Bewarethewumpus

Author : Jae Miles, Staff Writer

The mists swirl about our feet and the cold blues of brushed steel surfaces surround us. There is distant hubbub, like a monster stirring in its lair – which is an accurate analogy.

The Major’s eyes open and focus on mine. She sits up: “War?”

“War.” I nod agreement and feel my tacticals run cold. From the glint in her eyes, she’s feeling it too.

They used to go to war with rules. Hundreds of them. Had whole committees of impartial referees to decide what you could and couldn’t do. It took centuries to shake that stupid, selfish habit. War should be terrifying. War should be abhorrent. War should be the final step in a long chain of failures to find a peaceful solution.

But when war becomes the only recourse, it should be done with unmitigated savagery, surgical precision and no restraints. Because when a war is fought, you are trying to make it the last one. You are praying that your descendants never have to go through what you’re going through. No man or woman should have to take weapons in hand to do mortal combat in the pursuit of peace, simply because other people failed to find another way. Naturally, every entity/nation has cadres that are always prepared, but they are just that: an elite few, separate from a society they cannot fit into and could not understand.

When the fighting starts, you make it brutal, you make it atrocious. So that when non-cadre look upon the remains, they are resolved to never permit it again. If you have done your job properly, the losing side will never resurge – because there is no losing side. The only memorial will be the cluster of silo graves that stand in mute testimony to another utter failure of civilisation.

Territories will be realigned. Populations will be transferred. Peace will resume in the appalled aftermath, reminded once again of the necessity for sanity to endure.

I pick up my rifle after sliding both machetes into their scabbards. Checking my charge levels, I exit the tent and go to join my unit. After the warbotics finish their tasks, we must be ready to carry the battle into the enemy before they can recover.

Our cadre will have engaged theirs as ruination fell from the skies. We got the drop on them, so they will fight like the damned. Maintaining the layered pressure of attack is the only element of strategic mastery that counts: the real-time accumulation and analysis of countless tactical outcomes to guide this implacable, nation-crushing offensive.

They call us Terminators – an ironic reference to legendary monsters that sought to overthrow mankind. We are what dead cadre members become: cybernetic agents of slaughter, cryohibernated in the hope that we will never be needed again.

This is only the third time I have been awakened in five hundred years. Mankind is – finally – getting better at peace.

Author : David Botticello

We only discovered them by mistake.
Waiting out in space, watching, listening. Deliberating.

We had this exploration drone, for a comet. It was supposed to land, take samples, send back pictures and analysis—you know the deal. The physics of the thing was astounding; firing what was essentially a ballistic camera off into space with only small maneuvering thrusters, trying to hit a chunk of rock and ice hurtling through space. It was almost comical, when it bounced off. Hubris you might say, that we thought we could accomplish such a feat. Space Command had given it fifty-fifty odds.

Well, it bounced. All that money, time, effort, skipping off the surface, back into space. And so we figured, might as well leave the cameras running, right?

And then three and a half months later, while going over the images in some lab late at night, my buddy says, “huh, that’s odd.”

That was how we discovered the Vorinii. They had it all perfectly timed, tapped into even our most secure networks, moving their ship around so that none of our satellites would ever see them—if everything had gone according to plan, that is. Damned deliberating aliens. Just waiting there. Watching us. But they hadn’t expected us to fail. No, I don’t even think they understood failure in those days. They just didn’t get the concept. Everything they do is a resounding success. Some people say they’re just that much smarter than we are. Others say they are a particularly lucky species, or that we’re an unusually unlucky one. Or that they plan so much they just rule out all the bad options. This priest from my bowling league thinks they have some sort of cosmic authority that conforms the universe to their desires, makes everything they do come out well. I’ve half a mind to believe him. But whatever the situation, however it goes, for some reason the Vorinii just, kinda, succeed.
And that’s why they were so interested in us—a kind of morbid fascination, when you think about it. We fail. Sometimes dismally, but other times, there’s a bit of comedy, or even glory to it.

Well they landed, made contact, explored, flew away, came back. The whole deal. They even took news of this odd new race called Humans to the stars.

Twenty-five years in the planning. Ten years of travel. Hundreds of thousands of manpower-hours. Resources from across the world, some of them near-irreplaceable.

So that’s our first introduction to the universe, I guess. We fail spectacularly.

Author : Gray Blix

The first one I saw was at the auto repair. My neighbor, Al, recommended Hans, who fixed a problem even the dealer couldn’t find and did it in one afternoon for only fifty bucks.

“I hope the guy’s still in business,” Al said. “I told him he needs to charge more. Offered him a hundred, but he wouldn’t take it.”

“You’re a lousy bargainer,” I said. I’m a kidder, you know. “You’re supposed to offer less and then agree on something in between.”

“Nah, I was glad to find an honest mechanic who knows what he’s doing. Oh, I almost forgot about his dog. Wait’ll you see that cute little mutt. I asked him where to get one, but he said it just wandered into his shop.”

Apparently Hans was counting on volume to make up for his low prices, because his shop was full of cars. Only one mechanic darted from vehicle to vehicle. I flagged him down, explained the symptoms, and he said he could fix it in a couple of hours for fifty dollars.

Oh yeah, the dog. It was snuggled on his chest in one of those baby carriers. All I could see was its head, a ball of white fur with two black dots that looked up at him or towards me as we conversed.

Hans was busy, so I tagged along for a few minutes while he worked to ask some questions.

“Is that a German accent, Hans?”

“Ya, German.”

“Cute little mutt ya got there. What kind of dog is it?”

He said something that seemed to be all consonants, like “frbllxtmph.”

“That first part sounds a little like ‘fur ball.'”

“Ya, frbll.”

“Why do you keep it strapped to your chest?”

“We are, how do you say, inseparable.”

My wife arrived and tried to pet the dog, but Hans recoiled and the dog’s eyes retracted deep into its fur. As we left the shop, its eyeballs seemed to extend to follow us, almost as if they were on stalks.

When I returned to pick up the car, sure enough, it was fixed and he only charged me fifty dollars.

I didn’t haggle about the price, but I said, mischievously, “Merci, mon ami. You did say you’re from France, right?”

“Oui, France,” he said, handing me the keys.

Well that wasn’t the response I expected. The dog’s eyes narrowed as if it was glaring at me.

“And your little dog, did you say it’s a shit-zu?” I mispronounced it purposely.

“Oui, shit-zu.”

I couldn’t get a rise out of that guy.

A few days later, I saw Al taking out the garbage, and I noticed he had one of those baby carriers on his chest. “Is that one of your grandkids?” I shouted.

“Yeah, grandkids” he said.

I came closer and realized it was a frbll. “You can’t kid a kidder,” I said. You bought that from Hans, right?”

The thing glared at me with those beady little eyes and then looked up at Al.

“Yeah, Hans.”

But when I drove past the auto repair, I saw that Hans still had his frbll attached. In weeks to follow, they popped up on people all over town. Yesterday on the TV news from Des Moines the guy and gal both had frblls strapped to their chests.

Then the lightbulb went off in my head. I said to Marge, “Boy, whoever makes those baby carriers is raking in the dough, huh?”

Author : Jae Miles, Staff Writer

“Did you really think this was going to be scenic?” I cannot help it; disgust oozes around my words.

He swallows hard. Tearing his gaze from the spectacle, he fastens wide eyes on mine: “This is horrific. What law would allow this?”

Every time. Every. Damn. Time. I’d really like one person to come up here with a clear view.

“You fought tooth and nail to come here, and you have the gall to ask me that?”

Titan is Earth’s penal colony, and it was carefully designed. Prison shuttles arrive on the peak of a mountain in the Dilmun range. From there, a dropslide deposits the convicts into Titan One, the main ‘processing’ area.

I use the term loosely, because that is what it is labelled as on the designs. Since Titan has no inhabitants that are not criminals, I would guess that it may best be regarded as a nightmare cross between slave market and the gateway to hell.

Britain established HMP Titan 180 years ago, at the height of the Elite Regime. That may have fallen in fire and summary executions, but its legacy is this monument to human squeamishness. Every nation on Earth pays Titan Corp to use this place. The laughable element of that is the discrepancy between vast sums of money paid and miniscule expenditure required to maintain the transports and the crews: people like me.

Titan needs no budget. It is a frigid hell over a billion kilometres from Earth. The humanitarian campaigner I am escorting has just seen the plain on the Adiri side of Shangri-La. It’s littered with macabre sculptures: the dead. Some of them were corpses before they were deposited out here. Most got shot out of the waste chute as the losing side of an argument. No-one knows who – or what – rearranges them into these hideously fascinating patterns. Personally, I never want to meet the Iceghosts of Titan. I suspect they are non-too chuffed at having their home host the cesspit of Terra.

“I think I’ve seen enough. It is obvious that this place is beyond any rational intervention.”

Another do-gooder bottles it. I snort my low opinion and swing the scout shuttle around. While he organises his excuses, I look down at the field of dead and, once again, get the terrible feeling of being watched by something of unforgiving malice.

If that feeling is true, it’s not an Iceghost. It’s the spirits of the dead, levelling their hatred at me. Why? Because when Titan Corp came to me and said I could fly the convicts, or remain as one of them, I took my thirty pieces of silver and a lifetime exile from Earth. Apartment on Mars, girlfriend on the Titan Corp Penal Flight cleaning crew: ‘we the damned’ can only tolerate each other.

HMP Titan exists because the ruling powers of Earth have to be seen to be ‘fair’. No summary executions, just banishment. This place is far crueller than a death sentence, yet public sensibilities – and a craving to stay in power – force the establishments to keep this horror story going.

The 2015 Awesome Games Done Quick marathon kicked off yesterday, with an entire week of non-stop gaming speedruns benefiting the Prevent Cancer Foundation. This year the assembled speedrunners are playing *checks schedule* everything.

The action kicked off at noon Eastern time Sunday with a run through Donkey Kong Country Tropical Freeze and finishing off on Saturday evening with a sprint through The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time. Sandwiched between those two is everything from Shovel Knight to Mega Man to Blasto — people are going to play Blasto during this event. How odd. You can check out the full schedule here.

Along with proceeds from the official t-shirts at The Yetee and its own Humble Bundle, Awesome Games Done Quick 2015 will also be accepting donations all week long. I'd suggest checking the schedule, seeing if your favorite games have special donation-powered run tweaks, and saving up your good will for those special moments when your money will make a difference both against cancer and whichever speedrunner is taking on your game of choice.

If anyone needs me, I'll be glued to Twitch all week long. I love this damn event.

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One year ago today, the ongoing epidemic of self-photography took on a competitive turn with the commencement of the Selfie Olympics.

Hoping to prove his manliness against Disney World's most manly man, a park visitor challenged live-action Gaston to a push-up contest — and got wrecked.

The actor that portrays Beauty and the Beast's antagonist at Disney World once again proves he's perfect for the role. Despite being taken down a peg or two by a tiny enchantress earlier in the year and being forced into portrait orientation by YouTuber Blake Platt (via Tastefully Offensive), Gaston proves his push-up prowess beyond a shadow of a doubt.

He's giving bad guys a good name here.

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Ever since Hot Rod metamorphosed into Rodimus Prime in the 1986 animated Transformers movie, fans have been envisioning what other prominent Autobots would look like wielding the Matrix of Leadership. Arise, Bumblebee Prime.

Despite what the upcoming Robots in Disguise animated series might say, humble Volkswagon (or Corvette some freaking Chevrolet for you movie fans) Bumblebee is a follower, not a leader. So were he forced to take up the ancient artifact that once transformed lowly Orion Pax into the mighty Optimus Prime, he'd likely be as big and pissed off as artist Enjaysee Customs depicts him in this gorgeous work of customization.

So, what would happen if Bumblebee had no choice but to take the Matrix and step up. Upgraded and seriously pissed off is my vision of exactly that!

Base used was a leader class DotM Sentinel Prime. The back pack was removed and hinges added to allow the figure to look much better from the side as well as stand more easily. It was next partly dismantled, primed with top quality plastic primer and prominent screw holes filled. The hands are by UFO and fully articulated at every joint. The head was designed by myself, 3D printed via shapeways and mounted using a Lego ball joint to allow more freedom of movement. The large guns are from a RotF Prime figure, the small guns and sword are by Dr Wu and the medium turrets are by the excellent FakeBuster on Shapeways.

The whole figure was painted by hand and decals designed by myself and printed on a professional Alps printer.

And suddenly I'm desperately searching for a Dark of the Moon Sentinel Prime of my own.

If you think the robot mode is impressive, wait until you get a load of Bumblebee Prime here in vehicle form.

Just soak in the details — the angry bee motif, the side mirrors that look like antennae, the Bee-Otch brand tires and that blue and silver sticker on the door panel, echoing the stripes on Optimus Prime's trailer.

Bonus points if you get the license plate reference.

I'm sitting here with the new Bumblebee figure from the upcoming animated series on my desk. I look at these pictures. I look down at his unblemished yellow plastic and despise him for not being more like Enjaysee's creation.

That's no leader. This. This is a leader.

While I gently weep into my hands, head over to Enjaycee's Facebook page for more pictures — including some outstanding work in progress shots — of the Bumblebee Prime we'll never have.

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From Dorkly, this comprehensive infographic analysis of Great Captains in film, comics, TV, cereal boxes, and music. See it http://2.media.dorkly.cvcdn.com/59/40/443c44e2fb02e153346f37fe90332c40.jpg">full size.

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“Do you solemnly swear or affirm to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth?”

He left without remembering to take his money. I've done that before.

Would-be thief's plan to blow up ATM knocked him off his feet

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Please don’t be sad, it’s for the better. The life I would’ve lived isn’t worth living in… because I’m transgender. I could go into detail explaining why I feel that way, but this note is probably going to be lengthy enough as it is. To put it simply, I feel like a girl trapped in a boy’s body, and I’ve felt that way ever since I was 4. I never knew there was a word for that feeling, nor was it possible for a boy to become a girl, so I never told anyone and I just continued to do traditionally “boyish” things to try to fit in.

When I was 14, I learned what transgender meant and cried of happiness. After 10 years of confusion I finally understood who I was. I immediately told my mom, and she reacted extremely negatively, telling me that it was a phase, that I would never truly be a girl, that God doesn’t make mistakes, that I am wrong. If you are reading this, parents, please don’t tell this to your kids. Even if you are Christian or are against transgender people don’t ever say that to someone, especially your kid. That won’t do anything but make them hate them self. That’s exactly what it did to me.

My mom started taking me to a therapist, but would only take me to christian therapists, (who were all very biased) so I never actually got the therapy I needed to cure me of my depression. I only got more christians telling me that I was selfish and wrong and that I should look to God for help.

Watch as programmer Pekka Väänänen plays the 1996 first-person shooter game Quake on a Huawei V-422 oscilloscope.

Have you ever been so fed up by life that you just wanted to run amok in a retail store, ripping items off shelves and pulling down displays? No? Well, you’re apparently not the youngster in this video.

The above clip [via Reddit] (Note: NSFW language in the cameraman’s spirited play-by-play narration) features a young boy laying waste to the shelves of a dollar store.

He pulls items off the shelves, throws them to the floor, without any attempt to disguise his actions or any apparent fear of being caught.

When people, presumably store employees, catch on to what’s going on, they try to corner the kid, but he tries to escape through the stockroom (into which the vertical videographer follows). There’s no exit, but he is able to avoid capture.

At this point, he actually begins running through the store until he once again pauses to tear down a cardboard display.

Eventually he’s trapped in an aisle between two young men.

“Get back!” he warns the one man in front of him, while threatening to throw an object at him. “I’m not afraid to do it!”

What he didn’t notice was the bigger man walking up behind him, who was able to snatch the kid, saying “I ain’t either” as he uses the youngster’s shirt to take him out of the building and into the parking lot.

We’re trying to find out more about this video. If we get any additional info, we’ll let you know.

For some people, Dec. 31 is the night to send out the old year with a blast, celebrating and partying into the early hours of the new year. But for others, it’s a day marked on the calendar to lock oneself in the basement with enough sustenance and water (and access to a toilet and sink) while waiting the debauch out.

HBO’s John Oliver is one such person who believes that New Year’s Eve is just too much after a holiday season that is glutted with Christmas, Hanukkah, and Kwanzaa.

“If you celebrate any of those holidays, you’re undoubtedly exhausted,” he says in the above video. “If you celebrate all of them, your last name probably has several hyphens in it.”

Oliver likens New Year’s to the death of a pet: “You know it’s going to happen but somehow you’re never really prepared for how truly awful it is.”

The annual event combines what he views as “three of the least-pleasant things known to mankind” –
• Forced interaction with strangers,
• Being drunk, cold and tired,
• Having to stare at Ryan Seacrest for five solid minutes, waiting for him to tell you what the time is.

Oliver then gives suggestions on how to get out of different types of NYE invites. Like the recently divorced pal who wants to get together for a night of “guy stuff.”

“‘Guy stuff,’ as we all know is code for strip clubs,” explains Oliver, “and you should absolutely not spend New Year’s Eve in a strip club, unless ebola goes airborne and the only cure is glitter.”

His suggestion is to say that your cousin Paul Smecker has suddenly become ill and that he needs some of your “bonezymes.”

“Bonezymes are a thing I just made up and Paul Smecker is the name of Willem Dafoe’s character in The Boondock Saints,” he explains. “If your friend knows that offhand, cut him out of your life forever.”

Then there is the dreaded invite to a party at your friend’s house.

“That’s a five-hour commitment, if you leave at 12:01,” says Oliver. “Do you really want to sit on your friend’s sofa and watch hummus turn brown all night?”

His answer: Tell your friends that you’re “doing a cleanse.”

“Technically, that’s not an excuse,” he admits, “but the beauty is there will be no follow-up questions because nobody wants to hear about your f**king cleanse.”

Oliver points out that the first line to “Auld Lang Syne” is “Should Old Acquaintance be forgot,” which he thinks is a great suggestion for how to spend the evening.

“There’s no better way of doing that than completely blowing off all your friends and family,” he concludes. “And if you do this right, you will be in bed on New Year’s Eve at 11:45 after watching all five Die Hard movies.”

We couldn’t disagree more. There is no reason on Earth to watch Die Hard #2 or #4.

There are a couple of humans there, too.
(via BBC)

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