#twigman

[padmajav]

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[nightbrained]

Nightbrained: The REBOOT! 

Perrin:

It is my pleasure (and hopefully yours dear audience, goddamn are we going to pleasure the shit out of you) to announce that after almost a year of absence (or somewhere around that, math is exhausting) Nightbrained is back!

I want to apologize for the lengthy hiatus, but the two of us were very busy this passed year, what with Molly in college and myself touring as every one of your favorite bands simultaneously. But after some lengthy chats we have decided to bring Nightbrained back, with a fresh new look and format.

Firstly, as you can tell, we are doing away with our code names as the novelty of having secret identities has worn off. Secondly, posting on this blog shall be--for now--a bi-weekly occurrence, and consist of a short piece by myself and an accompanying illustration by the talented half of this partnership. Each of these pieces are part of a larger story that I’m calling our first season, and I sincerely hope you’ll stick around for the whole shebang!

Heh, she-bang.

Anyhow I hope you’re just as hyped about this as myself and Molly are, and who knows, maybe some people can enjoy it. Maybe some people won’t, and maybe some people will. Maybe some people will tell me what’s the color of the next car, or maybe some people will get a freak out of me. Maybe some people can see that I can see, some people wanna see what I see, and some people put an evil eye on me.

Party on, nerds.  

[mypeoplesnativedance]

Watching Tropic Thunder again! This film will never stop being funny no matter how many times I watch it

[artsytoad]

David Bowers, Twigman

www.artsytoad.tumblr.com

[nightbrained]

Institutionalized Education

            Parker Dumkopf was a special human being. Not special in the way your mother thinks you are, but in the fact that he was about as average as you could possibly be. At least from a general education standpoint.

            On a national scale, Parker fell smack dab in the middle of everything; from fitness to academics, extracurricular activities to sexual performance.

            That was an interesting exam day. For both the kids taking it and the parents who received the results.

            Yet Parker did not fall smack dab in the middle of his High School graduating class. In fact, he was at the top. While being valedictorian of your graduating class might be an impressive feat, for Parker it was expected. For one, the qualifier of “Graduating” took out about half of the senior class, and second, the fifty some-odd students left shared one brain between them.

            Maybe half a brain. Results are inconclusive.

            So our mediocre hero was destined from the start to be top of his class, something he wasn’t exactly excited about. He was not looking forward to graduation, where he would have to give a speech to his fellow classmates, most of which would be sleeping during the ceremony. He, like the majority of high school students across this glorious mosaic of strange persons we call a nation, simply wanted to bugger off to college with the least amount of hassle.

            There were only two obstacles standing in his way: graduation, which he could force himself through, and the Standard Education Class Survey, or SECS.

            It was basically the easiest test on the planet, and was designed to ensure that at least half the senior class graduated, which was easy enough seen as half the class usually failed to attend school.

            So Parker was looking forward to his last few weeks of school. He’d take the test, talk about how much he hated everyone in his school and get the hell out of the arm pit he grew up in.

            Except life didn’t want to let him off that easy.

            The night before the test, a massive party was thrown for everyone in the school. Except Parker of course, because most students didn’t know he existed. At this party, in an effort to spice up the generous amounts of alcohol being served, several adolescents dumped an unknown liquid into the kegs which they had found near a toxic waste site just outside of town.

             In short, every student woke up the next morning with an intellectual hangover, and completely aced the test.

             All except Parker who, now surrounded by geniuses, got one question wrong because he failed to look on the back of the last page. So he subsequently fell to the bottom of his class, got out of his speech, and still went to college. Because no one gives a shit about the last weeks of High School as long as you graduate.

RedDeath: I challenged TwigMan to write about a sort of fallen angel/ fallen valedictorian story and what the reaction would be and he delivered. Not as violent as I expected but still excellent as per usual.

TwigMan: Well of course there was little violence, I tried to not be autobiographical this time.

[nightbrained]

The Temporal Twiddling Device Part Zwei

“My…What?” Joram said softly, the smiled melting away.

“Your time, Machine!” Matthews barked, bringing a gloved hand smashing down on the front cover of the book, “The highly illegal war relic temporal manipulation capsule that has been causing such a disturbance that residents of this building are taking notice of a technology that they should not know exists!”

An unnerving silence fell over the room. A police siren echoed through the caverns of alleys and floated up to them. Someone shouted out downstairs. The thump of helicopter rotors thrummed near the city center. Two officers entered the study silently as Matthews stared at the speechless chef, the thin wisps of a victorious grin forming on the inspector’s face. As loud a silence as one could get.

And then suddenly, Joram wheezed.

The wheeze swelled in volume until the smile returned with such force and vigor that his face seemed to explode with delight as barks of laughter filled the room. Matthews’s expression transformed into one of puzzlement, and then his face set and his jaw clenched.

“Mister Joram,” He spoke through clenched teeth, “Would you kindly stop your damn laughing and tell me what is so funny.”

Joram continued laughing, bent double and gasping for breath. Matthews nodded his head and the three officers in the room made straight for the hysterical chef, seizing him and bringing him upright.

“Mister Joram,” The Inspector hissed, “Please calm yourself before I have my officers here generously assist you in slipping off that balcony there and eating shit on the sidewalk.”

The laughter began to die, Joram regaining his composure and quieting down, and Matthews nodded his head for the officers to release him. They let go and the chef straightened his sleeves and rubbed his eyes, smoothed his sideburns.

“Well?” The inspector inquired, his tone laced with impatience.

“I’ll take you to it.” Joram said.

Matthews did the smallest of double takes.

“You’ll what?”

“I’ll take you there,” Joram repeated, moving passed the inspector, “Come on, I have reading to get back to.”

Not believing his luck—and slightly suspicious of Joram’s suddenly docile behavior—Matthews tailed our culinary compadre out of the study, officers stepping aside in the hall to let them pass. Joram lead the inspector to the west wing of the apartment, to a pair of large and ornate wooden doors. He stopped just short of them, turning to face the black-clad policeman.

“It’s in here,” He announced, gesturing at the doors with a small grin.

With a small nod from their commander, a trio of officers flanked the mahogany and brass doorway, their weapons up and ready for use. The lead policeman on the left place a gloved hand on the scuffed nob, waited a beat, then wrenched the door open. His compatriots rushed into the room beyond, followed shortly by shouts and exclamations of “All Clear!”, and both doors swung fully open.

It was his kitchen.

“The hell kind of joke is this!?” Matthews roared, turning on Joram. The aged chef simply smiled, striding into the most important room in his household.

“You asked me to show you the machine,” He announced, moving towards a corner of the room, near the bank of ovens, where a large canvas blanket lay draped over a mound of something, “So, here it is.”

With a flourish, he whipped the canvas shroud off, causing several of the officers in the room to flinch and thumb their weapons. Matthews entered the room tentatively, his eyes fixed on the strange contraption crouched in the corner. It was boxy at one end, with a cylindrical protrusion that opened into a waist high holding tray, and mesh hung over a rich brown substance near the wall. Matthews’s face blossomed red.

“Mister, Joram,” He growled, rage boiling behind his words, “if you do not begin to co-operate with me I’m afraid—“

“Who tipped you off?” Joram asked, cutting the inspector off.

“What?” Matthews barked, taken aback by the interruption.

“Who gave the info who said I had a time machine?”

“You know I can’t tell you—,” The inspector began.

"Was it Miss Basil?” Joram asked, looking knowingly at Matthews.

“What,” He stumbled, “No of course—”

“It was Miss Basil,” Joram decided, turning away from the lawman to contemplate his creation nestled in the corner. Miss Basil was a seventy-five year old woman with the disposition of a rather bad smelling cactus that could shout, and she had a serious fetish for rumors and using them to turn people she didn’t like into the secret police. Which unfortunately meant that everyone was prey to her ploys. “Is intelligence so bad that you have to take the word of a senile old bitch seriously just to get dirt on little old me?”

Matthews just stood there, his jaw slightly slack.

“I thought so,” Joram quipped, and bent down over the machine, “now how’s about I show you how this thing works?”

Matthews shook himself from his catatonic state, stepping after the chef.

“Now wait just a second—” but it was too late. With a tremendous lurch the machine buzzed to life, and the officers in the room raised their weapons once again. The brown substance within the mesh churned, and the whole contraption vibrated, the metal frame clattering on the tiled floor. Joram scooted around to the holding tray, and with a great final lurch and the sound of machinery powering down a little strip of something green slid into the tray.

“This,” Joram spoke with a spin to face the Inspector, holding the strip of green up to the light, “is Thyme.”

            Matthews frowned down at his script, reminding himself to beat the ever living shit out of the writer for this stupid pun when he had the chance

  Matthews said nothing, merely squinting ever so slightly at Joram.

“It’s an herb,” the Chef continued, “I use it in my cooking, and one of my students—yes I do teach our young and bright-eyed generation to make wonderful delicacies for our leaders to gorge themselves on, in the most patriotic fashion imaginable—has cleverly taken to calling it a Thyme machine. Of course it doesn’t just make Thyme, but the ‘Herb Machine’ doesn’t have quite the same ring.”

Matthews said nothing, just moved over to the machine and ran his hands over it.

“As you know Inspector, all temporal manipulation capsules were collected after the war,” Joram said quietly, “and if I did have one, this entire building would be blanketed in trans-dimensional radioactive emissions, something I can guarantee you will not find within a hundred miles of this place.”

Matthews didn’t utter a sound.

“So,” Joram continued, “as much of a kind and gracious host as I pride myself to be, I’m going to have to ask you to sod the hell off out of my home, and have a real reason for visiting me next time.”

For moment, the room was in silence, only the sounds of the city floating in from open windows. Matthews continued examining the machine, his eyes neutral and his face lax, until he looked up and nodded his head ever so slightly.

The officers shouldered their weapons and marched out of the room, leaving the two alone. The Inspector straightened his back and turned, walking towards Joram. He stopped just short of his left shoulder and spoke.

“We will be back,” He said, “And I will personally tear this place apart until I find anything, anything that will earn you a bullet to the skull at Rachesengel.”

“I would like to re-iterate my previous statement,” Joram said, with a slight tilt of the head at the Inspector, “kindly sod the hell off, please.”

There was a moment where the two held each other’s gazes, hatred and contempt barely concealed behind their eyes.

And then Matthews walked away. Out through the door, down the hall, and into the front foyer where his officers waited.

“Oh just a tiny thought inspector,” Joram called.

Matthews stopped.

“Can I have a new housekeeper?” He said, gesturing to the broken body lying crushed under the door.

Matthews raised a single finger behind him at the chef, and stalked out of the apartment.

RedDeath: Well here we are again! Back with part two! I was supposed to post this for TwigMan last week but we were then attending RTX (and I was really lazy). And can I just say that I really enjoy reading his stuff? TwigMan always does an amazing job coming up with clever ideas and if you haven't read the first installment of this, do so now!!

[nightbrained]

The Temporal Twiddling Device Part Uno

Like any other weekend morning in the life of renowned chef Markus Joram, the aged culinary master sat on the balcony of his study, surveying the cityscape from eight stories above the cobbled streets below. The land undulated below the city, old brick buildings mixed with concrete and glass monoliths climbed the sides of steep hills and great ridges all around, the Red Wolf of the Europa Imperica and the faces of her leaders fluttered on massive banners hanging off weathered facades. The sun hung near the horizon to the east on Joram’s left, bathing the city in a rich gold light, sharpening what little color was left in the great urban expanse.

At this moment in time Joram was partaking in his second and third favorite pastimes behind cooking; reading, and caressing his massive and shockingly white sideburns.

The book in his hands was a volume on spices from the former continent of South America, and while Joram would have much rather physically gone to South America to sample its tastes, his old age and colorful attitude towards the government of the Europa Imperica meant he was unlikely to leave the city anytime soon. Still, he had a restaurant to run, and a reputation to uphold as head chef of one of the finest eateries on the former continent of Europe.

It was the only way he could stay sane, to cook. Without it he would’ve gone mad long ago; more than once the image of the Civilia Domestica building in flames and the riddled corpse of Chancellor Killian Kane lying at his feet had crossed through his mind.

But not today. Today he had merely gone to his balcony, flipped the bird in defiance at the massive statue of the Red Wolf atop the capitol complex to the north, and begun reading.

Joram had gotten quite far into the text, before the morning took a decidedly abnormal turn.

His apartment’s front door, along with his housekeeper, came hurtling passed the study door, accompanied with an ear shattering blast. Joram looked up from his book just in time to witness a trio of black clad figures descend ropes and join him on the balcony.

“Mister Joram?” one of them said, voice muffled by a dark gas mask emblazoned with a wolf couched on a four pointed star: the Domestic Police insignia. The elderly chef lowered his book and looked over his shoulder as the two other officers moved towards the study doorway, stubby machineguns raised.

“You talking to me?” Joram said, returning his gaze to the remaining officer and pointing at himself. The officer nodded his response. “No,” Joram replied with a gravely voice, returning to his book, “He’s dead, have a nice day.”

The officer didn't move at all, merely stared at Joram. After a few seconds of silence between the two, the shouts of other officers ringing through the apartment, Joram spoke.

“You want me to jerk you off or something kid?” He said from behind the book, “I told you he’s dead, now go away.”

“But sir,” the officer said, a little bewilderment in his voice. “You’re Joram, you have to be.”

The chef dropped his book.

“Well damn kid, that hurts,” he barked, “First of all you come busting into my home and ruin my lovely morning, and now you say that I’m someone I just said was dead. I may be old but I don’t think I look that old.”

Joram looked up at the officer, dark blue eyes staring into black lenses, and the man said nothing. The silence was broken by a voice from the study’s entrance.

“Markus Joram, how are you this morning?”

Joram’s face tightened into a smile, and he sprang up from his chair. In the threshold stood a stocky man a little younger than Joram, sporting a captain’s outfit and an immaculate curling red mustache that twitched as the block of a man talked.

“Sorry about the mess,” He said, waving towards the hallway where Joram could see the mangled, splinter-ridden corpse of Miss Rosemary the housekeeper under the scorched remains of his front door. “Hope she wasn't too dear to you, though I doubt anyone could get you up at this age.”

Joram simply continued smiling, ignoring the comment.

“What do you want inspector, I was reading something” He said.

Inspector Cambridge Matthews moved towards Joram, coming to a halt a foot away from the chef’s magnificent sideburn clad face, and pulled a small microchip from his pocket.

“We have reason to believe, you old bastard,” He said, thumbing the chip, “that you are keeping items of contraband somewhere on this premises. Well, an item I should say.” A holographic image leapt from the chip, displaying a search warrant bearing the signature of Harrison Kane; the director of the Domestic Police.

“And what contraband might that be?” Joram replied, his voice low as he stared defiantly into the inspector’s eyes, the smile still plastering his face, “Brains? Intelligence? A good sense of humor?”

“None of those,” Matthews quipped with a small smile, stepping away and turning his back on Joram, “All of which you wouldn’t find here of course.”

“Then what are you here for?”

Matthews pulled a book off the shelf and flipped through its pages, stopping suddenly and snapping it shut. He looked up at Joram and tilted the book back so its title could be seen.

It was an older volume, its face scratched and weathered, but the words were clearly legibly in curling gold font.

The Flavors of Temporal Travel.

“We’re here, Mister Joram,” The inspector said, his chin raised, eyes alight with fire, “for your time machine.”

RedDeath: Well. After a long and arduous hiatus, we have returned! And this week I challenged TwigMan to a story about a time machine and boy has he delivered.

[hiddle-my-diddle-blog]

ALL HAIL TWIGMAN