ProcessingUnit: Author William Briggs

Apocalypse Appendix

2008-07-28T14:46:00.000-07:00

By: William Briggs

Appendix is fucked. I can tell. It hurts like it’s in a bind, being held by hairy hands and wringed. This pain has got to go away. Cut it out? Sure get rid of it. I don’t need it.

It’s like my gut had tacs and nails for breakfast and on its way out of the diner decided to finish the last of the lemon juice with a big swig.

You don’t even need an appendix. It’s a waste of space, extra weight. Trim girls should get them chopped out before they slip into that dinner dress.

“Look, I don’t have a deal for you. I have an offer that you have to take."

I was getting started with the tough talk. I pretended I was talking to my big, wet, appendix. All goo and blood looking at me with heaps of pain.

“I can’t make it more simple, if you don’t take this offer, you’re dead. Fuck, you’re kid’s dead too.”

That’s right. Squirm in your seat.

My appendix opens his mouth. How the hell did he get a moustache?

“Ok, I know you’re serious and your friends are serious, but I’m serious too. I’ll have everything delivered tomorrow morning. It’s that simple. Kill me now and you don’t have a package—just a waste problem.”

He was a hunk of useless organ spouting off dribble. The package, the delivery, was about as important as life. We needed it.

My eyes fell onto a newspaper: “Beta-345 Colonizes; Celebrates”

“Ok, quit playing cunt-games—why the dance? Why tomorrow morning when you know your useless life, your kids life, your wives fucking life, are on the line today?”

My insides bubbled up and the pain stirred. My mustached organ smiled and slime fell into the pocket between his lips and teeth.

“Because I can—you can’t colonize this place, you can’t control this place, without my goods. That’ why I’m asking for more money and for more time. Without me your friends are just guys dressed as generals.”

His point was crystal clear. The pain narrowed to a sword point and pierced my gut hard for a moment. I had to jam my eyes close to collect all the ragged nerves.

“We had a deal. You break a fucking deal; we break your life into pieces. You aren’t the only crank scientist that gets a hard-on for a briefcase full of cash.”

I’ll have him on the fence in no time. I could break lab coats; they were just people with more books in their head. They all reacted to blood in the same way.

“Here’s the thing, you know it and I know it. I’m the only scientist in light years. It’s just me. I’m the only guy who can throw it together for you and I have…but right now, with demand as it is, and supply as it is—I want more money.”

His capsules, the delivery, would make this planet livable. It would get us all out of the tunnels and would make my friends famous which would make them leaders. Soon we’d be eating all sorts of food. He could fly off, counting his cash and fucking his wife. He could hold back, sure, he could demand more cash, fine. It was expected.

“Don’t think you’re the first shoe shine to think you can change the terms cause you lost your conscience. Here’s what we’ll do. You don’t deliver now; we’ll gather your body up, pin it to a wall, and get someone who doesn’t smile a lot ask again.”

My pain filled organ laughed or chuckled. I couldn’t tell.

“Even if I paint you a picture it won’t help. It’s rigged to explode if it’s opened without my voice code. I’m not the man you’re depending on for no reason, Mr. Harm.”

My appendix swooned and pain crushed over me like a bombed building. He was going to be difficult. Funny thing is we couldn’t even pay him what we originally agreed on. We were broke. Why he believed this rat hole had more then a briefcase of cash in it was beyond me. Sure he might have been clever, but he was just tricking a bunch of animals that spent the last of the cash on fucking and booze.

I reached for my knife and my gut folded into itself causing everything to scream. I had to start sweating. I tied my fingers around the wood part of the knife as tight as I could and showed a little bit of my pearly whites.

“We’ll thank god, we already knew that.”

I lunged over the table before my insides had a chance to protest. My appendix’s eyes flashed fear but I quickly made them show me pain. My knife was buried in him by the time my guts stormed and flew into a fury. I had to bend over and suck in the fake air—half dirt, half chemicals.

It was done. We had his voice already. We knew his code. His ugly wife spilled it out after one of the boys rolled around with her. We didn’t know where the capsules were though. That was my job. But it’s too late for that. I had his keys and I knew where his ship was. I also knew where to get my gut cut open so I could get rid of this pain.

If these people wanted to walk the surface, they’d have to do it without me.

Poultry Scholarship

2008-07-03T10:52:00.000-07:00

By: William Briggs

America’s largest protein supplier, Tybelt Inc., is helmed by none other then Kirk T. Sunbelt. In the last financial quarter Mr. Sunbelt made a record 35 million US dollars.

“Business,” he told his horse, “is doing good…..woahhhhh boy.”

So, when Mr. Sunbelt met Arthur Trent he was smiling and a little drunk.

“Hi, I’m Mr. Trent, Arthur Trent, from the American Scholastic Committee.”

Mr. Sunbelt, looking up from his food, dropped his chop sticks, and smiled—making one eye merrily wide and other happily lazy.

“Pleasure, Mr. Trent, is all mine.”

Mr. Trent slid into the adjoining chair without pulling it from under the table and quickly wove his hands together and placed them on the empty plate before him.

“I know you are a busy man…”

“Guilty as charged, please produce my sentence!”

Mr. Trent looked around too see if the joke was an inside one meant for a nearby ear.

“Haha, right, well I don’t exercise that authority.” Mr. Trent, apparently surprised by his own wit, let the corner of his lips lift.

“It seems you don’t do much exercising at all.”

Mr. Sunbelt made it clear with his eyes that he had digested Mr. Trent’s build and found it lacking.

Mr. Sunbelt, it must be added here, was a sportsman who competed in amateur games. In whatever sport he played he would bet 1,000 US dollars that he would score the first point, try, goal, touchdown, or basket. If he won he would run around the field, with his left hand over his genitals, and his right hand in the air—thumb, index, and middle fingers rubbing together—so as too simulate the action of feeling large amounts of cash.

A local sportswriter put it best in his column (NJ Sharks beat NY Tigers 3-2, 1999):

Mr. Sunbelt’s first goal, beautifully assisted by Jones La Carte, was timely and struck a fatal blow into the Sharks defense.

However, Mr. Sunbelt’s trotting victory dance was nothing short of vulgar. Lasting 5 minutes, Mr. Sunbelt effectively taunted every member of the, 400 large, crowd with equal parts bravado and chauvinism. With his antics winded and the game commenced, Mr. Sunbelt still used every delay in the game to loudly ‘Whoop’, grab his jock, and simulate a sort of mating ritual only seen in tribes recently happened upon by civilization.

Mr. Trent looked down at his body briefly; it was frail, but by no means unhealthy.

“Unfortunately, you’re right…” Mr. Trent cleared his voice.

Mr. Sunbelt thanked a waiter and busied himself with his new set of chopsticks.

“Mr. Sunbelt, the reason I am bothering you today is too seek out donations for urban youth so they can attend university. A lot of kids, see, have the brains, but not the….”

“I get it, how much are you looking for?”

“Well, we need 25 million dollars, but any donation would help.”

“Ok son, here’s the deal,” Mr. Sunbelt paused, and put down his bowl of rice, “I’ll give you the money, all 25 mill of it, right here and now, if you can beat me at arm wrestling, right her, right now.”

Mr. Trent blanched.

“Look kid the rules are simple: both men will grasp hands, elbows on shared table, and try to force their opponents clutch onto the table with a bang, get it?”

“Yeah, I know the rules. OK, we have a deal.”

Mr. Trent had arm wrestled before in high school and he had failed to produce anything remotely close to a victory.

Mr. Sunbelt plopped his elbow on the table and shook the dishes causing the restaurant to quite briefly. His eyes narrowed and he stretched his hand out and in rapidly, generating, he thought, blood flow and muscle development.

Mr. Trent shook his fingers about and placed his elbow on the table while fixing his eyes on Mr. Sunbelt’s. It was worth a chance. At least he wasn’t being laughed out of the restaurant. And, after all, think of the kids, think of all the kids who can go to University. The thoughts put an extra inch of space into his lungs and his teeth clenched with anticipation.

The men grasped hands.

“Hear, ye, hear ye, my friend, Mr. Trent and myself will now arm wrestle for 25 million dollars. If I lose I will donate said sum too his charity, if he losses he will be shamed…hopefully all the way to the nearest gym.”

Mr. Sunbelt waited a minute, head down, for a crowd to gather. He sucked his lips into his mouth and made his eyes serious by flexing his eyebrows down some.

The announcement drew most of the patrons from their seats and they collected themselves in a circle, three people deep, around the circular table.

What commenced, some will claim, was expected. Mr. Trent lost and lost very quickly. His small frame, weighing 140 lbs, followed his hand as it was pushed to the table and he fell from his chair in roughly 3 seconds. Mr. Sunbelt rose from his seat, placed his right hand in the air and his left hand on his groin and began his victory gesticulating.

Mr. Trent had this, and only this, to say, “Shit.” No one heard him say it though for laughter was busy spreading.

The next morning Mr. Sunbelt awoke with a headache and a vague feeling of guilt for so thoroughly embarrassing “that scholastic fellow”.

The day ended with a routine poultry farm inspection. Mr. Sunbelt looked across the stables of Chickens, soon too meet their end, and felt a twinge of life’s meaning.

“I’m blessed with it all, the sporting ability, the business prowess, but I guess, for instance, these little chickens here aren’t.” Mr. Sunbelt carried on with this theme of thought until he reached his own property.

Disparities, throwing people at different ends of a level, have a way of making both parties look across the divide with curiosity and ask why?

“Am I blessed, capable, are just lucky?”

His horse neighed and reared a bit.

One year later, with 25 million US dollars, the US Poultry Scholarship was started. Its mission statement, penned by Mr. Sunbelt, found on its brochure, states, among other things, this:

We know that everyone can’t win arm wrestling matches or be great athletes. No amount of exercise will make everyone gold medalists. So, I’m guessing that the same logic applies to people when it comes to business. Some people just can’t cut it. And if it that applies to business it probably can be applied to academics. Some people are dumb and can’t get that smart. However, with hard work any one of these eyes passing these words can make something, however little, of themselves.

That’s why I am giving money to people looking to go to university to try and trick fate and upset the balance. I was lucky and some people aren’t and fate decides that. However, I’d like to bet the fates 1,000 dollars that they can’t get a strangle-hold on all of you….

Please send your grades, personal statement, one complete application form, and a personal essay entitled “I’m No Chicken”, to: US Poultry Scholarship, 345 Foveaux Ave. Bolton, IL 20233.

Free Toungues Abound

2008-06-23T11:41:00.000-07:00

By: William Briggs

In 2054 a drug was invented that inhibited the human tongue from producing speech. (Tests were not performed on animals due to recent "All Creatures are All Right" legislation.)

It was discovered rather haphazardly.

Joseph Zach Lieman was in the process of finding the cure for Oedipal lust when he noticed that his lab Males were having trouble speaking. He discovered that his testing humans could move their tongues but they failed to produce syllables that would later lead to words.

Failing to cure Oedipal lust Lieman lost his funding in 2055.

Oedipal lust continued to rage and all Lieman had produced was a tonic that rendered tongues, inclined to speak, useless.

To make matters worse his wife had recently died of cancer.

Lieman, deviled by depression, managed to write a brief article describing his new tongue bracer.

An excerpt follows:

"In short, Liemanox will render the human tongue ill equipped to deal with the gestations demanded upon it by speech. The tongue, under Liemanox's power, can still move and perform its daily, mundane, tasks such as swallowing and tasting. That is to say, the tongue is not frozen as the tongue can still be moved to eat, swallow, kiss, and even taunt offending siblings. However, the tongue is severed from the vocal chords and fails to produce movements that allow speech. Sounds can be produced by the Liemanox recipient but they are deep gurgled moans that can be aptly compared to the African Chortling Chimpanzee.

Once the Liemanox tonic is ingested into the human body speech will no longer exist. There, to my knowledge, appears to be no antidote to reverse the powerful spell of Liemanox."

The article continues on in the same vain for 20 some detailed pages and it touches on some of the technicalities, chemical formulations, and science behind Liemanox.

Lieman concludes:

"My hope is that Liemanox can find real world applications that benefit human progress. So, perhaps Liemanox can be given to inmates to reduce prison noise. Or, Liemanox could be a resourceful tool on our modern battlefields. Imagine an approaching enemy striped of the power of speech. Communications would be disrupted and their entire stock pile of telephones would become useless. Also, it should be noted that Liemanox, originally developed to cease Oedipal lust once and for all, has one odd side effect: it makes people develop a grave indifference towards their fathers."

Lieman added, attempting humor, in what was surely a rocky time, "I was only off by a parent!"

His paper was published but didn't meet acclaim or raised eyebrows. The headlines of the day were too concerned over a recent development in a women's diet pill that shifted excess body fat to breasts to care about a tonic that would leave them speechless.

Years passed as did Lieman.

In 2078 the Liemanox tonic was added into the United Federation of the America’s water system. Within weeks its population, numbering some 1.5 billion, was speechless.

The tonic was added into the water supply by the democratically elected group called, Noise Pollution is Bad who happened upon the formula while researching silence.

The NPBs website contains, among other literature, an 'About Us' section.

Follows is a brief tract from said section:

"Noise Pollution is Bad is a government body which employees over 575 souls. Its primary aim is too cut down on noise in and around urban areas. It was founded in 2022 by James C. Nausbaum who, falling under sleeps warm embrace, was awoken by a loud 'Beeep' produced by a vehicle manufactured in the 20th century.

"His anger led him to shouts, then violence. He was arrested and during his 30 year sentence began grass roots efforts to obliterate noise with a bang—albeit a quiet one.

Nausbaum's courageous voice finally reached the halls of the United Federation of the America’s Senate where his complaints received applause. Nausbaum was reported to have said, "Stop your noisy clapping for it disrupts the world's natural silence!!! Show respect to your world, and therefore yourselves, by not clapping. Instead, try waving, or offering me a thumbs up."

Nausbaum was given 78 million UFA dollars and permission to cut down on noise whenever and however possible."

The 'About Us' section trails off into glorification and dramatic retellings of some of the organizations smaller achievements but they serve no importance to the story. It is interesting to note that clapping, on Nausbaum's recommendation, became undignified. Satisfaction for a performance, or a well placed ball, was displayed by a wild waving of a thumb or two.

In 2079, the year after Liemanox was administered to the public, unrest was scant. Life continued as it normally does. Technologies had already made human interaction minimal and having the tongue arrested simply took away one option among many.

The entertainment industry, composed largely of actors and actresses reciting exciting words, changed overnight. Actors and actresses now simply approached each other in various locations and began to fall down, fight, dance, or have sex. It proved wildly successful.

The human spirit, as has been said before, transcends challenges as quickly as it takes to eat a meal at a fast food restaurant.

Like Lieman had observed in his article the Liemanox tonic did not completely extinguish human sound. Noise, however undignified as it sounded, could still be made. The NPB board was not pleased with the noise but they all agreed it was softer and more infrequent then normal human speech.

In 2083 the first Chortling to English and English to Chortling Dictionary appeared. It was short but it allowed for key English words to find definitions in the few moans humans could conjure.

Love- (Noun) AUGHHHHHK (Augh-hhhhh-kkk)

Sex- (Noun) UrggggghP (uRRR-gggg-Hhhjip)

Negotiation- (Noun) Phhhbbt (Ppp-hhhb—bit)

Pickle- (Noun) shrrrrrrrrrkl (sher-rrrrrrrrr-kell)

The companion reference book, Essential Chortling Phrases, was published six months later and made the New United Times bestseller list.

I love you.
WOor AUGHHHHK Toor

Where can I cash this Check?
Jeeeer feeearr WOr fisss Ceeeerk?

Still, Chortling, although useful, proved to be too unwieldy and harsh for daily use. People only employed Chortling as a last resort.

Life without speech did little to change the everyday.

It should be noted that Father's Day was no longer celebrated as Liemanox inhibited warm feelings for the man who impregnated your mother.