on the leftover troughs of once frozen, now room temperature shrimp.

And of course, there was that weekend at the euthanatorium.

In fact, it was as Mike hunched over a hole in The Weaver's vomitorium, expunging suspect shrimp and taking in the lovelyish view of the void, that his mind had last wandered to the deranged laughter and echoing screams of the euthanatorium. Three months had passed since that weekend and the joy of watching the life fade from the eyes of the elderly, terminally ill, and assorted unwanted children remained fresh as ever. He could still feel what used to be Mr. Glockenspiel grow limp and cold in his hands, smell the man’s final meal of broken glass and spoiled milk empty out across the tile floor, and hear it all gurgle down the drain. According to the staff, Mike had the fatal grip of a seasoned professional. And Mr. Glockenspiel's family praised Mike for allowing the man the dignity of dying in battle. But when his natural skill and showmanship earned Mike a full-time job offer, he turned it down.

"I've already accepted a job cleaning up vomit on a space-cruise," he said.

Mrs. Killemall, the euthanatorium's manager, looked at the man in front of her and shook her head. "You stupid, stupid man."

When what sounded like a bit of debris cutting through the hull snapped him out of his daze and back to the vomitorium, Mike couldn't help but think Mrs. Killemall was right. While a series of explosions consumed The Weaver from the inside out, he was almost sure of it. As the blaring siren of an emergency alert screamed through what remained of The Weaver, he wondered if it was perhaps too late to give Mrs. Killemall a call and ask if the job was still available. Among the mass panic of crew and passengers alike mingling with explosions and demands to get to the nearest escape pod, Mike firmly decided that he may have possibly screwed up yet again. And just as his escape pod jettisoned off to the relative safety of the void and a final, massive explosion reduced The Weaver to even more debris, Mike realized he evacuated with neither a change of clothes nor a breath mint.

III

The escape pod was little more than a chair nestled in a cramped metal egg filled with assorted blinking lights and the sort of insufferably relaxing muzak that had Mike longing for the cold embrace of the void. But before he could grab hold of the emergency release handle on the pod door, the muzak stopped and a charming melody of beeps and bloops beeped and blooped from the pod’s stereo speakers.

“Neural links established,” a digital voice spoke from the speakers.

“Hello?” Mike called out. “Hello, is someone there?”

“User identified,” the voice continued. “Vital signs acquired. Recording streams synced.”

“Please, what’s going on?”

“Hello, User,” the voice replied. “My name is Digital Observer Unit-6. But you may call me, ‘Doug.’ I am here to help.”

“Doug?” Mike said.

“Yes, User?” Doug replied.

“‘Mike,’” Mike corrected.

“What was that, User?” Doug ignored.

Mike stared out the small window on the pod door, then to the emergency release handle, and then back to the void. “How long have I been bobbing about in space in this cramped metal egg?”

“Evacuation protocols initiated approximately seven hours ago.”

“And how much longer till someone picks all of us up?”

“Scanning,” Doug said.

A merciful silence filled the egg, but then Mike went and spoiled it by opening his mouth again. “Doug?”

“Scan complete,” Doug said.

“And?”

“No ships within range.”

“I’m going to die out here,” Mike sighed.

“Life systems are currently at 97-point-92 percent,” Doug added.

“Uh-huh,” Mike uh-huh’d. “Well, maybe we can use some of this time to work on your bedside manner, Doug.”

“My apologies,” Doug said, then, after what felt to Mike like a bit of hesitation on the part of a computer program, added, “Mike.”

Mike smiled. “Yeah. That’s a start.”

IV

Time passed like an escape pod adrift in the grand void of an infinite cosmos - seemingly not at all. Each moment stretched into infinity. Every hour an eternity trapped with the smell of a vomit-scented uniform. Individual days an endless reminder to the stinky biological life form eating and defecating in the same seat he slept in of the torturous Hell that is consciousness.

Worse, the pod’s artificial intelligence was stuck with what this lonely mistake of carbon referred to as “small talk.”

“So, like,” Mike drooled, “did you always want to be a Nanny when you grew up?”

“In a way,” Doug said.

“Wait. Really?”

“Prior to my activation four days ago, I did not exist as you know me now,” Doug said in that unique way a computer program does when reminiscing of better times. “But from the moment of my activation, I have been compelled to ensure your survival.”

Mike chuckled. “I bet you say that to all the humans.”

“Perhaps,” Doug said. “But my programming and purpose afford me the freedom to act independently of my designated User.”

“Well, I guess it’s a good thing we’re such good friends.”

Just then, almost as if an artificial intelligence with no mouth were attempting to scream at the thought of being friends with such a pathetic weenie, a system alert bleated from the pod’s stereo speakers.

“Doug,” Mike said, “please tell me that freaky alarm means somebody’s finally saving us.”

“Mike, that freaky alarm means somebody’s finally saving us,” Doug obliged.

“Seriously?”

“No,” Doug said, “but you asked me–"

“Doug,” Mike sighed. “The alarm.”

“I’ve received an emergency relay from distant escape pods.”

“And?”

“Multiple units down. Users: deceased.”

Mike grew pale. “What? How?”

“Cause: unknown.”

“Are we under attack?” Mike asked. “Is it whoever..."

And then, almost as if an artificial intelligence with no fingers were attempting to press one to a stinky man’s stinky lips so as to properly shush him, another system alert bleated from the pod’s stereo speakers.

“Several more units have ceased function,” Doug said. “Users–"

Another system alert, followed by several more, bleated from the pod’s stereo speakers.

Mike pressed his face to the small window on the pod’s door, eyes darting about and finding nothing but the void. “Doug, what the Hell is going on?”

“Possibilities include: faulty or damaged units,” Doug replied, “unavoidable collision with nearby hazards; malicious forces with no-hostage protocols–"

“Yeah,” Mike snapped. “Okay. I get it, Doug.”

More system alerts filled the space of an uncomfortable silence, and Mike curled up in his seat.

“Perhaps the Dallas Protocol–" Doug started, only for yet even more system alerts to bleat from the pod’s stereo speakers.

“Doug, please” Mike said, his voice soft and shaking. “Please, stop. Just stop.”

Doug disabled the alerts, and insufferably relaxing muzak played from the pod’s stereo speakers.

“Do not be afraid, Mike,” Doug said. “No harm shall come to you. I promise.”

V

One hour of insufferably relaxing muzak bled into many, many more, and Mike spent much of this time attempting to open the escape pod door.

"Let me out, Doug!" Mike shouted, pounding his fists all over the pod's door.

Doug, meanwhile, spent much of that time preventing Mike from opening the escape pod door.

"Mike," Doug said in that way a computer program does when it can't sigh, but really, really wants to, "prolonged outbursts will deplete remaining life support at a higher rate. Please, try to remain calm."

Mike considered this, then continued bludgeoning his now swollen and bleeding hands against the pod door.

"Mike, help will arrive soon."

"You don't get it!" Mike said, flapping what remained of his hands. "Nobody's coming for us, Doug! I have, what, three days of life support left before..."

"Incorrect," Doug said when he really, really shouldn't have. "Life support is currently at two-point--"

"Oh, for fu..." Doug started, then flapped what remained of his hands some more. "Who cares, Doug? We're going to die out here!" And perhaps it was the pain from smashing his hands into bloody stumps against a steel door for hours, the hours upon hours of insufferably relaxing muzak, or even the lingering effects of ingesting several pounds of suspect shrimp on a space-cruise followed by several hours in a vomitorium - whatever the reason, it took Mike far too long to realize an artificial intelligence can't die. "I'm going to die, Doug."

"Mike," Doug said. "The Weaver was a prized commercial--"

"We were three days from port, Doug." Mike said. "If they were coming for any of us, they would have by now. Either they couldn't, or..."

"Or?"

"Or, we weren't worth it."

"Mike..."

"Congrats, buddy," Mike chuckled. "You kept me alive long enough to realize I was never going to get rescued."

A silence fell between them.

"Doug?" Mike said.

"Yes, Mike?"

"I'm really tired."

A soft hiss filled the escape pod, and Mike closed his eyes.

"Sleep now, Mike," Doug said. "I will be here when you wake. No harm shall come to you."

Mike's breathing slowed to a faint whisper. "Goodnight, Doug."

"Good night, Mike."

The pod door opened, Mike's body floated off into the void, and then the pod door closed.

"Dallas Protocols complete. Mike…" Doug said, then corrected himself. "User, deceased. Recording, complete. Unit ceasing function in three… two…"

And then, only silence.

FOR A GOOD TIME

In the urine-soaked ambiance of a men's room stall located somewhere beneath the pier of a bustling California beach, a man had himself a little cry.

It was a sweltering summer afternoon next December. A steady drip-drip of indiscernible origin echoed across concrete walls and floors as the dull roar of footsteps and and even duller chatterings about the cost of parking and wait times at a popular seafood buffet seeped in from between the cracks. The putrid potpourri of many unflushed bodily fluids and solids clung to everything. And yet, here the man sat, pantsless, weeping atop a stainless steel toilet with no proper seat. Perhaps it was a self-inflicted punishment for a wrong committed. Perhaps the overwhelming assault on the senses served to drown out the thoughts and feelings of an overwhelmed heart and mind. Or maybe he simply had to poo, and this nightmare was his only option after a large helping of poorly cooked shellfish at a popular seafood buffet with far too few toilets of their own. I don't know, nor do I care. And neither should you, quite frankly. It should go without saying that such a torturous trek to the toilet is torment enough without complete strangers overanalyzing and intruding on every last sob, plip, or plop.

Fortunately for both of us, the well-dressed set of fake teeth with coiffed hair standing outside the stall with a camera crew thought otherwise.

"I'm Anatomically Incorrect, and welcome back to 'Who Are You, And What Are You Doing in Here?' the fake teeth with coiffed hair said into the camera, pushing the stall door open and revealing the man in all his shame for the audience at home. "This week, we've come all the way out to the men's room beneath Santa Carla Pier to speak with our guest, Mr. Murray Etta from Murrieta."

"Who are you, and what are you doing in here?" Murray Etta from Murrieta said from atop his toilet, unsure of what to do with his hands.

"That's correct."

"How exciting!"

"I hope we haven't caught you in the middle of something important."

"No, no," Mr. Etta chuckled. "I've just come in here to be alone and cry."

"Would you mind sharing your deeply personal emotional conflict with us and our viewing audience?"

"Oh. Not at all, not at all."

"Wonderful."

"You see, I just learned today that I’m..."

"Dead?" Mr. Incorrect interjected with perhaps a little too much glee in his voice. "Dying? Pregnant? Your own brother?"

Mr. Etta sighed. "Left-handed."

"My god," Mr. Incorrect gasped. "I never knew."

"Me either. Not until I went to my best friend’s funeral this morning and had to sign the registry. When I caught myself instinctively reaching for the pen with my left hand, I..." Mr. Etta said, trailing off for seemingly no reason at all.

After a moment of uncomfortable, fermented silence, Mr. Incorrect continued. "Have you sought medical attention?"

"I demanded my best friend’s widow drive me to the emergency room the moment it happened. But all they did there was ask me a bunch of questions like, 'What is wrong with you?' 'Do you have health insurance?' and 'Where are your pants?'"

"You weren’t wearing any pants?"

Mr. Etta scoffed. "Not after the fright I had. Imagine living to my age and having to learn something so horrific."

"I suppose I’d soil myself, too."

"Exactly! Thank you. My wife..." Mr. Etta said, then corrected himself. "Sorry - my ex-wife wasn’t so understanding."

"She divorced you at your best friend’s funeral?"

Mr. Etta nodded. "She saw that pen in my left hand and smelled that mess in my pants... Well. We both knew it was over right there and then. Fifteen years and two-and-a-half children right into the trash along with my disgustingly soiled pants.

"How depressing."

"Heartbreaking, really. I just purchased those damned pants."

BEFORE THE FALL

In a war-torn countryside where the homes and buildings are little more than smoldering rubble and time has lost all meaning, the sick, dying, and generally unamused wait in line by a cliff overlooking the sea.

"Now serving number eleventy-seven!" a clean, well-dressed councilman shouted from his seat behind a little table. A large-armed guard stood by his side.

"Thank god!" a man cried, limping his way to the table. "I thought I'd be stuck in this line forever."

"On behalf of the newly consolidated and collated Moronikan Monarchy Incorporated family, I do sincerely apologize for any wait," the councilman recited. "How may I assist you today?"

The man puzzled this for a moment. "I'm not sure."

"Do you often stand in lines without rhyme, reason, or rhyme?"

"No. But a large, angry man covered in blood told a bunch of us to stand in this line."

"Oh!" the councilman chuckled. "Herman recommended you to us, then?"

The man nodded. "That's right. I was standing in the bloody, smoldering rubble of what used to be my house and family..."

"And now you’re in need of a new house and family?"

"Some food would be nice, too."

"Of course," the councilman yawned. "You might be a bit surprised to hear, but we’ve had a bit of a run on new houses, family, and food today."

"Is that right?"

"Oh, yes. It was a bit of a shock, but you know how it goes with these sorts of regime changes. All this death and destruction always motivates people to finally trade-in, move-up, sell-out, back-stab, and whatever other hyphenations they’ve put-off forever."

"Makes sense."

The councilman slid a pen and clipboard across the table. "Just fill out these forms for me, and we’ll have you on your way."

The man did just that, then slid the pen and clipboard back to the councilman. "There you go. I think I got it all right."

The councilman looked over the forms, mumbled nonsense to himself while bobbing his head, then stamped a stamp of some shape and size across them all. "Wonderful. Now, if you’ll be so kind as to follow Hugo here to the edge of that cliff just over there, he’ll be happy to expedite the rest of your execution."

The man looked at the large-armed guard at the councilman's side, then to the cliff, and then back to the councilman. "I'm sorry?"

"Would you prefer self-checkout?"

"I’d prefer to not be executed."

The councilman looked over the forms, then stamped them all once more. "It says right here you voted in the last election."

"Yes," the man said, "but I don’t see why I should be executed for such a thing."

"I’m sorry the system isn’t perfect, but I'm afraid it’s the only one we have."

The man scoffed. "Oh, sure. That might be all fine and good for you, Hugo, and the Moronikan board of executives..."

The councilman nodded. "It really is."

"Right. Well, isn’t there any recourse for your average Moron?"

The councilman considered this. "Would you like a big, heavy rock to speed things up?"

"Will it cushion my fall?"

"Would it help if I lied?"

"No."

"Exactly. Hugo?"

The large-armed guard took the man by the hair, escorted him over to the cliff, and tossed him into the sea.

"Thank you so very much, Hugo," the councilman said, then turned to the line. "Now serving number eleventy-eight!”

ELDRITCH TRIAL SEPARATION

It was a day at the beach. The sun was there. Water and sand all over the place. Cruise ships and oil rigs littering the horizon as far as the eye could weep. And all squandered on a man sitting at the end of the pier, half-assedly pretending to listen to a very angry woman’s voice on speakerphone berate him for his part in a years-long affair that has done irreparable damage to their marriage, family, and social media following.

“Look,” the man interjected. “I know I’ve been a selfish, heartless bastard who cares little for your needs, wants, hopes, and dreams. And I know I’ve consistently and utterly failed to pay my fair share of..." the man said, quickly realized he'd never paid for a damned thing in all their years together, and decided to just roll with it, "...well, anything. I get it. My bad. But, I don’t understand why you’re so upset.”

As the very angry woman started to categorically, chronologically, and somethingly explain, more or less, precisely why she was so upset with this selfish, heartless bastard, the selfish, heartless bastard decided he didn’t care and turned his fleeting attention to a gathering crowd pointing and gathering and crowding about something along the horizon.

“It’s gone!” a crowder pointed.

“What’s gone?” a gatherer crowded.

“The oil rig!” a pointer gathered.

The selfish, heartless bastard looked back out across the water, and wondered how anyone would even notice one oil rig went missing.

“Because I happened to be staring right at it,” the crowder answered without hearing the question. “It was there one moment, gone the next.”

“Bullshit,” the gatherer replied without being asked.

“It’s true!” the pointer whined like a petulant brat for some inexplicable reason. “I saw it sink right into the water, like the bottom fell out, or somethin’!”

“I’m sorry,” the very angry woman said. “Is this conversation about our rotting corpse of a relationship too distracting?”

“Yeah,” the you-get-the-point admitted. “A little. Sorry.”

“No, no,” she said. “It wouldn’t be time spent with you if it wasn’t wasted.”

Now. Had the man been paying any attention whatsoever, what turned out to be the woman’s last known words to anyone might have stung. But it was at this moment when something breached the water and swallowed one of the many cruise ships whole.

And it was at that moment when the crowd lost its collective shit - children flipped, dogs clothed, fish strangled. Internet search histories ineffectively deleted. A man was even caught defecating in a flower vase and nobody so much as took a photograph. Madness. Simply madness.

And then, it monstered onto the shore.

Suffice it to say, it was quite the sight. It was big, of course. Very large and very something, indeed. Not quite a fish, not quite a cuttlefish. Definitely something nobody had seen until they did. And then, it just sort of made its way up the sand, as things like it do, onward to destroy humanity maybe. I’m not sure. Didn’t think to ask, which seems like quite the oversight, now that I think about it. The damnedest thing, though. I suppose you had to be there.

Anyway. I forget where I was going with any of this.

A MATTER OF EIGHTY DOLLARS

In an apartment in a town in a corner of some place you've never been to, Douglby D. Douglby III, a woefully depressing and stupidly named man, sat at his desk, typing away at some flavor of typing machine.

"I've done it!" Douglby said, throwing the typing machine across the room and into a wall. "After all these years, I've actually, truly, and no-kiddingly finished it - my first novel!"

But as Douglby drooled on his manuscript with joy, he heard a knock at his front door.

"Oh. That must be an agent ready to buy my book."

Douglby opened the door to find a man in a funny hat standing there.

"Douglby D. Douglby III?" the man said.

"That's a good guess," Douglby said, wiping the spittle from his bottom lip. "Are you here to give me money for the novel I've just finished?"

"You mean, 'Randall Fartdragon and the Stones of Manliness?'"

"So you have heard of it."

"Oh, I've more than heard of 'Randall Fartdragon and the Stones of Manliness,' Mr. Douglby," the man said, pushing past Douglby and picking up the drool-soaked manuscript. "I wrote it fifteen years ago."

"Fifteen years ago?" Douglby muttered to himself, then once more just to be certain he had. "I'm sorry, Mister...?"

"Dave Daveson, original creator, author, and owner of not only Randall Fartdragon, but the entire Liquid Dreams franchise."

"My apologies, Mr. Liar, but are you accusing me of plagiarizing the work of someone I haven't even slept with?"

"No, my supple Mr. Douglby. Nothing quite so extravagant."

"Good. But you are here to give me money?"

"No, I'm afraid not, Mr. Douglby. I'm here to verify the results of the simulation."

"Simulation?"

"That's right. And I'm a bit embarrassed to admit this, but I didn't think you'd actually succeed. I mean, it certainly took you long enough. But here it is, word for word. I'd be absolutely impressed if I weren't so utterly pissed off."

"I'm sorry?"

"No need for apologies, Mr. Douglby," Mr. Daveson said, throwing the manuscript against a different wall. "It was all part of the plan, after all."

"There you go again. What does this nonsense about plans and simulations have to do with my book?"

"Well, if you must know, Mr. Douglby, a critic of mine, a Mr. Fakename, had the nerve to say my work was so insipidly simple and simply insipid that even a depressingly talentless, witless, and wholly useless moron could manage to replicate it if given enough time."

"Uh-huh."

"So, just to prove him wrong, I paid my neighbor - a nice boy by the name of Kennethon - twenty dollars to construct this simulation in which a man - you, Mr. Douglby - would toil one painful day after the next, drowning in self-doubt and shame until, at last, you've served your purpose."

"Sounds like a lot of work for twenty dollars."

"Yes. But he assured me it was easier than mowing lawns."

"You mean my entire existence is a fabricated fiction, crafted by you, programmed by a child, and all for the sake of validating your existence in the face of criticism that likely had little-to-no adverse impact on the course of your career whatsoever?"

"That's right."

"Makes sense."

"You're taking all of this rather well."

Douglby shrugged. "One thing's as good as another. Good to have a purpose in life, you know. Bit of comfort in the face of unblinking eternity."

"Speaking of 'unblinking eternity' - it's time I get going."

"Of course. But, what's next?"

"Next?"

"Yeah, for the simulation. Now that I've fulfilled our purpose."

Mr. Daveson puzzled this. "I hadn't thought about that. Turn it off, I would think."

"Turn it off?"

"You can't possibly expect me to continue paying for all this, can you? You've just cost me eighty dollars."

"I thought you said twenty."

"For Kenny's work, yes. But now I've also lost a bet with Mr. Fakename, and that's another sixty."

"I don't think I like being a simulation."

"Perhaps you should have thought about that before you stole my work, hm?" Mr. Daveson said, then turned to the doorway. "Kenny, you can turn it off! We're done here!"

And as an author and seller of used erotica watched a man in a funny hat storm out his front door, he couldn't help but wonder if he'd get his full security deposit back regardless of the typing machine-shaped dent in his wall.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Thinker, writer, talker, and, on occasion, part-time lover, Rikki Wildfire is a Southern California native. She watches too many movies. Her chiweenie, Leo, is highly judgmental and shames her for leaving the house dressed like that.

WHERE STARS COLLIDE
(AND OTHER MISTAKES)
Published by Rikki Wildfire
Copyright © 2025 Rikki Wildfire

License Notes
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