Feel free to abide today, the Dude is taking it easy for us all.
Modern religion based on the care free life style of The Dude. Principles of Dudeism are peacefulness, immunity to peer pressure, right thinking (sometimes aided by a strict drug regiment, sometimes not), modesty in appearance, honoring thy friends, not worrying about shit because life goes on, and most importantly, earnestly cultivating the facility to abide (remain true to one’s self) regardless of unforeseen circumstances.
(from the Urban Dictionary)
He’d wake up with bruises all over, some days, and never know why.
They called him Captain Underwear. The cops did anyway, and sooner than later it got out to the news people and then the public. In the early awful hours of the morning, when the darkness hides the meanness of man, when the bad things happen, he would be there. Quietly, softly, landing behind some villain, some ne’er do well, some thug, and then…
He was named for his attire, of course, just an old pair of tighty-whities and a bad homemade cape. He was overweight by quite a bit, and balding with a bad comb-over but he could fly, was largely indestructible, and his voice could shake a room. He was what he was. He fought the most dire of villains - all kinds too; gangsters, alien bounty-hunters, other-dimensional invasions, mysterious cults, crazed madmen, giant robots, he fought anything.
He was our hero.
And he was asleep.
See, we didn’t know it at the time, but the poor bastard was a sleepwalking superhero. Some awful combination of psychology and sleep disorders. Possibly one of the most powerful metahumans on the planet, just unable to function as such during the light of day, when he was awake.
He went to doctors about the bruises, got tested. The story is that even when they figured out what was happening to him, even though they knew who he was and why he woke up every day so tired, so sore, they never told him. Captain Underwear was too important to the city, you see, he meant to much to the people. He was their hope, weird and awkward as it was to see, but there it was.
Hope. In a pair of old briefs.
And he never knew, not until the end, of course.
I saw it live on a big television over the bar. Some kind of alien cult of evil beings, the live feed said, big green bug-looking bastards with crazy weapons. Tearing up downtown and murdering the police. But there was Captain Underwear right on time, and the drunks and me, we all cheered for him. Our hero.
Then it happened.
He woke up.
We’ll never know why, just that he blinked once or twice, looked around, and said one word.
They killed him with a disintegration ray. Right there on TV in front of God and everybody.
A shocked silence spread over us then, over the whole city. It lingered.
Then I stood up, grabbed a bottle and broke it off on the bar, started walking to the door, snarling.
"Fuck those alien motherfuckers," I said, and behind me, the drunks took chairs and bottles and pool cues and spoke similar oaths and followed me. And we weren’t the only ones either, all over the city people took up whatever arms were available and set out for revenge.
We caught the aliens in mid-celebration, chortling deep in their weird green thoraxes about their triumph, and we attacked as one. Just a giant crowd of the pissed-off, the drunk, the raging, all of us wounded by what we’d seen and mad as hell.
They never had a chance.
Captain Underwear Day is still celebrated every year. The Underwear Defense League still protects the city from the forces of chaos and evil. We don’t have powers, you know, but we have numbers, and anger, and the remembrance of a man. A simple man that didn’t know what he was.
A man in his Underwear.
Financial Services Department, Hell (9th Circle)
MEMO TO ALL DEPARTMENTS RE: “MUSICAL SOUL BATTLES”
Please be advised that, due to budget cutbacks and the overall economic downturn, all future “Musical Soul Battles” are to be limited to only Small to Medium-sized instruments. Our current year-end profit model simply does not allow for anything larger than solid gold guitars or fiddles at this time. We understand that this will be the cause of much concern among demons and devils proficient in larger instruments such as the stand-up base, tuba, harpsichord, and others, but during these lean economic times we all must make some sacrifices.
However, our re-introduction of the solid gold ukelele into the Hipster sub-market has shown substantial growth, and is a value-added product. Please consider it when moving forward.
Also note that all applications for “Musical Soul Battles” with accordion players will be automatically denied, as those people are already going to Hell in the first place.
Thank you for your cooperation in this matter.
Possibly one of the greatest videos ever made.
Just noticed I got tagged for the #prose list. Thanks, whoever you are, I appreciate it!
Soundtrack for previous post, if you are of a mind.
The old Ford slid to halt on the red dirt road. Dead end, literally and metaphorically.
"There’s too many of them!" Seth yelled, as the trucks closed in on their outmaneuvered vehicle.
There was a tap on his shoulder. Arthur leaned over the seat.
"He wants to drive," he said, quietly.
"What?" Seth stared over his shoulder. Arthur’s face was calm, his eyes serious.
Angela waved her hands violently in front of her, “Oh fuck no, he is not going to drive. Dammit Arthur I told you not to do that again. You promised me.”
Arthur was eerily calm, relaxed, “They are going to catch us, I can’t allow that, and he wants to drive now. Let him drive, Seth.”
Seth looked at his face, looked at the trucks full of murderous rednecks closing in on them, engines revving.
He threw the gearshift into neutral.
"Okay bud, do it. Change places with me."
Seth pushed himself up and into the back seat as Arthur slid forward while Angela fumed.
"Goddammit Arthur, no. No! Do not let him drive!"
From the backseat, a very drunk Reynard spoke, “Would someone kindly explain to me what is going on before we all die?”
Arthur was in the driver’s seat now, reaching into his bag. His hand brought out a pair of square mirrored sunglasses. The kind you would see on a southern highway cop. He opened them slowly and paused.
"Well, I don’t want us to die, and Tommy wants to drive now, so he’s going to drive. It’s really all he ever wanted you know, to just drive."
He slid the sunglasses on his face, the lenses covering his eyes and reflecting the headlights of the big trucks roaring down on them.
Angela said, “Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck people, seatbelts. Now! Seatbelts! All of them!”
As they struggled with the straps , buried for years in the deep seats of the old car, Reynard thought he saw, just for a moment, Arthur’s face change. His lower jaw jutted out, his lip curled into a sneer. He leaned forward, fingertips caressing the worn leather steering wheel cover like the skin of a familiar lover. When he spoke again, his voice was different, with a deep drawl.
"Y’all best hold onto somethin’ now. I’m about to get at these fools."
Tommy jerked the shifter into low and stood on the gas.
And the Ford shot out of that dead end like a fireball from Hell.
Found Deus Ex: Human Revolution (Director’s Cut) on sale for 10 bucks via Steam, so I been playing it a lot lately. A fine game and a good sequel to the original, which was awesome. Kind of limited in depth as far as skills or augmentations go, but good storytelling and gameplay.
It does however do a thing that a lot of these games with voiceover cut-scenes do which irritates me. Everything is going along fine, I’m reading all the in game clues and putting together the basic mystery of who is what and why so-and-so did such-and-such. But whenever the main character Jensen - a super soldier former SWAT team security specialist, mind you - gets a chance to talk or act during a cut-scene, he is a total bonehead idiot.
Jensen: “Must be an environmental malfunction, I’ll go check it out.” (calmly takes elevator)
Me: “They’re obviously being attacked, you idiot.”
Jensen: “You’re coming with me!” (makes futile attempt to grab hologram)
Me: “Dude, seriously a child would know that’s an A.I. projection. Moron.”
Jensen: “Look, a group of heavily armed terrorists ahead.” (walks right into the middle of the group so he is surrounded before he talks to them)
Me: “Stop that you stupid fucker!”
Jensen: (allows a lady bad guy to semi-seduce him, get too close, and push him outside a panic room, which slams down unbreakable doors, triggers the alarm, and signals an armed security team to storm the building)
Me: “OH MY GOD HOW DID YOU NOT SEE THAT COMING?”
Jensen: “DERP DERPITTY DEEEEERRRRRPPP LOL.”
No idea how he’s survived as long as he has.
dead man down in the city of the dead
broken by a giant muppet with
a hotdog neck and a
bald parrot manager
creatures of the night retire in
basement crypts under
their mom’s houses and
listen to old Cure records
Hey my Tumblr followers, if I haven’t told you lately, I love you each and every one and, if given the chance, would totally throw down and dance with you with some paradigm shattering booty shaking motherfucking wobble wobble get in there. yeah yeah.
You know what I’m saying?
From MidSouthCon 32, the author in his natural state.
The Dark Dude. He drinks Black Russians and thinks that Hotel California is a very underrated album, man.
Happy and amazed to announce that the prestigious Darrell Awards Jury has seen fit to give my short story “