The Screaming Front:
Part III, Russian Roulette
by Mike Schwalke

***

The war was over now and spiteful, slovenly Russian red howlers stampeded the rubble of Grozny hoping to flush out the odd Chimpanazi that had not already fallen. Commandant Bobo could feel his heart explode in his chest. Hiding in a pile of corpses that used to be the battalion he commanded, playing dead, biding his time. Bobo was sure that the sound of his heart would tip off the drunken, degenerate silverbacks.

Steady Bobo, he thought. Return to center. You're smarter enough to get out of this. You can triumph always.

Bobo wormed through the pile at glacial pace, careful not to make any jerky or unnecessary movements, until his head was towards the outer shell of the body heap. With cold deliberation he observed the disorderly howlers--watched their movements--discerned who were the sergeants, the lieutenants and the real leaders. He could tell that the lieutenant was having some degenerate inter-species homosexual love affair with a communications officer. He noticed the foot soldier who won too many games of poker. He watched the Siberian troops dance competitively with the Moscow corps.

Slow and sure Bobo dug a piece of shrapnel out of a corpse. Not ideal, but it would do.

Day turned into night and back into day again. All the while Bobo heard the occasional crack of a gun in the distance, but sometimes the shots were close. Bobo knew he was playing a dangerous waiting game: every four hours the recon troops would return and add their fresh kills to the pile. They would then discharge their weapons into the jumbled mass of corpses before mess. How long could he will the bullets out of his way? How long could he play dead, anticipating the bullet that would miss his head by just a fraction of an inch? Always imagine the one that's close, Bobo. All else is folly.

That night after the drunken frenzy that was the red howlers’ victory celebration, Bobo made his move. The poor slob set to guard the pile was easy meat. Bobo shoved his fist deep into the guard's snoring maw, jabbing his finger deep enough to break the vocal chords all the while working his shiv up and under the ribs and into the heart.

Bobo then unsheathed the guard's knife and sawed off his left paw. Bobo kissed the palm and made a wish.

Twenty stupefied drunk howlers took turns gang-raping some emaciated teenage refugees over swigs of vodka. Bobo could see that one of them had already died, a fact lost on the group who were chanting their comrade on. They won’t want to remember this anyway, Bobo though as he rolled a grenade wrapped in a sock towards the bastards.

...3...2...1

The camp lit up like daylight and as disoriented howelrs scuttled to their post they found themselves running full-stride into nets of razor wire and makeshift booby-traps. Bobo had lined his position with the staked heads of the camp brass. He hunkered behind his sandbags and kissed the monkey's paw yet again and made another wish. Then he got behind the .50 and clutched the triggers.

Feeling the intense jerking of the gun unloading in his hands made Bobo feel strangely empowered and simultaneously unhinged as if he were somehow connected to a volcano or earthquake or thunder or some other primal destructive force in the earth.

He moved the gun like a fire hose over the waves of stumbling reds.

"You don't get me, motherfuckers!" Bobo screamed over and over again. "You don't get me!" -MAS

A SurveyI’m Afraid I’ve Diagnosed Your Son With Autism: And Not The Cool Kind
by W. Ben Joffrion

***

"Your son has autism, and we diagnosed this by testing specific criteria for impairments to social interaction, communication, interests, imagination, and activities- sadly; sadly none of your son’s activities include superhuman code breaking abilities.

"Your son has a neurodevelopmental disorder. A real nasty one. Let’s review. First, impaired social interaction (you can forget grand-kids). Two, impaired communication (he may, after tens of thousands and thousands of dollars, be able to tell you he loves you. Your own fidelity to the truth will dictate your answer). Three, restricted and repetitive interests and activities (mostly masturbation in your son’s case).

"We medical types call this extreme level of autism P.E.E.B., meaning 'Painful Economic and Emotional Burden.' I must stress, it is my duty to stress, that this burden will have no payoff. Hope springs life eternal in the minds of people untrained in medicine. You may be thinking, 'Perhaps, someday, after years of toil, loss of standard of living, and feckless outrage, decades with not one minute of peace, our son may be an autistic writer like Donna Williams or Dave Spicer--bridging the gap between the two worlds of consciousness to international acclaim and economic gain.'

"No, not a chance.

"Before I forget, there are two types of autistic kids. One type that is oversensitive like Rain Man; the other is almost inert to 'human' tactile feelings. Your son is the latter. When you hug him, if you want him to feel it, you need to squeeze to bruise. He’s deep deep deep inside that vessel of meat and bones to the degree that will require an envelope of violence to deliver a letter of love. Love, or whatever. Certainly he will give you no insights on large number theory. The alphabet will make him cry.

"I’m not an accountant; I’m a doctor. But I advise you to waste no money on puzzles and math games, or even dropping a box full of toothpicks before your child. When it comes to your offspring, there is no balance to the universe. For all the capacity denied your son, genetically, by you, no counterweight makes it okay in the end. Even though he will never join a Little League, go to college, or marry, your son will be five times more expensive than an average child that may learn how to break into a government website, unlike your autistic child. What we doctors call a 'normal' child can learn. No possible endgame victory for you here, medically speaking. Whatever the case, I assure you no adventures for your child. Or you, ever again," he said. -WBJ

Breakfast
by Casey Paige Boyter

***

The Earthling's search for the perfect moment of physical, emotional, mental, and spiritual, astronomically luxuriating and climactic grandeur, that the Earthlings call "_____," what we call "Breakfast" on this planet.

The Earthlings do not realize that Breakfast is searching for Earthlings as well; that not only do the Earthlings seek out and find Breakfast, but rather, Breakfast finds them.

In fact, Breakfast is searching for you RIGHT NOW.

The Earthling likes to believe it has control over when and where Breakfast occurs. Breakfast occurs conditionally, when Breakfast finds the Earthling righteous enough to experience it's particular brand of beguiling wiles and/or euphoria. Breakfast decides Earthling, not YOU. The Earthling must surrender to this notion before The Earthling can have true Breakfast.

And that is what the Earthling seeks, to lose control for a few seconds surely ranging in time, from a few seconds to a few minutes, or even longer for those with voracious appetites and impeccable mind control.

This control is two-fold however in that the Breakfast will only be as big as the Earthling's confidence allows it to be. If the Earthling is confident in the fact that they have been able to obtain Breakfast before (in whatever context or setting Breakfast was had by the Earthling) then the Earthling should be confident that Breakfast may be had by the Earthling repetitively.

If Breakfast can be had by a lone Earthling, then Breakfast CAN be had by two Earthlings at the same time. If the Breakfast elements exist and are willed into existence by the Earthlings who must take and surrender to the Breakfast experience, then satisfying gourmet Breakfast may be had by all.

In order for one Earthling to have Breakfast with another, it must be the will of both Earthlings to have Breakfast together. If the Earthlings are unable to have breakfast together, then the Earthlings should have breakfast alone. Until the Earthlings are able to instill the confidence in each other that a satisfying breakfast may be had by those involved, they will be unceaseingly disappointed.

Unless the Earthlings are willing to put in the time and effort to have a mutually satisfying five-star Breakfast experience that the Earthlings create together, they should just order room-service.

Bottom line: An Earthling must Own their Breakfast, must sign the deed and take possession of their Breakfast. A deed does not sign itself, nor does itself a Breakfast make."

He drop stepped triumphantly from the podium, and took a bow.
And William the Wino, was unceremoniously, arrested. -CPB