"Assassins on the Rag"

by Ash Lomen and Made in DNA, ©2008


Ana is a cold, hard bitch
doubly so today
 
she has a scar
that dances it’s way
up from her pouty lips
down to her deep-set
azure eyes
 
she is genocide-thin
a utility belt hugging
her tiny waist
like some lecherous old man
phallic blades all around
 
and smelling my blood
she hunts me down in minuets
flaying my disposable guards
before I can even
so much as draw
 
her slaughter is poetic
 
she kills with an enthusiasm
rarely seen
by the eyes
of the living
 
and even in death
I love her for that
 

'08

This poem inspired the Assassins Mash-up Project, a sextremely hyper-violent short fiction collection with cover work by Pink Dog artist Jerem Morrow. In PDF format. Gratis.

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posted : Friday, April 25th, 2008

Training Day (580 words)

©2008, Made in DNA


Master Sergeant Baker, ram-rod stiff, scowl on his face, walked up and down the beleaguered recruits that had been his misfortune to be training.

“Without a doubt, you slags only have the most rudimentary understanding of the enemy we face!” The amplification of his voice in the virtual-environment training simulator noticeably startled several of the recruits. “Positively half of you stood there and simply stared at the enemy as they cut your teammates in half with las-fire!

“For four weeks now, I’ve been watching you get cockier and cockier. Oh yes, I’ve seen the look in your eyes. So today’s little exercise was to take you down a few notches!”

“Wake up kiddies! The Razellians have a special all-female ‘Mother-Earth’ battalion they absolutely love using against our troops. Designed make you all drool, they have perfectly genegineered triple-E breasts that defy gravity and normal physics!”

“Aguilar!” He stopped in front of a muscular female avatar. “How do you feel about your fellow recruits ogling at a bunch of large-breasted bimbos coming over the ridge to slaughter you!?” The sound of his voice had her complete attention, but all she could do was stare at him with wide-eyed wonder complete with slight ‘O’ upon her lips.

He stepped through the recruits to the next row, “Jonesy! I knew you were a titty man! And I nearly shot you myself when you ran up to try and breastfeed from that alien whore!”

Jonesy stuck a couple of fingers in his mouth to suck on them, the recruit to his left drooled—a long, slobbery string connected her chin to her thigh, and still another had a pained look on his face for several moments until a rather unabashed bleat emanated from behind him.

The master sergeant pretended none of it happened.

"Master Sergeant," the voice of the training base commander, Colonel Yamamoto, called god-like from the sky. "How is this crèche of recruits coming along?"

Baker saluted as the colonel appeared next to him. “As well as can be expected sir.”

The colonel sniffed the air. “Did someone shit them self?”

"Sorry sir, these recruits are still wet behind the ears. Happens quite a bit."

"Well, I suppose that’s to be expected. Be sure to take care of it." And disappeared into virtual mist.

"Yes sir."

Master Sergeant Baker sighed, “Recruits dismissed!” and mentally activated the program that would ease them out of the virtual training program.

Removing his virtual plug, Baker walked into the real-world physical room where the new recruits awaited him.

"Okay, you babies! Someone obviously needs a diaper change. Now who is it!?” He gave a steely-eyed look to each recruit. No one said a word, and Baker pondered his options until the sound of a raspberry from the back caught his attention.

“Androv!” he barked and picked up a Trooper Prep Kit from the wall. Making his way through the other recruits, he picked up the pre-toddler named Androv, removed the child’s virtual visor, and lifted him above his head to sniff at the diaper Androv was wearing.

Baker’s nose crinkled. “No surprise there.” The boy made a face as if to cry.

“I’ll have none of that crying,” admonishing the baby with a petulant look. Turning toward the room-computer, Baker ordered, “Play ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star’. The soft melody immediately soothed the boy’s feelings. Baker smiled and gently lay the baby down to change the trooper’s soiled diaper.

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posted : Thursday, April 24th, 2008

System File

© 2008, Made in DNA

cd minor/major/labia/vagina/g-spot/orgasm.exe

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posted : Monday, April 14th, 2008

Hard Wired

© 2008, Made in DNA

{if @$$=10
    then hit.it=+1}

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posted : Monday, April 14th, 2008

NannyBot

© 2008, Made in DNA


Baby began to cry. It wasn’t unusual or new; after all he was just six months. But Mistress was out and it was NannyBot’s job to care for him.

Rolling over to him, easily avoiding the toys the young one had thrown from his seated position in his plush Highchair, NannyBot bleeped a soft command to which Highchair replied to by lowering itself.

NannyBot’s long turtle-like neck extended and craned toward Baby’s face. Blinking its opticals twice, it then cocked its head to the left and then right. It had learned that sometimes this was enough to get Baby laughing again.

Unfortunately Baby continued to cry. NannyBot looked down at the heaved toys—scattered ruthlessly as if bomb-struck—picked one up, gave it a quick, cleansing blast of air from an inset nozzle in its tummy where its belly button would be if it had one, and offered it to Baby.

Baby continued to cry.

NannyBot tried each toy in succession until there was a mountain of toys on Highchair’s table. Baby disapprovingly flung them to the floor once more. Both NannyBot and Highchair took reflexive steps backward.

Running through a subloop of IF-cry.loop of possibilities, NannyBot squawked at Highchair once more and the second bot once more obeyed by turning to face NannyBot directly and elevating itself. With Baby’s crotch in its sensor array, NannyBot collected air particles, analyzing them.

Nothing. Baby continued to cry.

NannyBot went to the refrigerator and ordered up some flavored mush.

Baby made a face and ignored NannyBot’s attempts to feed him.

NannyBot offered a drink in a nippled baby cup. Baby dumped it on the floor with his toys.

NannyBot checked for a fever. None.

NannyBot tried Peek-a-Boo. Nothing doing.

NannyBot sung a lullaby. Baby cried louder.

NannyBot danced. Tears welled in Baby’s eyes.

NannyBot having unsuccessfully completed its IF-cry.loop spun in a circle bleeping, clearly flustered.

Highchair, now also flustered with Nannybot’s failure, admonished its fellow bot with a series of wheeps and whirps for not fulfilling its programming.

Desperate, NannyBot scanned Baby’s face—for which it received an admonishing look of knitted eyebrows—searched its programming and reviewed thousands of parenting video files for matching facial patterns, and came up with a 0. Nothing seemed to match the profile of the crying child in its care.

Fit to scrap itself, it began bobbing and whizzing around the room bleating like an electric sheep. Highchair was sure were not in NannyBot’s programming. Something odd was afoot, and Highchair was worried Baby would be left in its care.

In a last ditch effort, it zipped up to a tear-streaked Baby, and placed a light, loving kiss on his cheek…

Baby lit up with rainbow delight.

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posted : Thursday, February 21st, 2008

BATH DADDY (v.2)

© 2008, Made in DNA


"Bath Daddy! Bath Daddy!" The toddler jumped up and down in joy at the prospect of bath time once more.

Daddy chuckled, pleased the little boy enjoyed bath time with him. It was, after all, the only time he ever got to see his beloved.

After his mother had undressed him, the little boy bound into the room that was a combination shower and bath. Swirls of lazy steam whirled dizzily in the boy’s wake.

Daddy had prepared two plastic stools on which the pair sat down and began washing each other. Daddy took particular fatherly care to wash behind the child’s ears, under his armpits and all the spots a boy the age of three himself would miss.

After rinsing well, the pair jumped into the waiting hot water of the tub with its flotilla of multicolored monkeys, whales, dogs and associated animal shape outlines of plastic.

They sang songs and talked of the boy’s day. It was a good bath, as all baths are meant to be, but not all are everyday. On a scale of one to ten, Daddy rated this a ten. Bliss.

When the time was appropriate, Daddy pressed the Call button on the bath tub controls and the boy’s mother came with towel to bundle the boy off to his jammies waiting in the other room.

Daddy stepped back into the water, sat and waited.

Half an hour later, when the boy’s mother returned, his was there for her. And he was there for her.

With a sigh of contentment, the boy’s mother stepped from the bath, kissed Daddy, and pressed the Drain button on the bath controls.

Gurgling contentedly the bath finally slipped away, Daddy lay down in it, and closed his eyes.

The boy’s mother pulled the slide-top over the bath up to Daddy’s neck. “Goodnight Bath Daddy. And thank you again.”

Bath Daddy opened his eyes and replied, “This Bath Daddy is pleased to serve.”

A smile fell on her lips as she pulled the cover over the top fully and pressed the Clean button.

Satisfied the boy was asleep and the house was locked down for the night, House Mommy stepped into her own recharging alcove and placed herself in Sleep mode.

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posted : Monday, February 4th, 2008

BATH DADDY

© 2008, Made in DNA


"Bath Daddy! Bath Daddy!" The toddler jumped up and down in joy at the prospect of bath time once more.

Daddy chuckled, pleased the little boy enjoyed bath time with him. It was, after all, the only time he ever got to see his beloved.

After his mother had undressed him, the little boy bound into the room that was a combination shower and bath. Swirls of lazy steam whirled dizzily in the boy’s wake.

Daddy had prepared two plastic stools on which the pair sat down and began washing each other. Daddy took particular fatherly care to wash behind the child’s ears, under his armpits and all the spots a boy the age of three himself would miss.

After rinsing well, the pair jumped into the waiting hot water of the tub with its flotilla of multicolored monkeys, whales, dogs and associated animal shape outlines of plastic.

They sang songs and talked of the boy’s day. It was a good bath, as all baths are meant to be, but not all are everyday. On a scale of one to ten, Daddy rated this a ten. Bliss.

When the time was appropriate, Daddy pressed the Call button on the bath tub controls and the boy’s mother came with towel to bundle the boy off to his jammies waiting in the other room.

Daddy stepped back into the water, sat and waited.

Half an hour later, when the boy’s mother returned, his was there for her. And he was there for her.

With a sigh of contentment, the boy’s mother stepped from the bath, kissed Daddy, and pressed the Drain button on the bath controls.

Gurgling contentedly the bath finally slipped away, Daddy lay down in it, and closed his eyes.

The boy’s mother pulled the slide-top over the bath up to Daddy’s neck. “Goodnight Bath Daddy. And thank you again.”

Bath Daddy opened his eyes and replied, “This Bath Daddy is pleased to serve you Ma’am. May you have a pleasant tomorrow.”

A smile fell on her lips, she pulled the cover over the top fully, and pressed the Clean button.

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posted : Sunday, January 27th, 2008

The War Machine

© 2007, Made in DNA


Its reserves low, the great machine signals a mated geosynchronous minisat for the location of the nearest village within radius of its patrol. Squirt-spat, squirt-spat, squee-waaah, blip-confirm and it continues on rumbling through the night of the lightly jungled planet, rerouted. Its clean-fuel source grumbles hungrily but must be patient; it is still several hours out. It switches to conservation mode and processes the remains of its last resupply with the utmost efficiency.

Hundreds like it — squat, half-tanks with enough firepower to easily obliterate even the largest modern FedSphere archologies — have been deployed across the biosphere to root out the enemy invaders who have so callously dropped on the planet a year ago. Claiming to be liberators, they terrorized the FS citizens and settlers of this precious world. The machine will protect. It’s programming is clear: recognize, engage, refuel, redeploy.

The machine has been programmed by FS military to recognize the vital refueling components it needs, and each village and town has been generously supplied by that same complex. Unrecognized by the enemy invaders, as long as the machine can wrest control of the habitat from them, it shall be able to redeploy quickly seeking new targets.

Several hours later, it is sitting just inside the village perimeter, thermoptic camouflage engaged. In a village of approximately forty, it has recognized another twenty invaders, most of who are heavily armed.

Waiting until they have congregated to eat their evening meal, the machine unleashes hellfire, spitting hard-light bullets and splintered bits of the cabin through the invaders at light-speed velocities. Those that are not disintegrated instantaneously, flop like ragdolls in a vicious windstorm until finally, their savagely mutilated bodies whet the earth with their blood and the chunks of flesh that are all that remain of them.

Silence blankets the village. The machine stills knowing it must be patient. After the carnage, it knows that the people will not trust it. So it will wait for them to recognize the FedSphere markings on it while it broadcasts friendly overtones on all FedSphere comm-channels the villagers may be tuned to.

Several hushed minutes pass before the first of the curious peek out. Random calls and clipped conversation explode from seemingly nowhere and yet all-around: questions, confirmations, puzzlement, fear, excitement, disbelief… and finally, a guarded call to approach.

The first men approach, armed with crude weapons that could not harm the great machine in any fashion. Cautious, they prod the machine, first to see if it will react to them, then to see if it is alive, and finally to see if they can provoke it. The machine is patient. The villagers need time. It has plenty of time to give.

Once they have called back to the other men, who also approach with crude weapons, it begins to flash lights and bleep softly at them. Some jump, others try to bash it. It cares not. It opens a small hatch and offers up a small gift of cooking fuel common on the biosphere. The men recognize it, yet puzzle over it none the less. It then offers up soap and other small sundries it knows they can use. They are amazed, then fascinated. It flashes more lights and offers up more gifts. Soon adults and children both are gratefully running out to accept them.

The village begins to laugh and cheer their savoir. Finally they are free! Their thanks is hardy and robust. They kiss the great machine as if it were one of them and not made of gears. Oldsters ingratiate themselves to it, and young men hug young women who hold their small offspring. There is talk of a grand celebration for the evening. This is well. Very well, for this talk has brought all the most agile adults and children within four meters.

Just as suddenly as it had begun its assault on the invaders, the great machine discharges a paralyzing static bubble that engulfs them all. With practiced precision it carefully picks each one up and tenderly places them into a spiraling blackhole maw revealed by sliding panel, where their atoms are spaghettified and distributed to the power and ammunition plants.

Confirming that its power sources have been fully refueled, and that there are no leftover supplies, it signals its mated minisat, and once more starts off on a path that will lead it to the next invader hotbed.

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posted : Thursday, January 3rd, 2008

Conformity Bullet

© 2007, Made in DNA


The sun had barely deemed it necessary to grace the shanty town outside the limits of the glistening towers of City Proper until well late into the day when its beams of orange washed out all other colors. Perhaps that was for the best. It was, after all, the only washing the refuse living and breathing the orange-sparked air from their hidey-holes behind grime-dusted building-leftovers would ever get.

The street, though lively, would never be enough to support the few shops that clawed out an existence there. And the shop, said to be one of the best noodle places either in or out of City Proper, was not above ‘substituting’ ingredients now and then. That was life. At least if one wanted to continue living it.

The woman was dressed in cracked leather boots, jeans, and hooded duster, all of which had apparently acquired some of the shanty town’s dinge on her way to the noodle shop. The blunt pistol on her hip was simultaneously monstrously comic and cruel. Tucked comfortably away though was the only part of her that seemed impossibly impervious to the ever-angry elements of the unincorporated district.

Ducking, she held up a section of the sadly faded red banner that hung down over a third of the entrance. Her eyes readjusted to the dimly lit afterthought of a room and considered the six battered crates crowded around the L-shaped counter. All but one complained of the boniness flop-ass treatment they were currently being subjected to with each new mouth.

"Welcome," the owner’s voice was clear and attentive, yet there was a distinct distance in the older man’s eyes as she sat down on the only free crate. None of the other customers paid her mind. Their heads were buried in their bowls, slurping greedily while their crusty chopsticks bounce-dip bounce-dipped in an intricate dance to shovel noodles into gaunt, unshaven cheeks.

Just above her head, five wooden slats, graying and faded, hung like lifeless corpses nailed to their fate. Their sins were coded in an archaic language that spoke to the customers of noodle variations and prices. The woman ordered a bowl of sliced pork miso noodles, and fondle-counted the number of cockroaches stuck in the aged grease under her counter seat to pass the time.

The noodles were good. She sipped them with an admiration she thought impossible before now. So she questioned the owner.

"Business very good?"

"Good? Not much could be called ‘good’ these days."

As if to allow him to continue, she lifted the cracked porcelain bowl entrusted with the care of her noodles to her lips and sipped. He did just that.

"These times aren’t just ‘troubled’ they’re downright adverse. It’s been almost fifteen years since the war, and still, we languish here like refugees… refugees in our own country, mind you."

One of the other customers finished his bowl and slapped the money down with a something that resembled a word of thanks to the owner. As if on cue, another man rushed the door and jumped into the seat before the first was even out the door. The second man didn’t even look at the menu slats, he just ordered.

She took chewed a bit of pork as her eyes flickered over the new customer. “You don’t seem to be doing too badly.”

"No, not as ‘badly’ as others. But not so’s you could tell."

"Shouldn’t you be grateful?"

He looked at her as if she had leaned over the counter and spit in his pot of constantly boiling water. “It’s one thing to live, it’s another to be alive. The men in their slick towers of power have us by the balls. And they mean to keep us this way. cold and cowering. by any means. it’s the only way to keep us all divided and their coffers full.”

When she offered nothing in retort or reply, he caved to her interest of his opinion.

He carried on for several minutes more, carefully orating his points, and backing them with clear-headed, intelligent reasoning. There was a power in his words, and every one of them was dead correct. Customers automatically bleated agreement or indignation like Pavlov’s Dogs from their ass-numbing positions as they ate. He was a fantastic orator, dignified, powerful. In the right time, right place… a possible leader of men. He had courage and dignity.

All the while she listened, nodded and replied with her own non-committal grunts. As the old man spoke, the scoff-gulps of his customers were replaced with vocally sympathetic vibrations. Their cheers called to still others who crowded their heads into the small room through the door, just to hear the man speak. As the last of his words on the topic died away, she pulled a homemade toothpick from a dispenser and picked out a stubborn piece of meat.

Yes, indeed. Her contact had been correct. This was the man she was seeking. An idealist. A man who could lift the poor wretches of shanty town into a rolling storm that would send electrified shockwaves through City Proper. “Damn fine speech,” she commented.

His laugh was part whimper, part frustration, and all irony. “I would like to think so. But the fate of all good men and their ideas is conformity.”

She cocked her head at this and pursed her lips. “Not always.”

"Missy, from your clothing, I assume that you are a traveler who has seen at least a little of this world. What makes you think that my ideas will change anything?"

"I didn’t say that."

"What are you saying then?"

"That your fate is not conformity," with that, she stood, and with practiced skill put a fist-sized hole in his face with her pistol. The back of his skull decorated a yawning pantry, and his flailing arm came down into the large boiling pot of water upsetting it over what was left of him.

Several customers exploded off their seats, two reached downward toward their belts. The woman punched a hole through the top of the first’s head. She’d caught him, or at least she thought she had, looking down as he reached for his weapon. In fact, he’d just pissed himself and was reaching to cover the spot with both hands.

The second man had reached for a gun. And had succeeded in drawing it on her. It was an antique that the woman almost didn’t recognize as dangerous until the customer next to her, who was so desperately trying to become part of the wall, got a helping of iron in his diet of noodles.

That man’s chest evaporated in a cruel red Rorschach on the wall behind him. The sound of the ringing in her ears was the only one in the room. No one moved. When the woman was positive all the trouble to be had in the room had been had, she holstered her gun, reached into her pocket and placed the price of the bowl of noodles on the counter.

"From The Man’s coffers,’ she added, and bled out into the deepening crimson of the last light.

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posted : Thursday, November 1st, 2007

Headshots

© 2007, Made in DNA


The sign in the window of the photo studio read: Free Headshots for a LIMITED Time.

Never one to pass up a freebie, the man — a cheapass prick at heart — walked into the shop and inquired.

The girl behind the counter asked the man to fill out an application with a minimum of personal information, yet assured him he’d never be contacted or his information sold to third parties.

The camera rig in the small unusually brown-red painted room was digital. State of the art.

She smiled, asked a few questions to make him feel at ease while she fiddled with the rig.

He chuckled, answered as charmingly as he could while taking advantage of the proffered cleavage as she bent over now and again.

When she was finally ready, she gave him her pearly whites and he wanted to give her a pearl necklace.

The bullet that disintegrated his brain pan was caught in super high-speed gore-imagery from hole-popping head jerk to wall-splattering explorgasm.

Perfect, she purred, and continued to pop off more photos as his body limp-dicked slowly down the wall.

The buyer of the photos helped carry the body out to the garage to a hidden vat of acid for a small discount.

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posted : Tuesday, October 23rd, 2007

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