Nerd Pride Radio

This thread is unkillable. It is a game.

If this thread ever goes 12 days without a post, then the last person to have posted before that interval WINS!

Only one person is allowed to post in the thread each day. If you were the last person to post, you need to wait until someone else posts before you can post again. If people break these rules (either by posting after someone else has posted for the day, or by posting two days in a row) the rule-breaking posts are invalid and will be deleted by Mike or myself.

THIS POST DOES NOT COUNT. THE GAME WILL BEGIN WHEN THE NEXT PERSON POSTS, WHICH CAN BE TODAY.

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Huh. How bout that?

Mike stopped short, brow furrowed, near the spot where the next fence post was supposed to be standing. Instead he found it uprooted and laying in the grass, still clinging to one curled, broken fence wire.

"What happened here?" he wondered aloud, stroking his long beard thoughtfully. "Looks like something busted on through." Deep prints were plainly visible in the sloppy mud where the post should have been standing, though it was impossible to tell whether their maker had been human, animal, or something else. Machine, maybe?

Flashing her badge at the deputy preserving the scene, Phoebe sidled up next to Detective Jones. As though she was reading his mind, she said, "Clearly they're human prints. I'm guessing a size 11 running shoe." Shooting a sideways, bemused glance at her partner she said, "Have you already cracked the case, boy genius?"

"Based on the depth of the prints and the length of the stride, I'd say we're looking at someone that's about five foot eleven inches tall, and weighs about one hundred seventy five pounds. So most likely male. There seems to be a slight pronation, more pronounced on the left foot than the right. And based on the tread design, these aren't just any running shoes, but they look like Saucony Endorphin Pro 2, with the carbon fiber plate. This guy is a serious runner, with some money to spend on shoes. That makes me think this isn't a mugging gone bad, it's more likely it was planned."

"Y'know... or... whatever..." he trailed off lamely.

Phoebe gives him a side-look, a little grin playing across her lips and eyes.

Turn down for what?

Detective Jones continues. "Then over here you'll notice these drag marks. Something heavy was dragged through here. Did it come before or after our mysterious runner? I'm not sure yet. And what's that over there?"

"It's just what it looks like," she sighed. "A Santa hat. We need to test some of this mud - maybe then we'll know what was dragged. But if you go down there a little further, it looks like our runner came through first. Whatever was dragging along wiped out a few of the runner's prints."

She knelt down to scrutinize the smashed fence. "Here, do you think these are red fibers? Same as the hat, but these had to be pretty low to the ground when they went by."

"Santa dragging his bag of toys?" Mike suggested with a laugh, but then his expression turned serious. "If the bag was that same material? Or maybe a pant leg? But why would a Santa be chasing down a jogger out here?"

"Maybe he was really good last year," Phoebe shrugged.

"And this second set of shoe prints over here. It looks almost like the shoes are turned up at the toes. Could it be one of Santa's elves? I really need a drink."

"Cut! Cut! Cut!" shouted Dave, shooting out of his director's chair and stomping in between the two actors. Bending over "Detective Mike" he growled through gritted teeth, "You know or whatever?" He pointed a menacing finger at the young actor and says, "If you need your line, Doogie, call for it! Don't improvise! You weren't cast to improvise! Got it?" He took a deep breath, blew it out in a long controlled burst and mumbled to Jennifer Garner, "Great job as always, Jen. Thanks for being a pro." Marching back to his chair, he whispered to himself, "Never work with children or animals, fool." He plopped into the with as much hyperbolic frustration as he could muster, and shouted, "Let's pick it up at 'I think I need a drink!' And... ACTION!"

"Doogie! Fuck you, you motherfucking asshole! I may be 12 years old, but I've been in the business my entire life, and I've worked with some of the best in the business. Kiss my ass, you Tarantino-wannabe! I don't have to put up with this, and I'm not filming anymore until you apologize!" And with that, the young actor storms off towards his trailer. Jennifer looks at the director and shrugs with that here-we-go-again look on her face.

"I'm done with this," Jennifer thinks to herself. "Jessica f****** Simpson is making billions on crap shoes and handbags marked up 200%, and if it wasn't for f****** Bon-Ton stores wrecking their brand I could have been sitting at home right now, selling clothes to soccer moms, watching the checks roll in. But no. No. I'm stuck here with these man-babies."

Jennifer headed to her black Range Rover and looked around furtively, making sure none of the crew were watching as she slid behind the wheel and quickly lit a cigarette. She inhaled deeply, letting out a big sigh.

"And another thing... I'm so sick of hearing about Joe f****** Manchin f****** everything up. It's like, however much money I donate we can't seem to do better. You can't tell me he's the only Democrat who could ever get elected in that seat. It's all such b*******. I'm tired of being surrounded by idiots."

She stabbed out her cigarette and drove off with a squeal of the tires. Once she was down the road, the possum that had been hiding under the spirea bush next to the car unfroze himself and tore off as quickly as he could toward the stand of junipers. "What the hell was that?! A week ago everything here was fine, perfectly peaceful, and next thing you know these monsters are banging hammers, bringing in trailers, and stinking up the whole place. I'm so done with this."

Good morning!

Pat let out an uncomfortable bark and startled when Kyle bid his "good mornings" to everyone in the office. "Fucking Kyle," Pat mumbled to himself.

"What's that now, Pat?" asked Kyle in an arch, overly-friendly tone. "It is a good morning isn't it?" Slapping Pat lightly on his shoulder, in a too-friendly gesture that made Pat's skin prickle with irritation, Kyle continued, "So what do you think of the new manuscript? It's a fourth-wall breaking work that's never been seen before. Doogie Houser meets SVU meets reality show meets Scream. A&E is already wanting to option it for a series. And the boys upstairs are really hot for it, if you know what I mean." Kyle gave another firmer, more intimate pat to the back of Pat's neck. "Alright then," he announced turning away, "get me a publishing proposal and detailed notes by eight!"

Pat slumped and felt his evening plans melt away, like watching a time lapse of a candle burning. Pat did not know what Mike meant by anyone being "hot" for anything about this novel. "Encyclopedia Mike and the Case of the Dame Detective," he whispered derisively to himself.

Peeking up over the opposite wall of the cubicle, James said, "Yeah, mate. It's right awful. I read an initial treatment a month ago. It's clearly bait for a movie or tv deal, you know."

Pat nodded and glanced over his shoulder to make sure that Kyle had gone into his office. "It's so terrible," he said tersely but quietly. "It's like it was written by a room full of high schoolers in a creative writing course, and none of them care to even pass the class. The tenses are all off. The character's are the least imaginative things I've seen." He shook his head and took a calming breath. "I mean... Jennifer Garner for Christ's sake!"

"I know," said James. "They could have at least gone with Jessica Alba! I mean, c'mon, how difficult is it?"

Pat shrugged his shoulders and then turned back to his typewriter. Yes, typewriter. Pat was old fashioned and preferred to do his work on an Olympia SM3. He enjoyed hearing the clickety-clack of the machine as his fingers flew across the keys. It was sometimes a pain to have to have his work re-entered onto a computer, but OCR technology had reached a point where scanning his final product into a computer document was much easier than it used to be. He'd heard of some authors who had bastardized their old typewriters to function as computer keyboards, but he was a purist and couldn't bring himself to alter this combination of art and engineering. And so what if everyone else in the office had to wear noise canceling headphones while he worked. That's the price they'd pay to get him to work on this treatment.

With a fresh sheet of paper, Pat begins what he is sure will be his magnum opus...

The universe (which others call the Library) is composed of an indefinite, perhaps infinite number of hexagonal galleries. In the center of each gallery is a ventilation shaft, bounded by a low railing. From any hexagon one can see the floors above and below-one after another, endlessly. The arrangement of the galleries is always the same: Twenty bookshelves, five to each side, line four of the hexagon's six sides; the height of the bookshelves, floor to ceiling, is hardly greater than the height of a normal librarian. One of the hexagon's free sides opens onto a narrow sort of vestibule, which in turn opens onto another gallery, identical to the first-identical in fact to all. To the left and right of the vestibule are two tiny compartments. One is for sleeping, upright; the other, for satisfying one's physical necessities. Through this space, too, there passes a spiral staircase, which winds upward and downward into the remotest distance. In the vestibule there is a mirror, which faithfully duplicates appearances. Men often infer from this mirror that the Library is not infinite-if it were, what need would there be for that illusory replication? I prefer to dream that burnished surfaces are a figuration and promise of the infinite ... . Light is provided by certain spherical fruits that bear the name "bulbs." There are two of these bulbs in each hexagon, set crosswise. The light they give is insufficient, and unceasing.

As James hears the clickety-clack of Pat's typewriter starting up, he shakes his head, grabs his noise canceling Jabra headphones, and starts the latest episode of the Night Vale podcast. He settles back into his chair and begins to aimlessly scroll through his inbox while his attention focuses on the podcast...

That's when James saw the email that would change his life.

To: jimmyjamz66@hotmail.com

From: turntoyourright@nsa.gov

Re: It Started Yesterday

James nervously glanced around, leaned in close to the monitor and clicked on the email to open it.

But it was blank.

Then suddenly, his monitor goes dark.

A whisper in James ear: "Boo." He was so startled that he kicked the back of his cubical involuntary as his legs shot out. Eyes wide and blinking fat, James nearly lost his sense of self for a second.

"Ha ha! Just taking the piss out of you!" Kyle roared from behind James, his hands holding his ample belly as though he was worried it would explode. "You should have seen the look on your mug!" He continued as rubbed James's shoulder in that uncomfortable way that only family and lovers should do. "Crack on, then!" he announced and marched back to his office, still laughing like the boorish fool that everyone (except him) knew he was.

James sat forward, hands on his knees, breath controlled and steady. After several seconds, he heard his pulse slow and diminish as it rushed through his ears. Closing his eyes and taking one last cleansing, yoga breath, James thought, "You're not even British, you phony."

His eyes shot open as he heard an electric click from his monitor. It was back on.

To: jimmyjamz66@hotmail.com

From: turntoyourright@nsa.gov

Re: It Started Yesterday

He clicked to open the email and this time it wasn't blank.

"Oh shit," he whispered to himself.

Belated congratulations Tahlvin