Tagged: blog
Nepotistic Non-Neglect
Dear Planet Earth,
I’m not going to mind getting used to living out of five star hotels for the duration of the invasion. I won’t give any more information about our locations other than that from now on since it’s become disturbingly apparent that the mole people can and have been reading this blog all along.
When I’m not catching up on much needed sleep, taking advantage of this electric razor I scored, and enjoying the oft-neglected luxury of two-ply toilet paper, I’m getting piss drunk with old friends. Today was Dr. Eimer.
He was in the best spirits I’ve ever seen him. We’ve all been, really, since the successful raid and liberation of the slave labor camp. He was fascinated by the mole man manifesto Perry gave me. Eimer read entire passages aloud last night, as giddy as a school girl. A Japanese school girl.
I told him he could borrow the book since I think I already found the important parts I needed. It served as an uncomfortable reminder too, I guess. As my comrades were forced to work to the bone all day, many to the point of death, I was living it up in a shady room with three square meals a day. They’ve all been doing a good job of hiding their contempt, which by all accounts must be there. Hell, it’d be there for me if I was in their shoes.
Whatever the case, Eimer showed his ecstatic appreciation by giving me his bottle of vodka. And that lasted for a fun hour.
No
Dear Planet Earth,
Something’s coming. Something big if Perry’s anxiety can be believed. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s just screwing with me though; he’s been playing psychological warfare since this father-son kidnapping adventure began, and the fact that he can read this blog means I’m literally an open book. Maybe not literally.
He came in and took his usual seat at my small table. He was breathing heavily and his eyes were as big as golf balls. I was about to offer him a drink using my best Dr. No impression, which (I’m not ashamed to say) I’d been practicing for much of the day, but he beat me to the punch by asking if I’d been in contact with any of my military comrades.
I almost flat out told him no. Instead I asked what it mattered, would he really believe me either way. He didn’t seem to give that a lot of thought and just went into his other accusatory questions.
Did I know where my friends from LA were? Did I see who attacked the overturned truck outside the camp? Where exactly was the library we camped out at? I gave him some more contemplative non-answers, and he ignored every one of them.
We went on like this for about ten minutes until he finally looked me straight in the eyes and urged me not to try to leave. And then he left.
Perry
Dear Planet Earth,
“Perry.”
That’s how he greeted me the last time he came to my cell. He was all smiles as he sauntered in, sat at the table and crossed his legs.
“My name is Perry. I guess you could call me that if ‘Dad’ or ‘Father’ feels too weird. It would feel weird to me.”
I laid on my cot, doing my best to hide the old book he gave me, A History of the Inheritors, behind my head. I didn’t want him to know I was reading it, that I’ve been reading it nonstop since I got it in the vain hope of finding some worthwhile reason to abandon family, friends, and species.
I’m tempted to not write anything. He’s watching. He’s reading this blog right now and there’s nothing I can do to stop him from learning about me besides staring at a blank wall all day.
There’s no use in trying to hide anything now. So, if you are reading this, Perry — and I know you are — screw you. Screw you for walking out on your wife and child. Screw you for kidnapping me multiple times. Screw you for selling out humanity to the mole people.
“Is there something you wanna say, little guy?” he asked me last time. His smile was stone, unperturbed by even my most fiery glares.
“I’d hate to have been you in middle school, Perry Panus.”
He laughed — more than I’d like for him to have laughed. He stood up to go with a painful grunt and said, “Well, I guess things don’t get more real than that.”
Screw you.
The Big Guy
Dear Planet Earth,
“Hey, little guy.”
I awoke this morning to see a strange man sitting on the edge of my bed. He had ragged clothing and dark, greasy hair. He was hunched over and smiling at me.
“But I guess you’re not so little anymore.”
I sat up and pushed myself against the wall.
“They say that you’re starting to talk again. That you’re not so sick.”
The glare of the morning sun and dirty patches of facial hair obscured much of his face, but I could still make out that lupine smile.
“I guess we kept on missing each other, huh? When Martha told me you were with the army, it was too late. My friends tried to keep you at that motel before that, but you ran off before I could get there.”
He seemed to be waiting for me to say something. When I didn’t, he motioned to my laptop sitting on a table and continued.
“I’ve been reading your blog. I’m sorry they shot at you. They weren’t supposed to. And you lost a friend.”
“Diana,” I said. “Her name was Diana.”
“Well, I’m sorry about Diana.” He nodded and it looked like he might have had some tears in his eyes. “It looks like you’ve been through a lot of adventures. I’m just happy you’re safe.”
He stood up and walked to the door.
“We’ll talk tomorrow,” he said. “You don’t look like you want to say anything today.”
I said, “Wait.” And he waited. “Are you really. . . are you. . .”
The words wouldn’t come out of me. My head was pounding, refusing to believe what I saw in front of me.
“Yeah, it’s really me, son.”
And he left.
Sticky Fingers
Dear Planet Earth,
We’re not alone. I’m not just talking about the mole men, either.
My laptop went missing three days ago, and since I usually keep it closer to me than my own family jewels, I naturally assumed someone from the group stole it. Accusations were made, tears were shed, and widows and children alike spat in my lunches. Mind you, this is right on the heels of me being the number one suspect in the car graffiti mystery.
Just when I had exhausted every friend I had left here, some soldier went exploring around the library and found the entrance to a hidden attic above us. He found twelve famished people huddled in a corner. They were Anne Franking it (too soon?) up there since we arrived, apparently unsure if we were mole people or their homeless henchmen. Of course, that didn’t stop them from sneaking around at night to steal food and my precious laptop.
One of the little girls posted something on the blog. The keys are all sticky and smell like peanut butter.
Most of them seem to be kids, the few adults are still being debriefed in a study room right now. They’re eating like they haven’t had a decent meal in weeks, and they keep giving us suspicious glances, as if at any moment we’ll pull off our human masks and start shooting to the rhythm of our own maniacal laughter.
Someone’s going to have to tell them soon that I’m the only one who’s supposed to be despised here.
Void
Dear Planet Earth,
I changed the layout of the blog, and after turning over on my right side, watching static on the TV, and counting all the water stains in the ceiling, the only thing left to do today is to write about something.
I’m in a lull here, a stagnant void that could easily make me forget that the mole people are out there, intent on killing me and the rest of humanity. I need to keep my brain active. I need to use this time for something more productive than just scoring free drugs and waging war on orphan children. It would be good to lay out the facts, to remind me and anyone else willing to listen what the hell has happened to the world we once knew.
I’m working on a timeline now of everything that’s led to this moment. I’m going to need a minute or two.
Fire and Ash
Dear Planet Earth,
I don’t know if anyone’s reading this. I don’t know if anyone’s left to read this. This blog has been more a personal diary for me since the beginning. It’s allowed me to isolate my thoughts and actions with little regard about the world at large. The truth is now more clear to me than ever — that I’m not alone, that I never was. I’m part of a much bigger group with a shared history that calls itself “the human race.”
The first explosions started sometime yesterday morning. I watched mystified as Lieutenant Christiansen disappeared in a swift blast of fire and ash. Other soldiers screamed in agony and confusion from all sides. Half of a Hummer landed inches away from my crouched body. I could feel the heat of the flames on my face as someone grabbed me by the arm and forced me to run.
I ran with the rest of our disbanded band of brothers, who sporadically turned around and blindly fired their rifles. I ran for hours, but no matter how far it seemed like I’d gone, I could still hear the explosions just as loud, could still feel the flames just as hot.
We’re moving out in the transport trucks any minute now. General Talpa said we’ll need to leave behind all non-essential equipment to stay under the weight limit, and that includes my netbook.
I don’t know what’s coming next. I don’t know if I can survive a next battle. All I know is we finally have a name for our enemies. It’s been on the tip of our tongues ever since this started, but we’ve been too blind and proud to admit it. We’re being invaded from beings beneath the earth’s crust who’ve watched and waited for years, planning an unrelenting strike to wipe out every single member of the human race.
We’re under attack from mole men, and our world will never be the same.
The Wrong People
Dear Planet Earth,
I’m left with even more questions after my 20 hour debriefing than I had yesterday. I was again taken to my canvas tent cell where General Talpa again gave his one-man rendition of good cop/bad cop.
He said the tech gurus couldn’t find anything in my broken walkie talkie but dead circuit boards and batteries. He was convinced that it must be a symbol for something else, and he made me retell every memory I had about walkie talkies and my father. I told him the same thing I tell everyone about my father.
“He was just another dead beat dad. An aging hippie who couldn’t handle the pressures of a career and family. My mom said he got into drugs and made connections with the wrong people, and that’s all I ever wanted to know about him.”
“And what about The Time Machine?” Talpa asked. “You said he read it to you every night?”
“Yeah, but . . . I’ve gone over these same questions a dozen times already in my head.” I rubbed my eyes, hoping for sleep or wakefulness to finally arrive. “You guys probably know more than I do. You’re the ones with that damn list.”
They let me go a few interrogations later, even gave me the stupid walkie talkie. But I know they’re watching me; some of Talpa’s scouts have been eyeing me in the mess hall, offering to escort me back to my tent. They’re probably reading this blog.
Well, boys, I don’t know shit. As soon as I do remember some tiny clue from my past that could explain every crazy thing that’s happened so far, you’ll be the first ones to know. Whether I want it or not.
Pass the Ambien
Dear Planet Earth,
It’s Turkey Day, and I feel like a chicken. Some army guy just gave me my netbook back and said I could blog away. He smiled and said I should tell my “legions of fans” (his voice was practically oiled in sarcasm) to stay as far away from the “drills” as possible. If that wasn’t ominous enough, he also said I’d be receiving a visit from a General Talpa soon.
I was in too terrified a state to ask him about anything, but at least I’m starting to feel things again. I haven’t had a wink of sleep since they imprisoned me. The constant noises outside are a mixture of shouting, beeping tower cranes, and what has to be dynamite. For the few moments my subconscious does take over and I enter dreamland, I see vivid glimpses of Diana’s red corpse and I instantly wake up to harsh, conclusive reality.
This may be my last post for a while since these canvas tent cells don’t come included with power outlets. Gobble, gobble.
The Other Message
Dear Planet Earth,
I’m not sure if anyone can actually read this or not. Every major website is still offline since the cyber attack on Sunday. I was only able to access my blog after one of my friends showed me an easy way to hack in. The coding is apparently a lot more simple than most “real” news sites.
You can imagine my surprise when I found this message on my blog and every other page on the Internet. Like the last mysterious message that dominated cyberspace, this one is written with foreign characters (Korean), but it’s just one long string of nonsense. I assume that this message was likewise meant to be typed on a different keyboard layout.
The biggest news, of course, is the fact that there is no news. Every television and radio station is still broadcasting nothing but static and every GSM cell phone is now just a paperweight. It’s hard to tell if we’re in a state of emergency or not with so many spam messages going around. How/Could the government communicate to people in a situation like this? Are we in real danger or are we just not able to communicate the way we did twenty years ago?
