Everything Editor Logs
February 3, 2001
Teratogenic | Genetic
The night twitters softly to itself. Small creatures rush about in the undergrowth, stopping every few seconds to listen for the sounds of predators on the hunt. It won't help them. I'm not moving either. I reach slowly down and take a pull from a bottle of Ripple; those sulfate overdoses and syrupy flavorings always improve my aim.
The Node .45 sits in my right hand, resting across my knee. I start at a flick of movement; a young node leaps up onto a branch near my head, and the barrel reflexively tracks; but no, it's worthy and strong. I subside. The night sounds return. Then I hear it, sitting in my blind in the woods; the croak of a malformed node begging to be put out of its misery. I look around quickly, and there they are - a small band of twisted nodelets. The Node .45 leaps up and SPEAKS-
- Terminated countzero's writeup in interior decorator. Insulting, uninformative, pointless.
- jirka tells us about disco music nothing but the linkless: "something which should never have been invented. People listening to it shall be blown to tiny pieces." As shall this writeup.
- Sinergy offers us stupid poem #2: "My ears ring with the sound of a distant fart." My ears ring with the sound of the gun..
- RhapsodyOS, by fled noder BlackDog, is just plain wrong.
…the Node .45 returns to my knee. I listen as the scavengers close in on the remains as I slowly thumb rounds into the clip, and await the next rush, bottle at my side. I wait here. I watch. I clean. I'm…The Custodian. It's my job.