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Weblog | I don't like the word blog, it's ugly. Anyway, new content happens here. (Swedish dito)

About me and the site | Twenty-something male who likes text. Obsessed with things such as books, reality, communication, and one or two tv-shows.

Archives | Things written here since... well, 2001. Some of it is good, some is utter shait.

Books | Books read, not books written. So far I've struggled to maintain unpublished.

Photo | I like my camera and it likes me.

Links | Outwards, away, flee.

e-mail | J. Nicklas Andersson

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2002-05-26

It was dark. Really dark, and I don’t mean like dark grey or something that a tosser has mixed together with some cyan, magenta and yellow — because that would be brown. I mean dark as in black. This didn’t matter much, as Mr Tim had his flashlight.

“Ow, man. Lookit that.” The pale man who had slugged forwards from behind Mr Tim looked at the ground and wrinkled his nose. “And that smells bad too. Horrendenbly even.” Mr Tim shock his head. Good help was hard to find these days, he longed back to the heyday before Mad Scientist Weekly had folded.

“That, my dear manservant, is flesh for the machine. Energy.” Mr Tim pointed at the dead corpse.

“Uhm, sir? Why’d we come here? I don’ wanna mis my favourite show on the telly — Jack of all Trades — and all we do is to look at a dead... personish being.” The manservant kicked his shoe in the desert sand.

“We’re here to get the rigor mortis,” Mr Tim turned towards his assistant and clenched his fists in impatience, “so take the dead body and put it on the truck.”

“Me? You want me? To pick up this dead Rigor guy? And put it on the truck?” The manservant was repulsed.

“Yes. Yes and yes, unless of course you happen to find another truck out here in the middle of fucking nowhere at this hour. Now. Hurry up, we haven’t got all night.” As Mr Tim went back to the truck he could hear how the manservant had stared to follow him, with the corpse dragging behind.

In a sense this was an improvement. The last servant, Trevor Meeks may he rest in peace, had had the uncanny compulsion to play puppet-theatre with the dead bodies they found. Once was fun, twice was straining the joke and a hundred and fifteen was a bit too much. Still, his flesh had brought power the city for days. The new one would probably waste the energy, or worse, steal what was already collected in the reserve.