The Writing Disorder


New Fiction


by Francis Chung

      I was watering my leafy green coca plants when a couple of spies broke in and saw my stash. One of the two teenage girls brought out a portable camera and snapped off a few. I dropped my porno mag and watering wand. I typed out an encrypted message to Thirteen Gulls on the two way: “Got a couple magpies in the crop. Initiating skip trace. Code Tri-Deca-Gamma at 10 minute intervals.” They must have intercepted the transmission because as soon as I touched ‘Send,’ they turned and ran with fleet steps, light taps on the ground and out of my compound.
      “Achtung,” I said. I spat hitting the porno mag in the crotch. Then I gave chase.
      I hit the block fast and saw their had motorized skateboards: the kind with all terrain tires and hydrogen boost. “Achtung Diebe,” I said. I had nothing but my ancient electric roller skates. Nevertheless, I had ordered the skip trace and I couldn’t stop now—mostly because my boss had written me up for a ‘coaching’ the other day for failing to adjust the reflector shades on the newest batch of clones. This was complete bullshit. Slightly irked that my boss may have actually ‘reached’ me, I touched the side of my sleeve to activate the wheels from the bottom of my shoes. Thirteen wheels on each foot inflated into 6-inch diameter translucent red polyurethane donuts. I pushed off and accelerated with electric aided momentum. I tucked like a speed skater and shorted my glide for a few quick intense accelerating bursts. Then lengthened out my strokes for a higher top speed. Still skating hard, about a mile down the road, I caught sight of the spies who had slowed thinking that they got away.
      The mousey smaller one turned, she looked about thirteen. Her lip lifted in sneer. I read her mouth: “That fucking farmer is following us.” In her defense, I was wearing blue denim overalls.
      The pair split like a smashed atom. Each took a 45-degree vector and increased speed. I choose to follow the younger one, thinking her more impatient and that I could fluster her long enough while tailing her in order to get a solid satellite trace. A small sonic boom resounded: her hydrogen booster. The brown hair was now a pinpoint on the horizon and getting smaller and smaller in the distance. I glanced at the other girl. Still within range. As I angled to her, the lactic acid began burning. The thought of getting ‘coached’ again was too much for my ego. (Have you ever been ‘coached’ by someone who does your job and her job worse than you do?) I grunted and decided to go all out for 10 more hard skates. If she hit the hydrogen boost, I could give up.
      Surprisingly, I began to gain ground. She saw my overalls skating large, one arm tucked behind the back pro-style. She locked eyes with me and grinned. Once I was in earshot, my lungs quaking, she said easily, “No body reads porno anymore, Cock-Twisting Pervert.” She then jammed down the hydrogen boost button on her handheld accelerator. “See you in Hades, Farmer,” she said. She crouched readying for super sonic speed. Nothing, but a small wisp of black smoke escaped from the engine and the whole skateboard shuddered and lost momentum. I was nearly on top her then. I reached out, but she escaped my hand and veered hard right towards a Loma Vista gated community. She ollied over a 10 foot brick wall and was out of sight.
      I couldn’t jump that high on my ancient electric skates. But I roller-skated straight up the trunk of a Yew Tree the way old cartoon characters do. At the first branch heading toward the brick wall, I did a forward flip and landed bearing directly towards the brick fortification. I caught a glimpse of the girl: she accelerated towards a huge mansion on the corner, her hair trailing in the wind. When the branch began to bend with my weight I stopped breathing and vaulted myself over. Twenty-six red wheels landed smoothly on a expanse of concrete inside the Loma Vista gated community. As my lungs were heaving, I beelined into the back yard of the mansion where the girl ran. Beyond the wooden side gate, glass sliding double doors squeaked and slammed shut. I slid them open and retracted my skates. As tired as a 3:00 a.m. jizz cleaner at a porn theatre, I cautiously took the stairs two by two. The grand staircase was a pink and yellow spiral cleaving through the center of the compound. Who lived here? Jay Gatsby? The culprit scurried to the third floor where I glimpsed long dirty blonde hair and an oversized magenta sweater with clumsily stitched geometric shapes. At least the spies had good taste. The door to a bedroom slammed shut. I crept to it and decided that I was gonna take her in. Maybe I’d get a raise? Maybe, I’d be Employee of the Month for this one? I knocked on the door and said, “Who are you?”
      “Who are you?” Was her reply.
      “I’m Farmer 337b.”
      “Well, thanks.”
      “Now you.”
      “That’s such a rip off.”
      “Whatever. You trespassed. Give me the data and readings from my place and I might not take you in.”
      “What data?”
      “The pictures you took.”
      “Listen Farmer 337b. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t know why you chased me.”
      “’Cause you ran. That’s admission of guilt when you run.”
      “Look, I don’t admit anything. I was just riding my skateboard.”
      I tried to initiate a satellite trace at this point. But it was thwarted by some other communications interference which came from the room proving the girl legitimately financed. I initiated my own blocking program hoping that she wouldn’t be able to call for help either. But I found that one transmission had already gone out. As I tried to decode it, the door sprang open and a golden swath of hair attacked me with whirling sai. I managed to dodge and roll into the room scanning for a weapon or a defensive wrap; anything. Nothing. She attacked again, very low this time aimed directly at my balls. I threw myself backwards and landed on the bed where my hand reached under a pillow and found a 15 inch soft neon pink silicone dildo. I Jose Canseco’d the proxy phallus and hit my assailant squarely in back of the head. Her momentum carried her into the wooden corner of the bed frame. Geometric Magenta Sweater Girl’s neck twisted ugly, angled awkward and she collapsed to the ground like a spent condom.
      A Glock focused into my vision and I heard shots. I dropped the nasty dildo and upended myself rolling backward and making myself, the target, smaller. Pointy Legos that some kid hadn’t cleaned up poked into my chest and belly. Ignoring them, I crawled to cover. I hated this kid’s room and the slovenly little kid’s horrible toy clean up habits. More imminently, I thought: who’s attacking me now? Peeping, I glanced the mousey 13-year-old who Sonic Boomed away earlier. She must have gotten the emergency transmission and now she was only 7 feet away. Close range panic saved me. I threw a plush teddy bear at her. The bear sailed across wallpaper rainbows, Pegasi and unicorns. Upside down, tufts of cotton stuffing exploded out its furry cute back as hollow point slugs landed in the wall behind me. Bullets bounced around inside the drywall and I couldn’t know how many shots she fired. I counted maybe 30 shots while more fucking Legos pierced my palms and thighs.
      With all my strength hoping to create a barrier, I lifted and rolled the large object next to me. It happened to be a mahogany wardrobe. The only wood grain I know is mahogany because the small tight even patterns and reddish color represented my childhood desktop for years. Anyway, It fell towards the girl and she jumped away with a tiny squeak. The room was an intense mess of neon colored shredded kid’s bedding and horribly disfigured toys and stuffed animals. Thousands of multicolored neon Legos littered the floor. The random thought zapped into my hysteria: What is this kid doing with a huge dildo?
      An empty clip clicked out. A full clip loaded. A familiar clicking sound meant that a bullet was chambered. The mini-Assassin sprang up with the wanton recklessness of a fearless computer generated enemy unleashing her fury from behind an all white vanity with oval mirror. The mahogany wardrobe took in all the fire. I heard the bullets ricochet inside it. Again it was impossible to tell how many shots had fired. The shots stopped and Justin Beiber’s “Baby” began to play underneath my left butt cheek.
      “My phone,” exclaimed the 13-year-old death merchant. I got a good look at her then. She was dressed in skinny jeans and a matching jean jacket with the collar turned up. Just like Beiber Immortal. I thought I saw his visage on her t-shirt. I showed the bejeweled smartphone over the side of the wardrobe. She gasped.
      “Do you want to take this call? It might be important.”
      “Who is it?”
      “I’m not gonna say.”
      “You motherfucker. Bobby’s supposed to call.” She put my head in between the sights.
      I flicked the phone Frisbee style at her head. She went to catch it.
      As the exit door grew larger in my sight, she caught the phone and answered it in a totally sweet voice.
      “Bobby? Yeah, totally. I know, it’s so crazy. But, can I call you back? I just didn’t want to miss your call ‘cause I missed it the other day. I’ll call you in a minute, K?” She hung up concurrent to my running out of the room.
      “Uuuuuugggggh, “ she cried in exasperation. “You almost made me miss that call. You’re a jerk, Farmer.”
      I was halfway down the pink staircase when she began firing at me again. “You stupid farmer. I hate your outfit.” One of her crazy shots hit my foot. The hole quickly filled with blood and pulsed with Pain. I stumbled and stopped. I looked up to see the mouse Bieber girl flying through the air with a jump side kick. I dropped to the ground to slip the blow. She pulverized the marble wall and landed on her feet one step above my head. Pink dust from the ruptured granite clouded the whole stairway.
      “I can’t believe you killed Irma. She must have underestimated you, dumbotronic farmer.”
      I reached up and grabbed her jeaned leg and rolled into it with my neck. She toppled. And with blazing reactionary speed she slashed out with a large knife. I could do nothing except hide my eyes. The blade hissed through the air and landed with a large THUNK cutting off my left ear. A clean strike. But very superficial. The pain didn’t register so I used my good right leg for one more solid push and mounted her. She was smaller than I thought, maybe 90 pounds, so I leaned all my weight on her and she panicked picking up strength. She went into a solid guard position with her left leg wrapping my leg and her head pushing back on my chest resisting contact. Very well trained in hand to hand. I took what I could and got partial underhooks on both arms, but I couldn’t drive her over due to my foot being shot up. She began to reach for some weapon on her body. That was a mistake because I being in Ghandi Guard locked in decent Good Evening Ladies and Gentleman Choke Hold. She was trapped. As she exhaled, I choked tighter like the anaconda who squeezes whenever it’s prey exhales. She gasped and switched her tactic to give a short knee at my groin which knocked into my thigh. Bone mashed muscle and fire and numbness exploded. At this point, I used my internal computer to shut all pain receptors off because my adrenaline surge had lapsed. I caught and held her knee in my crotch. I leaned in and let go of her arms and grabbed her head and shoved it into my stomach for a Reverse Cross-face Samoa Special.
      She knew it was over and began to tap on my arm. I anaconda’d her even more.
      “Who sent you?” I said.
      “The Bilderberg Group.” Was the muffled response that vibrated into my chest. She then tried to bite me through my shirt. But couldn’t.
      Bilderberg? Those demented grotesque eugenics based globalist banker tyrants were always shoving their quintillioniare noses into Thirteen Gulls’ business. As I looked around for the gun, I choked harder and pressured the carotid arteries to shut down her brain. Still alive, I dropped her. I had to get ready for the worst. My foot was broken from the gun wound and my ear began to spray blood. In the bathroom, I found a box of tampons and put one into my ear hole for max absorption. A microfiber hand towel with an embroidered tarantula wrapped my head. A bumble bee pillow pet wrapped my foot, but I still needed a crutch or a cane to walk. I sat down in an old leather study chair with wheels and rolled myself towards the closet door.
      Skating ancient electric or otherwise was not possible. I thought. Blood loss was countered by an increase in blood pressure readings from my internal computer.
      Then the floor to ceiling three story windows on the front of the mansion imploded. The sound muffled up into itself.
      “What did you do to my daughter?" Cried a huge male voice resonant and deep. I held my head from the decibels.
      I keeled over.
      “Irma? Pria?” said a female voice. The vowels held concern.
      “Protect them.” Said the male voice. “I’ll make him sing.”
      As he said these words my whole body rose in the air. I had lost control. Telekinesis was my opponent’s skill. I needed a reactive brain scramble. That implant is over 400 million dollars. I didn’t have that and I was transported to my days in Basic. Squad leader Peter was a telekinesis user and used to bully me all day. He could move small leverage points which proves useful in a fight when a slight tip of your blade or barrel means the difference between life or death. But this Bilderberg Agent was much more powerful. Able to lift me (over 190 pounds) and pin me against the wall, implode glass and voice amplify with apparent ease. I guess eugenics had paid off for those demented grotesque eugenics based globalist banker tyrants.
      “Who are you?” He said.
      “I’m a farmer.” I said. My electronics halted and jammed. He had broken through the last of my defenses. Pain from my recent battle grew vivid and fiery.
      “Why did you kill my daughter?”
      “She attacked me.”
      I screamed. All the flesh from hip down to my feet had been flayed from the bone. I looked down to see the bright sheen of blood, the brilliant white of dried and cleaned bone and the leaking yellow-clear, grease of my marrow. In a spilt second my skin was cut, pulled back and stuck flat on the wall like a grade school pig dissection. Each nerve ending screamed tasting air for the first time. The meat was ground up in piles on the ground ready for the fridge or grill. My legs looked like the Mr. Bones silk screened Halloween costume.
      The pain settled down and I was able to answer, “Fuck you.” I coughed blood from biting my tongue.
      “Your girl was a whore, a trick.” I goaded.
      “Angering me will not hasten your death.” He said and waved with his hand casually.
      I yelled again in pain from both my arms exploding like water balloons, flaying up to the shoulder and pinning open in the same manner as my legs.
      “AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH, I’m just a farmer hired by Thirteen Gulls.”
      “Darling, stop,” said the female voice. The pain ceased. Sweet surrender of exposed bone.
      “What, I’m clinically dismantling this one like a Fiat currency in America circa 2012. Why stop? Would you like to eat of his flesh?” asked the male politely.
      “We’ve company.”
      Heavy .50 caliber machine gun fire tore through the room. Code Tri-Deca-Gamma in ten minute intervals had gone through. Wood splinters flew brilliantly. Everything around me wallpaper, furniture, the metal balustrade was shredded by a gigantic hyper invisible cheese grater. Spasmodic barrel flash burned my retinas and a gigantic flood light cast its warmth on the inner sides of my skin.
      “Farmer 337b, we’ve got you. Please hold on.”
      “Ok,” I said and passed out.
      I opened my eyes in liquid. I was breathing it. Panic. They had suspended me in highly oxygenated water. Relax. I could see the doctor outside of the tube giving me a “thumbs up.” I returned it and saw my hand was a baby’s. I held it up to the light. Baby hands connected to a baby arm that connected grotesquely to a man sized torso. I examined my legs to see the same. My penis looked huge. The water flushed clockwise out of the tube and I was able to stand a good three feet lower than where I’m used to.
      I coughed out oxygenated water and said, “Why the baby arms?”
      “There were no full sizers left in the warehouse. It’s lucky that you even have these right now. You’re a very rare blood type.”
      “How long will it take for them to grow out?”
      “Grow out, ha! You’re stuck like that for a year while we grow you full sized ones.”
      “Forget about that. We still have the guy that did this to you.”
      “Cell Block 32. Neon Green. The girls are there too.”
      “Give me some pants.”
      “Here.” He handed me a pair of bright yellow corduroy toddler pants. There was absolutely no room for my penis in them.
      “My dick can’t fit in these.”
      “Well, that’s what we have.”
      “A multi-trillion dollar Thirteen Gulls operation with advanced humanoid grafting techniques and you can’t get a decent pair of pants?”
      “Hey, you can always go naked.”
      “Fuck you.” I used my baby hands to wrap the pants into a rough diaper format using the legs to cover my crotch. I waddled around unused to the immense weight of my head and torso. The legs were pretty strong albeit small.
      “Not bad Farmer 337b.”
      “Do you have a shirt?”
      “Pick one up in the commissary. Your insurance only covered the pants.”
      “Will do.” With that, I walked out of the infirmary. The metal doors slid open when I walked towards them. The weight of my new body was becoming familiar. Feeling all the stares of various Thirteen Gulls members, I kept a steady plod. I tried to be dignified, but I didn’t really care too much about it. I wanted answers from the guy that unwrapped my skin and flesh as easily as a Christmas present.
      As I pivoted the corner, Nurse Practitioner Juanita Flores’ perfectly shaped large curvy behind lined up directly with my face. Everyone always talked about it. I had seen her at the local happy hour and took note of it myself. But I had never been able to examine it with the intimate detail that my new short height gave me. I marveled at how smooth and rotund it was. How thick and pleasant the curves were. Feeling my eyes on her ass, she whirled and looked down.
      “Oh, my poor Farmer 337b, We all heard about what happened.” She wrung her hands in front of her bosoms. I could do little else but look up at them. Luscious even though covered in the prim white uniform.
      “You will visit my quarters for an after hours sexing session, yes?” She blinked her long lashes.
      “Uh, sure.” I mustered. I had forgotten that duty injury insurance included the use of sex therapists. I had never really been a fan of this ever since my parents got me one when I was 14. I later found that Dr. Agave had mediated to our sessions under the influence of 15 to 20 different pills. In some sort of trance, we’d have sex. Never fuck. Never fully engage with the person. Just polite discourse during the act itself:
      “Yes, that’s good. Excellent. Very good.”
      “Very good. Yes, right there.”
      Thereafter, she would to profess her Love for me. Then have sort of savage or equally reactionary titular response: cry violently to the point of physical exhaustion or academically interrogate what I thought about her performance:
      “Did you like it when I was on top?”
      “Very much so.”
      “You must tell me honestly.”
      “It was delightful.”
      “And the angle of my hip?”
      “It was a little different from last time.”
      “How much?”
      “I don’t know.”
      “I held my torso five degrees forward. Did you like it?”
      Later, I learned this is completely against the whole purpose of sex therapy and that Dr. Agave had been banned from the practice of medicine in the state of Washington and California. Since then, no more sexing sessions for me. I’d sooner use my hand. But, I knew the Good Nurse Practitioner would hound me for a while. I was fine with that.
      Another frantic looking male patient got her attention and she walked to him. I walked away. More like waddled. Figuring the prisoners to be in the special psychological warfare section, I oriented towards the Psy-Ops wing of the compound and at the threshold of the Infirmary I reached up my hand to the thumb print scanner.
      “Welcome, Farmer 337b.” Said the console. I was glad that they had updated my personal information on the database.
      A Butch Lesbian in a grey uniform with a gigantic muscular neck walked directly towards me.
      “Farmer 337b,” she said with as much warmth possible. She saluted. “I’m Amanda Protendo.”
      “At ease, Captain.”
      She visibly lost the tension around her massive shoulders. You can never trust these pysch warfare people because they are great actors. This stems from their constant manipulating and testing of their own emotions due to the fact that they are ordered to create many various realities for the population and the members of Thirteen Gulls. With words and top of the line surveillance technologies and expendable human assets in the hundreds of millions, Thirteen Gulls Psy-Ops manufactured Reality. The Captain extended a hand and I like a fool took it. She grabbed a hold and swung my whole body up and around onto a harness strap she had hidden behind that monstrous neck of hers.
      “I have been assigned to be your personal transport courier.” She said. She strapped me in between the thick muscles of her broad as Texas back. “Please, I’m honored to be of service to you. I am also to help supervise your visit with Anton Rockefeller Kissinger, the man who wounded you.”
      I buckled the plastic harness and adjusted the leveling system so that my head was aligned slightly to the left of Amanda’s. “Good.” I said. She cocked her head to the side to listen to my voice. So close, I only needed to whisper. “Good Amanda. Now, are you a telekinesis user? Do you have any powers that I need know of?”
      “No, Sir.”
      “Alright, now, take me to him and run top speed.”
      “Yes, Sir.” Amanda took off like the wind down the hallway and into an area of pencil pushers and cubicles. We stopped at one. A Sergeant Ji Van Jung. The slender youth looked up, saw two hulking heads and snapped to attention. He stood up flipping out the paper and pad he was working with and caused large mess of cascading documents. He ignored it all and saluted sharply.
      “Farmer 337b, Sir. You are here to see Prisoner #52012. I have arranged it to be so, Sir.”
      “At ease. Where is he?”
      “He is held currently in cell block 32 Neon Green of our maximum prison with a General Electric Mind Sink.”
      “Take me to him.”
      “Yes, Sir.”
      “Top speed.”
      “Yes, Sir.” He brushed past Amanda and sprinted out of the cubicle world. The three of us moved quickly and I could feel Amanda unlocking her Second Chakra Gate in order to increase blood flow. Sergeant Ji Van Jung was a few steps faster than her. Or maybe it was my weight. Either way, she needed extra power and was clumsy in controlling her flow from the abdomen area.
      “Easy, Amanda.” I whispered. “Use the output above the norm from your solar plexus. Directly. My onboard Computer is picking up a 15% leak rate from that area.” She made the adjustment flawlessly.
      “I didn’t realize, Sir. Thank you for the lesson.” She said with a strain in her voice. Soon we were running neck and neck with Sergeant Ji Van Jung. We flowed into large ceremonial meeting hall that was at the entrance of Thirteen Gull’s underground complex. We ran straight into the ornately craved gateway made of Thirteen huge arched Elephant tusks and jumped the 40 foot pit full of vipers. We crawled through a mud pit covered by barb wire adorned with severed rotting human body parts. On the other side of this there was a small guard station where we rinsed off. The guards inside resembled two fully mature Silver Back Gorillas. Upon seeing us, one raised a huge microwave gun and the other wielded a Gatling Gun and a wicked serious scimitar. They took our credentials and then lifted the iron gate. Ted, the gorilla with the Gatling gun, escorted us to the 100 cube ft concrete penta-box that was one of 100 such cells in the buckminsterfullerene shaped building that housed some of the Thirteen Gulls numerous political enemies.
      “We’ve got him in a Gantrellis Vise. He’s fought every single step of the way.” Ted said nonchalantly. “But we’re the original Pentagon so no one tops our security.” A finger the size of a French baguette pointed to emphasize the number One. The Pentagon was the most insidious gang of Satan Worshiping Warmongers in existence. They had refined with scientific patience and ingenuity all forms of human torture and confinement. It just so happened that Thirteen Gulls was currently the Coalition the Pentagon had chosen to band with and I was just pleased with the thought that Ted was not my jailor.
      “Let’s see him.”
      “Sure.” Ted pulled out a small laser key and inserted into a pentagon in the five sided wall. Everything had five sides inside this structure-- the walls, the hallways, even the light fixtures. The wall slid upwards and vanished into the ceiling. Anton Rockefeller Kissinger was a lean man hanging from arm restraints, he was stripped naked except for a large shiny metallic spherical helmet that tapped directly into his cerebellum with 1,000 telescoping nano-tendrils. No thing with a flesh/silicone brain could escape the Gantrellis Vise. I could tell he was middle aged because his pubes were gray.
      “He is sleeping at the moment.” Said Ted. “But I’ll wake him up.” Ted walked up to him and knee’d him repeatedly about the thighs.
      “By the Dark Lord, cease.” Came a small whiny voice. Surprised, I remembered a deeper menacing voice, but he no longer had his psych-amplification.
      “Wake up, Kissinger. Someone’s here to see you.”
      The black Gantrellis sphere lifted up and even though I couldn’t see the eyes, I knew he was staring right at me.
      “Ah, a newly warped, baby sized man is in our midst. Farmer 337b, I knew you’d come.”
      “Well, The Bilderberg Group will be happy to trade something for you.”
      A laugh escaped from the Gantrellis Vise.
      “You have nothing. We own you already. We are the Pentagon. We are the Fallen.” He shrieked. Ted moved the butt of his gun to strike Kissinger’s abdomen but froze in his tracks. The Gantrellis Vise broke in two and the halves clanked to the ground.
      “What the fuck?” asked Ted. “Put that back on, Prisoner #52012.” He drew his scimitar and began a downward slash.
      I knew Ted was about to die.
      “Run.” I whispered to Amanda. “He’ll kill us all.”
      Amanda did two backward hand springs and a back flip with a twist, landed a good way down the hall and began to sprint. Sergeant Ji Van Jung started to turn but couldn’t help but watch all the flesh melt off Ted. I remembered how painful that was. The scimitar clattered on the concrete.
      “Run.” I yelled. Kissinger freed himself instantly from the hand cuffs and then dropped to his knees upon the bloody pool of Ted flesh. He scooped up huge rich red handfuls of viscera and ate it in gigantic gulps. In between swallows, he yelled in his nasally whine.
      “Farmer 337b. I’m coming for you. Slurp. Slurp. If not here, then in your dreams until we meet again.” He laughed a sick sardonic cackle that sounded like a circus clown who kept a million pictures of mutilated little boys and girls tacked up in his basement. He didn’t pursue us. We had made it out of the buckminsterfullerene and to the guard station when the first earthquake struck. It opened a huge crack in the ground above the Pentagon compound. The bloody figure of Anton Rockefeller Kissinger jumped out of a five sided window and flew with the body of the mousey Beiber 13 year old in his right arm and an older woman in his left. I didn’t know he could fly, too. Apparently, he could. The other guard aimed his microwave gun and fired a few shots. They echoed and distorted the air in a line towards Rockefeller. The alarm for natural disasters went off.
      “Vereemmmmmmeeeep. Verreemmmmmmmeeep.”
      Rockefeller veered left to avoid the microwave blasts but knocked against the Bucky Ball and dropped the 13 year old Beiber girl. A second tremor rocked the whole complex and enlarged the hole above the flying Kissinger. Building buttresses shuddered and a large apache helicopter intercepted the nude flying Bilderberg Eugenics Tyrant above ground and he with woman boarded and quickly sonic boomed out of sight.
      “You saved us,“ said Sergeant Ji Van Jung. “I was going to try and stop him, but you told us to run.”
      “He’s a new brand of Bilderburg.” I said. “We need to take news of his escape to one of the Gulls.”
      “What about the girl?” asked Amanda.
      “I don’t know.” I said. “Achtung, I hope she’s still alive.”
      Debris from the above crack in the ground fell all around us.
      “Continue the training.” I whispered to Protendo.

Francis Chung lives and works in the Bay Area.

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