Tagged: movies

O’er the Ramparts We Watched

Dear Planet Earth,

It’s the Fourth of July, in case you didn’t know. I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t. None of us felt free today, no matter how many mole people we killed or how many pieces of American society we tried to pick up.

We got drunk — wasted, really — and listened to classic rock and roll. The kitchen staff took the unflavored tofu we’ve been living off of lately and molded it into the shapes of hamburgers and hot dogs. When the sun set, we blew up some cars and Cash4Gold billboards while mumbling the words to “The Star-Spangled Banner.”

It was the Fourth of July in the sense that the date was the fourth of July. We had nothing to celebrate. We had no independence. We had no inspiring speeches from Bill Pullman about how today was truly the day to honor that original fight for freedom on this hallowed land.

And then some random girl kissed me. She pulled me into a woody area and shoved her tongue into my mouth. It happened so quickly I didn’t get a chance to see what she looked like or wonder if it was a good idea. She abruptly stopped after about a minute, giggled, and said, “Thanks.”

I watched her saunter back to the unfestive festivities, her blurry figure silhouetted by a bonfire fueled by Justin Bieber CDs. I instantly became aware of the dopey smile on my face. More than that, I realized I was happy and I was free, even if only for today. I won’t know what fights may come tomorrow, but I do know that if my happiness and freedom is on the line, I will fight.

God fucking bless America.

Hunky-Dory Steampunk Story

Dear Planet Earth,

We’ve been hopping from place to place around the city all week. We kept expecting the mole people to return for a counterattack, drill snakes and steampunk guns in tow. It’s now undeniably apparent they’re not coming, either out of fear or condescending disinterest.

They have a right to be scared. We’ve fortified every inch of downtown Seattle and trained dozens of new rebels how to use some serious weapons. Oh, we’ve started calling ourselves “rebels,” too.

I helped raid a firehouse yesterday to get those flames around the Space Needle under control. We did a pretty good job considering our only training came from playing fireman in preschool. The CDC guys contained the remains of the drill snake I epically pwned, which makes for a pretty eerie picture.

Despite how hunk-dory things seem now, a lot of us are actually itching for the mole men to bring it on. Dr. Eimer compared our zeal for battle to the “geopolitical climate prior to World War I.” I think most of us rebels are imagining Star Wars IV.

Battle in Seattle

Dear Planet Earth,

That was a long enough nap. Greetings from Seattle! Wish you were here. Unless you’re a mole man, in which case, you know, screw you.

We raided two other slave labor camps on the way up here. It was exhilarating to be one of the actual liberators this time around, though I’ll leave out the long paragraphs about strategy that you would only skim over and the mole people would likely exploit.

I will say that our latest score of high-tech rocket launchers may have something to do with our success. We found them among the remains of Fort Kross and they’re officially called “SMAWs,” or “Shoulder Mounted Ass Wipers.” Don’t quote me on that.

When we prepared to drive the mole men out of this city, General Talpa finally trusted me enough to aid the missile squad. I loaded up the rounds for Lieutenant Stoya and watched their gargantuan drill snake shudder from the impacts. Those ominous-looking saw blades were completely destroyed, and it looked like victory was near.

Then the metal monster started firing a small Gatling gun that popped out from underneath. Stoya took a hit in the shoulder (he’s fine now), and the SMAW went down with him. Maybe he screamed or told me to retreat or to try and ice the sucker myself — I don’t know, I had lost all hearing hours ago. I do know that something else took hold of me then. Some kind of calm, innate spirit within me pushed everything else to the side and just focused on picking up that rocket launcher and icing the sucker myself.

It looked just like this . . .

. . . but 1,000 times more badass.

The Pit

Dear Planet Earth,

I finally finished my debriefing with General Talpa and the other nerds who saved my life. They gave me a lot of new info to think over, but for now, I just want to finish uploading all the pictures I took from the battle.

Here’s a good one I got just as we were pulling away in the transport trucks full of former slaves and (hopefully) new allies. You can see the mole people’s drill peeking up from out of the top of the labor camp.

I didn’t get any decent pictures of the fighting actually inside the camp itself. Just try to imagine the sarlaac pit from Tatooine on fire, screaming, but a hundred times more frightening.

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.

Ryan

Dear Planet Earth,

It was the first day in a while that Perry hasn’t come by to dispense fatherly advice or spread the Good Word about the mole people. He’s been trying to interpret passages for me from A History of the Inheritors, the ancient manifesto of our underground overlords. It’s all bullshit, and I’ve told him as much since he started his temptation to bring me to the dark side and join him so that we may rule the galaxy as father and son.

I did have another awkward conversation with my gruffy gaoler to make up for Perry’s absence. He dropped off my usual gruel at the usual time, and I asked him, “What’s your name?”

He looked through the window suspiciously.

“Why?”

“It seems important,” I said. “You feed me everyday, recharge my laptop, clean my bedpan. But I don’t even know what to call you.”

His gaze eased, perhaps understanding the bigger conflict on my mind.

“Ryan.”

I nodded.

“Well, nice to meet you, Ryan.”

I briefly considered offering him my hand. He was about to go, but I stopped him with another question.

“You have any kids, Ryan?”

“Look, pal, this ain’t the Marriott here. You’re not a guest and I’m not your friend. Any issues you got with The Big Guy are between you and him.”

He stormed off after that, leaving me with a half-full bedpan and dreams of a paternal relationship I never knew I wanted.

Suite Setup

Dear Planet Earth,

I feel like I’ve been using the words “abandoned” and “desolate” too much in these posts lately, but those are the only terms I can think of to describe Los Angeles right now. There’s no one here. Dusty cars line the streets, some crashed into street lights, others frozen forever in a traffic jam that will never let up. Electronic billboards flash messages for movies, vodka, strip clubs — anachronistic reminders from a culture so swiftly extinguished.

We checked-in to the swanky Renaissance Hollywood Hotel and Spa and helped ourselves to the executive suites. It’s no Bellagio, for sure, though with a 6,400 square-foot spa and a diversely stocked, full-sized refrigerator in every room, this place is emanating pure swank.

Most of our crew is out scavenging for supplies in the shell of a city, but I offered to help Maria care for Mrs. Bing, whose scattered thoughts are becoming more and more unnerving everyday. Maria worked in a nursing home before the mole men attacked, so she’s more than qualified to babysit one hysterical old woman.

Lovely, lovely Maria. Okay, my intentions for staying here aren’t exactly pure, but my leg still isn’t 100%, you know.

You know?