Tagged: alcohol

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.


In and Out

Dear Planet Earth,

In between my tumbles into the past and present, life and death, a face appears — a face I know can’t be real. It’s a memory, a shadow of the sanity I once had.

He wasn’t there.

Back in the past, on the border of the mole people’s slave labor camp, Maria, Karter, Halston, Linares, and I take swigs from a whiskey bottle I swiped from a store in LA. We check our rifles and cover our faces with black makeup as the sun sets behind the colossal drill.

“We’re ninjas,” says Halston. “We’re scouting the area, that’s all. In and out. Find vulnerable points, memorize patrol routes, and get back up here.”

Karter takes a swig and snickers. “Easy peasy,” he says.

We enter the camp as soon as the last ray of sunlight disappears and the mole man guards are nowhere to be seen. Not much of anything can be seen, really. The area had thousands of slaves and slavers roaming around just hours before, yet it now stood almost completely deserted. A small part of me wondered if they all went inside the drill or under the ground at night, while the rest of my mind stayed focused on swerving between the strange structures ahead of us and not curling up into a ball weeping. I remember thinking ninjas was an apt word as we ran along in a crouched, silent formation.

And in a matter of seconds, everything changes.

In Insomnia

Dear Planet Earth,

I haven’t slept in over 24 hours. Despite everything you’ve heard, it is not easy to fall asleep in a roomful of snoring, smelly soldiers, children, and grandmas. It sounds like a circus here now at Gary Goldberg’s Discount Cars with everyone moving large crates from one place to another or complaining how the large crate they need isn’t right in front of them.

I was able to finally catch up with Dr. Eimer last night. He seemed to be avoiding me ever since the mole men emerged from the drill and I wasn’t shy about telling him.

“Long time no see, doc.”

I found him leaning against the dealership building, staring at the infinite stars above. If I smoked, this would be the cinematic moment when I coolly pulled out a cigarette, and right before lighting it, offered one to my old friend.

“Yeah. Scott. Long time.” He gave me a quick glance, then just as quickly resumed investigating the night sky. We stayed like that for several minutes.

“So. . .” Like many of our past conversations, I assumed this one would soon devolve into him recounting a traumatic memory and end with us both drinking his whiskey in a tent somewhere.

“You’re a smart boy, Scott.” I’m glad someone’s noticed. “I think I was a smart boy, too, when I was your age. Now . . . I’m just a foolish old man with some pieces of paper to show everyone how smart he is.”

This is when he would take a long drag on the cigarette I gave him.

“I said things to you that day — when they attacked — things no old man should ever admit. I still feel, I’m still afraid of dying. I’m sorry, Scott.”

I patted his shoulder. We didn’t drink any whiskey.


Dear Planet Earth,

The plot thickens. Dr. Eimer revealed some more details to me about the ominous drill. He seems to think that it might not be a drill at all.

It turns out the radio signals I was told about before aren’t what you and I know as radio signals. The object is giving off incredibly fast vibrations to send out messages. Through the ground.

He calls it seismic communication and it’s used by some animals like elephants to speak to each other. This could make much stronger signals, conceivably from one side of the planet to the other. The only problem is this takes a lot of energy, more energy than any current country could utilize for this scale. On Earth, at least.

The strangest thing the good doctor told me was that he doesn’t think this is the first time we’ve been visited. He said the army brought him here to consult about his theories of past visitations from these kinds of objects spanning back to the dawn of mankind.

I’m going to let that one sink in and drink some more of his whiskey for the next several hours.

We Are the World

Dear Planet Earth,

If this blogging thing doesn’t work out as a life-long (now estimated to be two more weeks) career, I may look into becoming a professional freeloader.

Today at Fort Doomsday, an old guy with no eyebrows caught me trying to steal some power for my netbook and phone. I tried to pretend I was just another soldier, but he saw right through it and laughed. He invited me back to his tent for drinks.

Now, I’m not stupid. I’ve seen enough Dateline specials about the Neverland Ranch to know you’re not supposed to go to dark secluded places with strangers to get drunk. But there was something in his eyes, something stern but paternal, that told me I could trust this guy. That sounds really stupid and Dateliney now that I see it written down.

Whatever. It turns out, he’s actually a very cool guy. Dr. Eimer is the head of the civilian consultants here. He’s also the only civilian consultant. When I tried to press him further and find out exactly what he does, he laughed.

“I’m a historian,” he said.

He poured me another glass of whiskey and asked what I do. It was strong stuff — my first alcoholic drink that I couldn’t associate a TV commercial with.

“I guess I’m a historian, too.”

That made him laugh again, but the conversation took a much darker turn soon after when he told me about how his wife died during the earthquakes. I told him about Diana, which started our sharing of condolences and philosophies of life, death, and the universe. I think we may have tried to drunk dial the Pentagon at one point.

To make a long story short, I’m keeping him company in exchange for food, showers, and whiskey. Even MJ never offered whiskey.