Continue reading for Chapter 13, start at Chapter 1, or find where you left off.

Audio performance by

Last time on The Flucks

The video wasn’t over; she was just still, finger hovering over the stop button. She wasn’t done talking. She sat back, re-entered the frame, and stared back into the camera.

“Fuck this, this doesn’t feel right. I don’t know if you can have platonic soulmates, but damnit, I’m going to have one. I know you’re out there. Slacy, get your shit together and come find me.”

Slacy had good news. Maybe. Sort of. He now has something to drive for. Good thing he prepared for a long trip.

Chapter 13 — We are so back

“What? That’s it?” I screamed. Galileo had enough of my shit and crawled into the back, lying on the bed platform.

I checked to make sure the video didn’t have more at the end. I checked for other messages. I replayed the vid looking for clues. Nothing!

The vid was sent days ago. I sent a text reply, hoping we could talk.

Hi, glad you're fucking alive. Where the fuck are you?

Probably not the fondest message considering the one she sent me. But she knew me. She understood the love in all those ‘fucks’. No reply. C’mon, it’s been five minutes! Is she still in the same place? Is she okay?

Then, I pulled my brain out of my ass and looked at the vid metadata. It was geo-tagged with coordinates. I sent another reply.

Never mind, I'm an idiot. On my way.

I put the car in drive and floored it, wheels kicking up dust, yanking cords and solar panels along.

“Shit shit, fuck fuck!”

I forgot I had left them out all night. Galileo channeled my anxiety and paced the bed perimeter, looking out each window, pausing long enough to fog them with panting.

“It’s alright, girl—I’m just an idiot.”

I got out, rolled up each panel, shouting ‘shit’ each time I tripped on a cable with chunky camp shoes. I shoved them under the bed platform and grabbed the cables, throwing them on top. I’d patch them later. I jumped into the front seat, waiting for the closing hatch—c’mon c’mon c’mon.

I put the car in drive and floored it, wheels kicking up dust, speeding off towards Chuq.

✹✹✹

We drove throughout the night. Thankfully, satnav worked—to a degree. It wasn’t getting updates, but the onboard computer had road data up until the point services cut out after the Flucks hit. I didn’t think any roads were added since, but you never know.

Chuq was south—way south. The vid’s geotag said it was taken somewhere near um… I could type it, but had a hard time pronouncing it in my head. I tried aloud.

“o…zac…aa? — o…hak…aa? — waa…hah…kah?”

Yeah, think that’s it—Oaxaca—sounds like waa-hah-kah. Hopefully whichever AI or poor soul they get to narrate the director’s cut of my eulogy can pronounce indigenous Mexican better than me.

It was about thirty-five hundred kilometers south. At least she was still on this continent. If we were separated by oceans, then what? We all know I can’t swim.

From what she said, Chuq was reborn many more times than me. I ended up places that couldn’t be the States, so she probably did too. She called it oblivion. She said some deaths were by her own hand. Oblivion indeed.

This is going to be a long ride. I needed some music to occupy my galloping mind.

Auto-drive engaged while I flipped through my CD binder for something to listen to. Yes. CD. With streaming services down, it was the best way I could listen to music. Snackbot had climbed shelf after shelf pulling discs. The thought of a multi-billion-dollar robot disc jockey made me laugh every time. I miss it already.

The only kind of music still making CDs, though, was K-pop and J-pop. Every album package was an experience. They were filled with band member photobooks, stickers, postcards—all kinds of stuff. I don’t think they actually expected anyone to play the discs.

I had been growing quite a collection of album inclusions at the warehouse. The next guy to go in the manager’s office is going to find a shrine to K-pop all-stars.

While Snackbot had a large music collection in its memory, it was nothing recent or from my formative years. Also, I couldn’t exactly have it follow me around playing music all day, fun as that might be. But now I was also limited to K-pop and a few J-pop albums.

That reminded me, I left my latest favorite disc in Snackbot’s belly. Oh, well. Maybe I should have figured out how to get its music library transferred to GOATmobile before I left.

The car drove over a patch of snow, bumping the disc, causing a track-skip. Snackbot found a disc player that worked wirelessly—now velcro-mounted to the dash. No one ever bothered to solve the skipping problem once CDs were abandoned for digital.

Oh, you noticed I said ‘auto-drive’ before my K-pop ramble? Don’t worry, this isn’t like Shitmobile’s shit AI. It’s the latest tech, not some thirty-year-old garbage that was garbage when it came out. Voltivian made rugged stuff—reliable, even offline. AI was fully onboard, none of that shared with the cloud crap. It’s as if they were prepping for an apocalypse.

Just think of Snackbot and how well it was built. Though, I don’t think GOATmobile is anywhere near as capable as the big robot. I trusted Snackbot, and I could trust this car. Haven’t bothered talking with it, though it was able. I preferred physical buttons.

I didn’t mind the long drive. My mom and I would take cross-country road trips for camping. This would be like old times. My first road trip in decades. We avoided stopping in big cities—wasn’t her scene. I wouldn’t have time to do any sightseeing this trip, though.

I had a full charge when I left, so I could go sixteen hundred kilometers. The car’s integrated solar panels would give me about sixty kilometers of range per day. It would take months to meet Chuq at that rate.

Eight solar rolls gained me four hundred kilometers a day, but I had to stop to use them. Those, plus integrated panels—with six hours of winter sunlight—I could get about five hundred kilometers daily range. Not great, but I didn’t have much choice. So, I could see Chuq in eight days.

Could have driven faster, but that would have drained battery faster. Besides, AI wouldn’t self-drive more than 10% over the speed limit. Highway limit was 145 kph—ironically because of modern self-driving safety. Manual drive was an option, but let’s face it, I’d get bored of that fast.

I paid attention to the road even when GOATmobile was driving. Every dozen kilometers or so, a car sat abandoned on the shoulder. Never know when a dead car would be in the middle of the road. I say abandoned, but I’d probably find piles of dust in each one. I’m lucky the highway hadn’t been busier and left more car hazards. With the Flucks, most people stayed home.

Adrenaline from the Chuqmail was wearing off. Highway streetlights were still on, charged by solar. Rhythmic pulsing as we sped past them was hypnotizing. My mind started lagging.

It had been a few hours. Galileo was sleeping on the bed. I could have crawled back there and let the car do all the driving. I trusted GOATmobile’s AI more, but let’s not get too crazy.

It was then I realized I forgot the most important thing. I made an inventory todo list and everything—Snackbot was right, I should have let it tend the list. Crap—there’s no way I could make this trip without coffee.

Galileo and I had enough calorie-dense food and nutrient pills for a hundred days. Enough water for a few days and we’d harvest more along the way. I needed to pee. I needed to stretch my legs. I needed caffeine.

I saw a Scar Flucks sign before an exit. We were well beyond the city. Avoiding more big cities seemed a good plan, though for different reasons than Mom’s. I’ve seen way too many zombie shows and know how those turn out.

It was the middle of the night. All streetlights, traffic lights, and building lights were off. The town was dead. After hearing from Chuq, I now knew I wasn’t the only one left. So, I expected to see at least some sign of life.

We pulled into the Scar Flucks parking lot, shining headlights through its windows. Nothing jumped onto the glass and screamed—so that’s good, right? I grabbed Ash’s flashlight and got out, Galileo following.

We did our business in bushes, then I threw a big rock, shattering a store window into a million beads. I clicked on the flashlight, tightened my grip on Sir Terry Hatchet, and walked through, glass crunching under my boots.

It looked like any closed store—seats upside down on tables, clean counters. Like employees came in one day, completed a shift, and never returned.

I crept, low, ready to throw. I’m not sure what I expected to find, but it would find me ready. crunch. crunch. crunch. I spun around, coiling back my Hatchet arm, locking on target. A thick shadow crawled across glass beads.

“Jeezus! Galileo, you nearly gave me a second heart attack.”

With a racing heart, I took in the rest of the scene. No piles of dust. I ran my finger through a thick layer of ordinary dust on a table. No one had been there in a while. Satisfied there’d be no attack, I stowed Terry on his loop and surveyed my options.

I’d have loved to fire up the espresso machine, but we were on a tight schedule. Lukewarmbrew tap was moldy—nope. I settled for a few dozen canned coffee drinks.

With caffeine in my veins and GOATmobile doing most of the work, we drove on. I checked my blog for new DMs. Nothing. It was latenight—but come on—I was dying for a reply.

Eight hundred kilometers and six hours in, I needed to crash before I literally crashed. I pulled over to a rest stop—between towns seemed safest. My eyes were sagging, my bones were heavy, and my ass was sore from sitting, but I needed to roll out solar panels.

Sun would rise soon. My plan was to drive at night and charge during prime solar hours. Galileo sniffed around, got bored of hard parking surface, then ran towards picnic tables for peemails. She’d alert me if anything was hungry for flesh.

I set up panels with hardly any light. Moon was absent, and it seemed like this rest stop hadn’t upgraded to solar-powered streetlights. Looked like this whole thing hadn’t upgraded in decades. People didn’t drive as much since high-speed trains and drone transports were faster.

Crawling into the back of the car, I lay on the bed platform. Galileo curled up on the blanket, nestled behind my legs. I left the heater running, which shouldn’t drain battery too much since the sun would be up soon.

I awoke to screeching metal, a grackle on the roof rack. Sun was high overhead, peak charging time. My stomach growled—time to eat a cardboard-flavored mealbar. I slipped on camp shoes and jacket then did the awkward slide into front seat from back seat thing.

Galileo ran out as soon as I opened the door. She barked at grackles loitering in the parking lot wondering what kind of meal we would make. In the dark, I didn’t realize how much the terrain had changed. Afternoon was chilly, but it was green all around. We were surrounded by tall pines. Luckily, none of their shadows blocked any solar panels.

I grabbed a can of coffee and unwrapped a bar then sat in the driver’s seat to check the dash readout. That can’t be right. Only thirty-three percent battery? It should be at least forty-five by now.

When I set out panels in the dark, I hadn’t realized how damaged the cables were from dragging them as I drove off. Some insulation was stripped and most connectors were bent. Charging had degraded to a third of what it should be.

Fuck. This would triple the timeline. I did this. My own stupid fault for forgetting the panels were plugged in. I couldn’t afford to make mistakes out here. If I died, who knows where I’d come back.

I didn’t want to wait a long month to get to Chuq. I rifled through my toolbox finding some duct tape. Well, not really duct tape, some kind of fancy polymer stuff, but close enough.

I taped up stripped wires and bent the connectors back into place best I could. Now getting five kilowatts—better, but still only half what it should be. I’d need a better fix. I could get wires anywhere, but these connectors wouldn’t be as easy to find.

We sat for a couple more hours taking advantage of unobstructed sun. Before we started off, I checked my blog. Ding—I had a DM.

OMFG i knew it!!! send vid for proof of life

Author’s Notes

Slacy is well on his way to Chuq, I hope.

I’m guess I’m still posting on this platform—for now. It’s becoming obvious Substack doesn’t really care about enforcing their terms of service. Freedom of speech—not freedom from consequences—unless you’re on Substack, apparently.

People are harassing women with threats, racist slurs, and bigotry,. So far, the Substack team isn’t doing anything about it other than hitting the big, red delete button. For more info, read the open letter to the substack team- a platform slowly turning into a sanctuary for online abuse.

Time for contingency plans. Stay and fight, or leave this site to the assholes?

Continue reading for Chapter 12, start at Chapter 1, or find where you left off.

Audio performance by

Last time on The Flucks

When the page refreshed, I noticed it for the first time—the notification bell was a distinctly different color. I had a DM.

I clicked it and read the message.

Slacy, sorry it took so long.

I re-read it a thousand times, along with the screen name.

Chuq

Slacy and Galileo started the next leg of their journey, but dropped everything when he got a DM from the dead. He sits with the message, figuring out where to go from here.

Chapter 12 — Emotional damage

I couldn’t believe it. I wanted to, but it was impossible. I saw Chuq die by The Flucks. Did she schedule the message to send now?

There was a video. I hit play.

Chuq was quite pretty, even in her 90s, right up until the moment she died. She took care of her skin—rarely wore makeup, always wore sunscreen.

But Chuq the younger was downright gorgeous. She had this glam rock aesthetic going on. Short, pink hair, a blue lightning bolt across her eyes—David Bowie as Ziggy Stardust if he were a lesbian.

Y’all know Bowie, right? Of course you do. Timeless.

She spoke.

“Hey, Slace, it’s been a while. Sorry it’s taken so long, I needed to find myself. I spent so many nights, alone, confused, dying—being reborn. I was lost in oblivion until, finally, I remembered who I wanted to be. I told oblivion to go fuck itself. I took control.

“I died a few more times. Some, by my own hand. But, eventually, I wound up somewhere with food, warmth, and makeup.”

She flashed a smile and did a little upper-body dance, framing her face with her hands. I could imagine the music and sparkly animated overlay.

“It’s the apocalypse. I can wear whatever I want. Be whomever I want. But I didn’t want to be alone.”

She paused and gave a million-meter stare, then looked down. When she finally looked up, she took a deep breath, then continued.

“The other people I ran into didn’t stay around long. I never ran into anyone I knew before. Some people I could barely recognize as human.

“I was in oblivion long enough to know what happens when they die. At least I wouldn’t likely have to see them again. The world is a big place, and I don’t think there are many of us left.”

Her eyes began to tear up as she looked right into the camera.

“I needed someone I could trust. I needed you, Slacy. All those years we spent caring for each other in our old age, even though we weren’t married. Even though we’d never be a couple, and I could never have feelings for you. I never cared what you had in your pants, nor you mine.”

She grinned, then used her palms to wipe away the tears. And, man, the makeup stayed; that’s some high-quality stuff—I guess—I’m not a beautician. Then, her face fell solemn, and she stared into my soul.

“But we had a platonic love, Slacy. One stronger than any chemical attraction. One stronger than any sexual desire. One that kept us together until the end.”

I paused the video. I thought I was alone. The only other person I’ve seen until now was inhuman. But to be delivered this gift—Chuq—it was too much. I cried myself to exhaustion, then slept.

⍟⍟⍟

I woke in the middle of the night, sprawled in the front car seat. Galileo booped my elbow to wake me. We walked around outside to take care of our business, her following behind me to mark her spot on top of mine.

I stared up at the stars, wondering where Chuq could be. How could I find her? Would the stars guide me? Galileo came and sat beside me, staring into the bright sky, free from light pollution.

We got back in the car, and I checked the battery to make sure the heater wasn’t using it faster than I had calculated.

I drank from my water bottle, then snapped into a Slim Jim. No, of course I didn’t give the dog any, that’s too much salt. I tossed her a dog biscuit and pressed play.

“I figured if you were alive, you’d still be writing that stupid blog.”

I burst out laughing, releasing all the tension that had built up, and missed the next part. I had to skip back 30 seconds.

“But then, I read your last words—Farewell. You were gone. I had lost you, just when I found myself again.”

Well, shit, she was going to make me cry again. She had been on a rollercoaster of emotions, that’s just like her to drag me on it with her.

She wasn’t talking to me. She was sending out a message to the void—a reply to my self-eulogy. I thought about how she must have been feeling and banged my hands on the steering wheel furiously.

Galileo raised her head, gave me a “WTF, man, I’m trying to sleep” look, and curled back up in the passenger seat. She was getting used to my rantings and ravings.

Chuq was done talking. She reached for the corner of the screen to stop the recording. The video froze on her arm, her face out of the screen.

I noticed that her arm was bare, free from the beautiful, colorful tattoos she gained over a long life. The ones that recorded the people, things, and places she loved most.

I guess The Flucks takes those too—erases you and makes you new.

I sighed and bonked my head on the steering wheel and just lay there, wondering what to do next, when movement caught the corner of my eye.

The video wasn’t over; she was just still, finger hovering over the stop button. She wasn’t done talking. She sat back, re-entered the frame, and stared back into the camera.

“Fuck this! This doesn’t feel right. I don’t know if you can have platonic soulmates, but dammit, I’m going to have one. I know you’re out there. Slacy, get your shit together and come find me.”

Author’s Notes

So begins Part 2 of The Flucks.

As I mentioned in the last Author’s Notes, I completed this chapter last October when I had only written the first 3 chapters. read and recorded it back then and we’ve been sitting on it for months.

The story was always going in this direction, but Slacy had a few detours. Clearly, he isn’t the only person left, but where is everyone?

Do you think they’ll find each other?

Next Chapter

Continue reading for Chapter 11, start at Chapter 1, or find where you left off.

Audio performance by

Guest image by

Music: Reprieve — a demo of something we’re working. Produced by , mixed by —singer and band name yet to be revealed.

Last time on The Flucks

As I pointed out other constellations I could name, the dog walked between us. He stared at the stars too. I remembered how Chuq named her cats after astronomers. This dog seemed like one.

“Hey there, Galileo.” I pet his head, the only place I knew was unmauled. He licked my palm, wagged his tail, then curled up next to Snackbot, enjoying the warmth radiating off its chassis.

Slacy, Snackbot, and Galileo prepare for leaving the warehouse. Just a few errands to attend to first and Slacy needs to update his blog.

Chapter 11 — I don’t feel so good

The Voltivian S524 was ready to go. I packed enough gear to charge, shelter, protect, feed, and hydrate. A little too much gear—Snackbot had to help me add a roof rack. I won’t break down the inventory list, just know I was loaded for bear—no offense to Snackbear.

I stepped back to admire the car, sparkling in the morning light coming in through the open rollup door. Yes, I washed it—that’s a must for any road trip. Snackbot walked up to the car and gave an appreciative whistle. Galileo trailed behind it and sat beside me, wagging her tail.

Galileo had healed nicely these past few weeks. We both had. I could now walk unassisted, and so could she. Yeah, you heard that right: she. Once I had a chance to look at her wounds more closely, I realized she had different hardware than I assumed. Chuq would give me shit for misgendering my dog if she were still alive.

The biopuck beeped three times. “Here, girl.” She came and stood beside me, fishhook tail up and ready to play. “Hold on, let’s take a look—stay.” I knelt down and investigated.

The shaved spots all over Galileo’s calico fur made her look like a patchwork quilt. To treat her deeper wounds, I had to shave away several areas. Her black saddleback was now spotted with short grayish fur. It would come back.

Her wounds were completely gone. I held my palm out to see that the biopuck said treatment was complete. I squeezed my fist to confirm detachment. The gel dissolved and the puck slid into my waiting hand.

“Nice, you’re all done.” I stood, tossed her a biscuit and she snapped it out of the air. “Good girl.”

I grabbed a ball from the workbench. “Sit.” I threw it out the rollup doorway, she stayed. “Get it!” She took off.

When we rescued her, she already knew sit and stay. Saying anything was enough to get her to run up. We’ve been working on a few more commands. She’s a fast learner and she’ll be safer in the field by following instructions.

She returned with the ball, sitting and wagging her tail. “Sorry, it’s time to work.” At this, her ears perked up and I held out my hand. “Give.” She dropped the ball. “Run along with Snackbot.”

Snackbot walked off to find a few last-minute items. Galileo darted ahead to hunt the aisles for mice. For me, it was time to clean up for this special day. I walked to the bathroom. At a sink, I looked in the mirror. My hair was shaggy, but it was growing on me.

When I first came back in a new body, I didn’t realize—you know, because of all the dying—that all my hair didn’t come back the same as it was before I died. Maybe a couple months’ growth on my head. But what they didn’t advertise in the Flucks brochure was that my facial hair reset.

Like when I was a young man, I could not grow a beard. I used to get carded all the time until I was able. I don’t think any liquor store clerk would believe my age today if I told them. I couldn’t stand this patchiness, so I shaved, thinking how maybe the dog could use a hair reset. Nah.

Outside the bathroom, Galileo sat and Snackbot stood like a silver sentinel. It held a palm under its vending chute as a canister rolled out, then passed it to me. I screwed the lid off, hearing the squeak of the loosening waterproof seal.

“This is perfect, thanks.”

🎵 All we are is dust in the wind 1 🎵

Honestly, I didn’t know most of the songs Snackbot played. They sounded like my mom’s music. But I got the sentiment.

“Let’s go, Galileo.” The three of us walked to where I first found the inventory tablet. Here still lay a pile of dust. I say pile, but that doesn’t really describe it. I could still see the outline of the person it once was, flattened into a two-dimensional, gray mockery of life.

I put on a zero-particulate mask, took the spray bottle hooked to my kilt, and misted the dust. Snackbot vended a canister and a brand new hand broom. I knelt down, gently sweeping the slightly muddy remains of tablet guy into a clean dustpan, then poured them into the canister. An object remained that the broom couldn’t push.

I picked up the ring between gloved finger and thumb, twisting it in the dim light coming in through the skylights. I tried to hold back tears as I thought about when I had to do this for Chuq. Her hip joint and pacemaker thudded into the can, scattering dust into my nostrils and eyes. This time, I gently lowered the ring into the canister, awakening none of the damp dust.

Snackbot vended me a box of tissues. I removed the gloves and silently took one.

As a label, I taped the worker’s ID badge to the side of the can. I didn’t know if anyone would come looking for them, but they deserved to be known. Snackbot put the can in its vending machine and we walked to the next pile. In total, we collected twelve canisters.

We walked to the rock where we rescued Galileo. Her sacrificial blood had long washed away in the rain. I put the canisters in a grid and Snackbot stacked rocks on them, topping it off with an unnatural pillar.

The cairn should stand out to anyone looking for these people. I never knew what to say at funerals, even though I’ve been to plenty in my long life, so I recited the names of each person starting with “Clint” and ending with “rest in peace”.

Now it was time to leave the warehouse. When we got to the car, I stopped at the driver’s door and faced Snackbot.

Snackbot couldn’t go with us. It weighed a literal metric half-ton. The weight would drain the car battery too quickly and its size would take up all the gear space. We would have to part ways, and we both knew it.

I pulled out the devslate. I had one last command to issue.

you have free will

I didn’t know if it would actually work. I didn’t know if I just kicked off Skynet. But it was the only thing I knew to do. I had already cracked the authentication on the devslate with the help of its AI and Snackbot. When I passed the devslate to Snackbot, it disappeared into the vending slot.

“So long, partner.” I held out my fist. Snackbot bumped it, pink eye dots flowing with water.

🎵 Don’t you, forget about me 2 🎵

“Okay.”

Well shit. Now my ‘So long, partner’ felt crass. I didn’t know what else to say, though. So I got in the car.

“C’mon Galileo, hop into GOATmobile.”

We drove away, leaving Snackbot to hunt snacks alone and fade into dreams.

✹✹✹

In the city, we searched the streets for other survivors—for anything. We found no one and no thing. Parking GOATmobile in front of a familiar building, I put on a dust mask. I had one more thing to do.

“Stay here, girl.” Galileo was nonplussed, but she stayed.

I walked behind the Scar Flucks counter and pulled a canister and small spray bottle out of Ash’s bag. I knelt down and started the dusting ritual, sweeping Ash’s remains into the canister. I went to the back room and found the phone I threw on the floor months ago. Ash might want that. I placed it and Ash’s fidget toy in the canister.

“Sorry, bud, I still need to borrow a few items.”

On my way out, I placed the canister with Ash’s name tag taped to it next to the coldbrew tap.

We drove to a park so I could test out the solar array. GOATmobile switched to all-wheel as we crossed into a grassy field. I unrolled the panels flat on the ground. We didn’t use much battery getting here, but I plugged it in, checking the charge speed, making sure my calculations were correct. It was late afternoon, so we wouldn’t get a full day’s charge anyway.

We’d stay here for the night and head off in the morning. To where, I didn’t know. GOATmobile’s touchscreen computer had some sort of satellite internet access, but no websites or search engines I tried worked. No VidVid. Then I thought of one I knew: my blog. I typed in the address, and it loaded. Well, hot damn.

I pondered this for a moment. Most of the big sites were hosted at huge data centers, many the size of the Shmamazon warehouse. My site was distributed, replicated to thousands of small devices across the globe. The big sites had redundancy in the sense that there were many data centers. But the data centers themselves were single points of failure. Easy targets if you were inclined to disable infrastructure. That depressing thought would have to wait.

I wanted to capture all my adventures so far. If no one else was alive, that didn’t matter, I wanted it for my own memory’s sake. I started a new post, then froze. The creation date at the top struck me. I had been at the warehouse for three months, and as far as I knew, had wandered the desert and other places for only a day or two. But the date of the post was six months from when I first died in my bed. That timeline didn’t make sense. Must have been some sort of error—time services were probably offline.

I loaded up my last post in another tab to remember where I left off.

I’m too damn old for this shit. Farewell.

I started typing, fingers stumbling over themselves on the touchscreen keyboard, AI correcting my mistakes. If you’re here and started at the beginning, you already know the story. Dying. The desert. The tundra. The jungle. The city. My last moments with Chuq. I wrote about Ash, Meat Guy, Shitmobile, and Clint. I wrote about my friend Snackbot and my new companion Galileo. I wrote until the sun went down, then kept writing. I clicked publish.

After my brain was dumped, I went to my site’s dashboard to see if everything was still there. I clicked on ‘Files’ where I had some data backed up. If it wasn’t there, I’d have to drive to my old house and hope to find my computer.

It was there. A directory. Chuq. Late in life she started making a digital journal. She thought I didn’t know, but I knew she wanted me to know. I didn’t look at it until after she died, when I read the first entry. It was still sitting there in my files.

I never thought of myself as a writer. But a friend of mine has been writing a silly blog for years—long after everyone else stopped doing that in favor of posting short videos. He showed me that anyone can write about anything.

He’s a bit scatterbrained, so if he can do it, then I can definitely do it. I’m not going to publish anything, I’ll just keep this file on my computer, hoping no one will ever find it—while secretly hoping everyone does.

Might as well start with the day I met that lovable doofus Slacy.

P.S. Don’t tell him I said lovable, doofus is fine.

—Charlotte

Doofus that I am, I started my hundredth re-reading, reliving our first days together, some forty years ago. I just wanted to be in my feels.

Galileo had curled up in the passenger seat, cozy on the seat warmer, snoozing. She must have done that while I was lost in the story.

I navigated out of the journal file and over to the dashboard, checking the view stats on my latest post out of habit. Of course it would be zero, just like when I normally posted. Now, though, there was good reason for it to stay zero.

✹✹✹

When the page refreshed, I noticed it for the first time—the notification bell was a distinctly different color. I had a DM.

I clicked it and read the message.

Slacy, sorry it took so long.

I re-read it a thousand times, along with the screen name.

Chuq

Author’s Notes

Okay, okay, put down your pitch forks. I didn’t bring back Chuq just because everyone fell in love with her in The Flucks — Chuq — Christmas Eve 2055, though I’m glad so many did. On October 6, 2025, I completed what was originally chapter 11. I announced it in a note after only writing chapters 1-3. That chapter 11 is now chapter 12 because the plot doesn’t always follow my wishes.

I started the chapter with the message above and read and recorded it. So he and I have been sitting on it for months. I’m happy to finally share it.

If you find yourself missing Snackbot, like me, you can catch up with it in The Cog.

This ends part one of The Flucks. As you can imagine, things are going to change a bit in part 2.

At the end of the audio is another surprise. A demo of a song that Jan, a singer, and I are working on. It seemed to fit. The title is Reprieve, the band name is yet to be revealed. Jan produces all the music with Logic Pro, a Yamaha keyboard, and occasional guitar. I just (poorly) mix it.

Next Chapter

Continue reading for Chapter 10, start at Chapter 1, or find where you left off.

Audio performance by

Guest image by

⚠️ Content Warning ( may contain spoilers, see footnote → 1 )

Last time on The Flucks

“Snackbot, please put my chair in the back and ride shotgun.”

It did so with a tune in its step, understanding my idiom without undue bloodshed. I didn’t expect the car to have enough room for Snackbot’s two-meter frame, but its legs shortened, disappearing who knows where, to fit perfectly in the co-pilot seat.

Once we hit the highway, I gunned it, feeling rocket acceleration under my control for the first time in decades.

Slacy’s new robot companion is more than just a snack vending machine. The pair retrofit a car and prep for long-distance travel. But a cry in the dark threatens to rip them apart.

Chapter 10 — Back in Black

“Okay, that’s done.” I closed a panel on Snackbot’s back. It sat on a packing station, legs dangling—well, as much as a 2.2-meter killer robot could dangle. I’d been using the packing station as my workbench in the Shmamazon warehouse.

Snackbot helped me move the large table (by letting me watch) to the wall of open rollup doors. I crutch-walked to face Snackbot. Natural breeze and light brushed my back. A row of silent delivery vans and Vanny were our audience.

“Let me tighten these screws, then give it another try. Hopefully this is the one.”

🎵 tick-tick-tick-tick 🎵

We’d been working on this all month. Snackbot was helping me outfit the Voltivian S524 to be road-warrior ready. I first handed Snackbot the inventory tablet when we got back from Voltivian. It somehow internalized the data, then returned the tablet. Now it could locate anything within the warehouse.

The problem was Snackbot had to climb fifty-meter-tall shelves to get to things. Climbing down with boxes in hand was a recipe for broken things. The chest cavity made wearing a backpack floppy, and while Snackbot had mounts for various attachments, we didn’t have any.

The cavity was for mounting combat power cells. The onboard power system was next level, but limited. Combat cells powered extended missions or heavy weaponry. Neither of which I had nor needed. But I did need snacks. Not just snacks, though—I needed it to carry things.

We tried duct taping a basket in the center space, but it’s surprisingly hard to root around in your own body cavity and find what you need. Cue the vending chute. I used a shapeformer to print a vending machine. Snackbot could drop anything in and recall it on demand—hypothetically. Until now, everything had jammed up the mechanism.

“Let’s give this a shot.”

I pushed a screwdriver, a snack bar, and a K-pop disc case into a slot in the top center panel where the big Snackbot-sized donut hole used to be. The slot slid shut.

“Hand me a snack, would ya?”

A bit of whirring, then Snackbot held a hand under a small sliding door as an item dropped. It unwrapped it and held it out to me.

🎵 Anything you want (You got it) Anything you need (You got it) 2 🎵

“Thanks. Neat trick—like when that guy regurgitated live goldfish.” I took a bite.

Pink dot eyes focused on me, then turned to slits.

“You know what? Forget it. I’m not sure that was a real memory.” Another bite.

🎵 wubb wubb wubb 🎵

“Alright, buddy, I think this version is a winner.” With the final bite, I tossed the wrapper in a bin, and slapped my hands across each other like it actually cleaned them.

🎵 untz untz untz 🎵

Snackbot hopped off the workbench. As it turned to walk away, I watched in fascination. Under its smooth matte silver skin, synthetic muscles rippled, bunched up, then stretched flat. Human, yet so very not.

I’d read Snackbot’s specs on the devslate. Actually unreal. Its skin was ablative, self-healing. I wanted to shoot it just to see if it deflected bullets. Maybe I’ll ask Snackbot later…

The S524 was parked inside at an open rollup door. While Snackbot was off shopping for my wishlist, I rolled to the car and continued working on modifications. Shit, where’s my screwdriver? I just had it. After an hour looking for it around the workbench, Snackbot walked up.

“Hey bud, how’s the list going?”

🎵 womp-womp 🎵

“Don’t sweat it. Take your time.”

I returned to my search. Snackbot held up a single digit. Whirring sounded, then the vending chute opened.

“Ah, there it is. Thanks, buddy.”

The sun, low on the horizon. A cool breeze came through the doors, making me put on a hoodie. Snackbot went outside to cool off. Its micro-fusion reactor built up enormous heat. Though small, in a day it could generate enough energy for a few hours of continuous work. Then Snackbot would have to rest most of the day while the battery trickle charged.

Snackbot laid on the cool concrete spreading its arms and legs for maximum surface contact. Vent ports opened and hot air rushed out, turning white in the chilled air. I imagined it took a cat nap, but I couldn’t be sure it actually slept. It would be like that for hours though, so I kept tinkering with the car.

I needed a ton of room for storage and sleep. With back seats folded flat, it had a cargo deck long enough for my height. But a mattress would take up all the gear space. So, I built a platform 30 centimeters over the deck to support a mattress above and rolls of solar panels below. I shifted back and forth between the car and shapeformer printing new parts on the workbench.

I looked up and it was dark out. I don’t remember it getting dark. I rolled outside. Snackbot was still there, blank faced, sound asleep. Do robots dream of electric snacks?

The moon, behind trees—setting. With no city light pollution, I could see so many stars. I started to identify the constellations Chuq taught me over the years when I heard a howl, low, close.

I looked out, pinpointing the howl’s location. A yelp cut through dry air, followed by growling. A whine, so high pitched, so distressed, made my heart stop.

“Hey, Snackbot.” Nothing. “Snackbot, wake up!”

Another yelp.

“Snackbot, it’s go time!” Its face remained blank, no pink eyes focused on me.

Fuck it! I rolled toward the sound. My arms, strong from constant wheelchairing, still burned, ached. I didn’t know what the wolves attacked, but I couldn’t just sit by and listen.

My wheelchair hit the curb at the end of the parking lot. I used the momentum to fling myself onto one and a half feet supported by the crutch. With eyes adapted to starlight and full moon coming through trees, I saw the pack. Five or six wolves encircling a large rock.

Atop the rock, a dog cowered, fur glistening, slick and matted. The wolves were trying to get it, but each time they stood against the rock, the dog bared its teeth, clamping its jaws ferociously. It was half the size of the wolves, but holding its own—for now.

Two wolves stepped up and snapped at its flank, one scoring a hit. The dog yelped, turned to face them, then laid back down, growling. Those were only a distraction. The largest wolf had decided to go in for the kill. It coiled, shifting weight, sensing the distance, readying a jump. The others stood still.

I plucked Sir Terry Hatchet off his crutch loop and launched him, cartwheeling head over shaft. He smacked into the wolf’s broadside with his flat head—really needed more practice throwing. The wolf yelped, but held its ground, then rotated toward me and snarled. The rest of the pack faced me as well. Oh shit!

The pack split—three loped my way. They could spare a few to hold me off while the rest went for the dog. To them, I was a contender for their meal. My turn. I raised the crutch and my other arm, making myself look bigger. That didn’t work—they still came, low and easy. I did my best to stand on one leg without putting too much pressure on the bad one.

I held the crutch in front of me, thrusting it at any wolf that got too close. They circled me, mouths slavering with long strings of saliva. The wolf Sir Terry attacked lunged at me and I swiped it with the crutch. The wolf rocked sideways from the hit, but with reactions being equal, I was knocked off balance and fell on my side with an oof as the crutch flew out of reach.

They had decided I was now on the menu. The pack closed in.

A black bear leaped over my prone body, landing between the rock and me. Wolves turned to the new threat. From the bear, a metallic growl wailed. Wait—not a bear. Snackbot—black and on all fours.

🎵 I’ve been too long, I’m glad to be back 3🎵

“Yeah, get it Snackbot!” 4

It lashed out with tentacled, chain-like arms, swatting each wolf into a roll. But they came back, circling wide, snarling, dripping. The dog yelped again. Snackbot did an impossible flip-twist to land by the rock.

🎵 I got nine lives — Cat’s eyes — Abusin’ every one of them and running wild 🎵

Snackbot’s limbs bent in all directions. It was like one of those cheap TV horror mashups. Bearsquid or Grizzlopus. Three wolves went tumbling into the woods.

🎵 Well, I’m back in black — Yes, I’m back in black 🎵

I scrabbled across the dirt and grabbed the crutch, using it to pull myself up. Snackbot recovered Sir Terry, then scooped up the dog and cradled it in fluidic hammock arms. The remaining wolves faced me. I turned and started hobbling toward the warehouse.

Snackbot ran up behind me, slamming through and scattering the wolves, then in a motion I still quite don’t understand, bent, jutted its head between my legs and lifted me onto its shoulders. I grabbed under its chin with my right arm and raised the crutch in my left, yelling out a “Let’s go!” Good thing I was wearing sweatpants today or Snackbot would need to clean the back of its neck.

When we reached the warehouse, Snackbot slid to a stop, bending down, planting my feet on to the ground, then breaking free. It placed the dog gently on the workbench. I shouted “Med aisle—rabies biopuck, now!” Snackbot, returning to all fours, took off like a greyhound.

I went to work, looking over the dog’s wounds. It whimpered.

“Easy boy, let’s take a look at you.”

His back was covered in saliva and blood. I kept a medkit under the workbench since I use power tools and I’m me. It was mostly medseal, woundflush, tweezers, and scissors—not enough for bite wound triage. I slid on gloves.

Snackbot returned, setting a biopuck on the bench, still running. It jogged to a stop just outside the door, then collapsed flat, spreading limbs like a concrete snow angel to sink its overflowing heat. Vents opened and hot vapor poured out in a mirage warble, hissing.

🎵 I’ve hit the sack5 🎵

I spread fur between the dog’s shoulder blades and pressed the biopuck onto exposed skin. Gel spread out, setting as the device drew itself tight. I held my palm like it was covered with test answers and I was sharing them with the puck. It projected vitals. A little high, as to be expected with the stress, and the patient correctly identified as canine.

I flicked my fingertips to swipe through the screens until I found pain management. I squeezed my fist to confirm. The puck beeped a warm tone. The dog sagged against my other hand as its breathing slowed. The calming effect of the puck would make the next steps easier.

I laid his head down and started palpating the wounded areas and using woundflush. A few bites could fit my pinkie tip. Most were shallow, though. I applied medseal to the deeper ones and covered all of them with secondskin. The combined matrixes would keep out infection and speed muscle and skin knitting. Tomorrow I could do a deeper cleaning, shaving, and analysis.

The dog snored. I held my palm out to check vitals again and verified rabies countermeasures were active. I didn’t know if the wolves actually had rabies, but the risk was too great. I piled some blankets in a corner and wrapped the dog up, then set down a tool tray of water.

I crutch-walked outside and laid beside Snackbot.

“You didn’t tell me you could do that.”

🎵 Oh, I’m done hidin’ now I’m shinin’ Like I’m born to be 6 🎵

We lay there, silent. Snackbot literally had a mask face, though I could see its pink eyes focused above.

“There’s Sagittarius. That’s how you can find the Milky Way, it’s right behind it.” I pointed.

🎵 bwaaahh 🎵

As I pointed out other constellations I could name, the dog walked between us. He stared at the stars too. I remembered how Chuq named her cats after astronomers 7. This dog seemed like one.

“Hey there, Galileo.” I pet his head, the only place I knew was unmauled. He licked my palm, wagged his tail, then curled up next to Snackbot, enjoying the warmth radiating off its chassis.

Author’s Notes

It’s been a while, huh? Not exactly though. We’ve spent a lot of time in the Flucksverse over the holidays. But nothing in the new year. How did that happen? Well, good news is 2 more posts are ready to go after this one so we’re back in black.

I would like to say that no dogs were harmed in this story, but as you’ve made it this far, that would obviously be a lie. Sorry. At least Slacy is handy with first aid.

Hopefully you listened to ’s stellar performance to hear him sing Snackbot’s lines. No matter what I throw at him, he nails it. Thanks to everyone who helped with song suggestions, especially .

Like doing coyote research, I had to research wolf behavior for this one. Did y’all forget about the wolves?

How was the fight scene?

Next Chapter

Chuq’s story is mostly 1 cozy, and set 40 years before the events of The Flucks. She seems like she’d enjoy cozy more than Slacy and his sardonic wit. Chuq died from catching the Flucks early, having lived a long life with Slacy’s endearing friendship. These are her memoirs.

—Ed

Chuq

Using sledgehammers and power tools with Slacy was fun. Now it was time for dinner. I loved cooking, but I wasn’t too keen on first dates. Wait, this was not a date. Stop saying that.

I still look back on this day, nearly every day, especially after losing my dear Maddie a few years ago. At least I still have Slacy.

—Charlotte

Christmas Evening 2055

My watch buzzed and projected a video of a doofus on my doorstep. “Aw man, c’mon, I’m cookin’ here.” Hubble, sitting on a stool, mrowed.

I turned the stove to a simmer, then took off my apron and returned it to its hook on my way out of the kitchen.

buzz-buzz — A video of a doofus’s finger retracting.

At my approach, the bolt slid in and I pulled open the door. “Why, hello there stranger, how are you?” Oh gawd, what am I becoming?

“Hi,” Slacy replied.

The cold front hit right after I got home. This morning’s rain quickly turned to snowing and a couple of inches had already accumulated. Now though, it was just freezing and eerily silent outside. Fucking snow.

“Come in, come, in.” Both of my hands waved to usher him in. Stop it Charlotte.

“I brought wine.” He held up a twenty-liter bucket. Shit, does he expect me to drink all that? “I wasn’t sure what varietal you liked, so I brought old world, white and red—Italy—both zero alcohol.”

He reached into the bucket, pulled out a bottle—oh, thank god—and handed it to me. I held it appraisingly in two hands cooing “Oh, wonderful, wonderful”—I am a monster—then sat it on the side table.

He was wearing a t-shirt and jeans. I looked down at my red Christmas dress and heels. Fuck me. I slipped my heels off and slid them under the side table like, sure, that’s what I always do—nothing out of the ordinary here. Slacy took the cue I didn’t give and set the bucket down, then kicked off his wet boots, too.

“Sooo, how was your day?” Don’t do it. “Get the wall taken down?” I mean it, Charlotte. “I’m sorry I didn’t stay around to clean up.” Stop your incessant babbling. “I had so much fun.” Don’t. You. Dare. I dared—I leaned down for a hug.

Why did I do this? I’m not a hugger. I don’t fucking know.

Slacy froze in place as I embraced. I think he was still digesting my verbal diarrhea. Then, he put his hands around my shoulders like a toddler being picked up. At least I wasn’t still wearing heels. He gently squeezed. It was nice. We both made sufficient mumbling noises, detangled, and I led him to the kitchen.

I put my apron back on and fired the stove back up. One of the reasons I got this place is the kitchen. A double stacked oven/flash cooker, six-burner inductive stove, and a island large enough to sleep on.

Slacy sat the bucket on a stool across from me and next to Hubble, who looked at it wondering what was in it for him. “Oh, hey there buddy,” Slacy said with a quick head pat. He pulled out the other bottle and a pecan pie and set them on the counter.

“Here, I brought a gift.” He had one more thing in his bucket of tricks.

“Oh, uh... I didn’t think we were doing presents.”

“It’s not for Christmas. I saw that you liked books and wanted to share some you might like.”

“Oh, that’s sweet.”

“It’s the tales of Agent Levitsky2 —the complete first volume.”

“First? Volume?”

“Yeah, this covers the arc where he goes from aspiring detective to—”

“Alright, alright, take it easy fella. I appreciate it.” I gestured to my growing stacks of books on the breakfast-nook table. What? Did you think those not-rooms were meant for eating breakfast?

“I’ll read it next,” I said, surprising myself by actually meaning it.

“So, you excited about tonight?”

“Hey dude, I invited you, you’re the one that invited Maddie through proxy.”

“Uh huh, you see, I was talking about me. Are you excited about me? And there you go, talking about Maddie.” Do I even have to say it? Yes, he grinned. There.

“Fair. You jerk.” I threw raw greenbean at him, then tossed one to Hubble who I missed and gave me the are you kidding me? look.

Slacy helped when I asked, fetching items from the pantry, pulling dishes out of the oven, and setting the table. Once all the dinner was out, he put the oven on warm and slid in the pecan pie.

buzz-buzz — A video of a woman in a parka, retracting a finger.

“Hold on.” My hand held up a digit interrupting Slacy, and I ran to the door. My bare feet didn’t slide on the tile, thankfully. Check in the mirror. Fluff fluff. Looks good. Looks good. I yanked open the door. “You’re here!”

“Hey!” Maddie smiled up at me and my pulse quickened even more. Keep it together Charlotte—you got this.

My hands ushered her in, all cool and calm like. Shut up, yes they did. I took her parka and turned to hang it on a hook. When I turned back around, my heart stopped.

Her dark hair fanned out on to her shoulders, silver streaks like water trickling down a mountainside. Her green dress and matching heels made me no longer feel like an overdressed idiot.

A stupid grin broke out on my face. Admiring her gown, I realized I was staring, then looked down at mine, just now noticing that I still had on the apron. Fuck my life.

“Oh, I like your tattoos,” Maddie said, saving me from misery, gesturing at my partial sleeves. “I didn’t see them under your jacket yesterday.”

My right forearm was coming along nicely, mostly filled in. My left forearm only had one, still sealed under secondskin from a cover-up job. But, since she was also a tattooed individual, she would understand.

Now came the awkward part where someone with tattoos compliments you, and you’re obligated to return the compliment. Instead, I leaned down to hug her. I’ve known Slacy for like five whole minutes and hugged him so why not hug someone I’ve known two whole minutes. Sure. Why not. I guess. I’m a hugger now.

Pulling back, I looked at her tattoos—the intricate artwork, the swirls on her chest winding to her shoulders, then found myself swept up in the current, trapped in the eddies of her collar bone, and whispering “I like yours too.” My eyes crawled up her neck and met her twinkling gaze.

“Hiya Maddie!” Slacy had popped around the corner. “What’s shaking?” That asshole. Thank you!

“This way.” I turned and my hand tried to pitch a baseball a few times.

Hubble had long vacated the main spaces—too many people for him. Slacy had finished putting the dishes on the table. He fist-bumped Maddie, then we all sat down. The table was round so I didn’t have to decide who to sit next to.

“I didn’t know what you guys would want, so I looked up a few regional recipes.” The chef has to set the mood. My hand pointed at each dish. “Honey ham, greenbean casserole, sweetpotato casserole, macaroni casserole—a lot of casseroles, really, I guess.” Great job chef.

Slacy started scooping. Maddie and I scooped whatever was in front of us, then passed the bowl.

“Sooo, Maddie, how was your day?” No, not this again.

“Oh, it was nice. There were a few trees still left on the lot. I had to take them down to be chipped. Other than that, just tidying up and looking forward to dinner.” She was looking forward!

“Nice,” I replied, with a broad smile. Why am I so bad at this?

The Taylor Swift Holiday Collection was playing in the background. Yes. No, my music isn’t outdated.

After a few rounds of small talk, I noticed I didn’t have any sweetpotato casserole yet.

“Slacy, can you pass the sweetpotatoes?” I asked, at the same time Maddie asked “Slacy, can you pass the greenbeans?”

My hands pointed, as if he was incapable of finding one of five items on the table. He looked like he was in his own headspace, his blank stare mode, but not eating.

“Slacy, the sweetpotatoes?” My hands gestured again.

“Stop holding my attention hostage!” he yelled, arms waving frantically. The table went silent. He was staring directly ahead, blank.

“Slacy, are you alright?” I said tentatively.

He got up from the table, grabbing his phone, and stormed off to the bathroom. I looked at Maddie, seeing my confusion reflected. She mouthed “What the fuck?” I shrugged and my stupid hands showed her the size of the fish I caught.

“Should we?” Maddie started.

“Let’s give him a minute.”

We ate in awkward silence. Great first date Charlotte. My mind was on Slacy. My sister had Autism. I don’t know if he had it, but he was showing some of the signs I was familiar with.

buzz-buzz — Slacy, sending me a text. I projected my watch and a wall of text exploded onto the table in front of me. All mostly grammatically correct and punctuated.

Sorry. I am so sorry. I ruined your dinner. This happens sometimes, and I don't know why. Well, maybe I do know what my symptoms are. If I don't eat or sleep, I get overwhelmed.

Charlotte, I got overwhelmed. I am sorry. I didn't sleep last night. I was so excited to see you this morning and I didn't want to be asleep when you showed up.

I didn't eat anything after breakfast. I was saving room for dinner. You told me you could cook and it sounded like it would be amazing. So I didn't eat. I'm really sorry. I'll go home now.

I swiped my free hand in the air to quickly type back.

no you will not stay right there mister!

Uh, that was probably not very polite or helpful.

I mean, don't stay there. Stay here. With us.

His reply was slow in coming.

But I ruined dinner.

No you didn't. Get some food in you, you'll feel better. I —it sent before I could finish. Three dots bounced up and down indicating Slacy was typing a message. Up and down. Up and down. C’mon guy.

Maybe.

I finished my message. I want you here.

Okay.

“Slacy is coming back. He’s going to need time to eat and recover. He’s probably got low blood sugar and is over-stimulated.” I blurted to Maddie before he got back.

She nodded. My hand reached across the table and settled on top of hers, then I mouthed ‘Thank you.’ Sometimes these hands know what they’re doing.

Slacy sat back down, drank a whole glass of tea in one gulp, then began eating huge mouth-fulls. Maddie and I watched in amazement at first, then our eyes drifted towards each other. We all ate in silence and I tried my best not to grin at her with my mouth full.

When we were all done, Maddie got up and started clearing dishes while I went to get dessert ready. Slacy was sitting there with his blank stare.

Maddie sat back down in the dining room while I worked at the counter, and shouted “Who wants pee-can pie?” Slacy snickered.

Maddie called back with a smile in her words, “I’ll have some.”

“Slacy, pee-can pie?” I shouted again. Maddie giggled.

I walked back to the dining room, my hand still holding the pie knife and waving it around as I talked. “What’s going on? Slacy, you brought the pee-can pie, do you not want any?”

Maddie and Slacy made eye contact and burst out laughing, both saying “She said ‘pee-can’”. I just stood there. “What?” They kept laughing. I shook my head and walked back into the kitchen.

I made three bowls of pie with vanilla ice cream. My hands carried all three bowls in one trip, remembering the days I was a restaurant server. I dished them out and said “Here’s your pee-can pie.”

At once, Maddie and Slacy yelled “It’s puh-cahn!” and fell back into giggles. “Traitors,” I muttered.

After that session of poke fun at Charlotte, conversation came easy. Slacy poured us all some more red wine and every old person’s favorite game broke out.

“I remember when elevators had buttons,” said Maddie.

“I remember when phones had ports to plug things into,” said Slacy.

“I remember when people weren’t assholes about pronunciation,” said I. Maddie mid-sip snorted and Slacy guffawed. “Guys, remember there’s no alcohol in this wine.” Bunch of clowns.

Slacy jumped out of his seat and to the window. “It’s snowing!”

“Um. It’s been snowing all day pal.”

He ignored my observation and ran to the door, putting his boots back on. “Let’s go!”

“No way dude, I hate snow!”

“You’re just doing it wrong.” This fucking guy.

“I’m pretty sure you can’t do ‘snow’ wrong,” said the girl who’s never really seen snow in California.

Maddie walked up behind me and put her parka over my shoulders. Her lips brushed my ear, and she whispered “You kids go have fun.”

Now that I was warm all over and had a woman to woo, I said “Fuck it, let’s do this!” I put my rubber boots on and ran outside like a god-damned moron in a Hallmark movie.

Before I even got off the porch, a snowball hit me in the boob. “Oh no you didn’t!” I scooped up snow and threw it. It flew out in a cloud, hitting nothing but the ground. Shit!

“You’ve got to pack it tighter!” Slacy shouted and threw another one at my head while I was bent over gathering more snow.

I stood up, tight ball in my fist, and yelled “That’s what she said!” as I threw the ball, finally hitting him in the shoulder.

He threw another one square in my face. I screamed “No!” and ran after him. He took off in the other direction. I used my superior speed to go in for a tackle, and we hit the ground. You’re going to feel that one tomorrow Charlotte.

We lay on the ground and Slacy started flapping his arms and spreading his legs in the snow making snow angels. This guy is a fucking child. I started making my own snow angel.

Giggling, I looked up as a part in the clouds revealed a moonless sky. We both lay there, just staring.

“That’s Orion,” my hand pointed. “See the three bright stars in a row, that’s his belt.”

“Yeah?” he rolled over to look down my arm to spot it. “Oh, yeah. Cool.”

“Hey, Slace?”

“Yes, Chuck?”

“That’s just another Boomer name!”

“Ok, sure, we need to change a letter or two to make it a proper zoomer name.”

“You mean like your parents did?”

“I resent that hurtful accusation. What’s your favorite letter?”

“Q”

At the same time we both shouted “Chuq!” and giggled.

“Okay, let’s try again,” he said.

“Hey, Slace?”

“Yes, Chuq?”

“Are you neurodivergent?”

“Don’t you need a diagnosis for that?”

“You ass, be serious.” I punched him in the rib earning a satisfying oof.

“I dunno, maybe. I’ve always been different.”

“I see that. I like it, and you should talk to a therapist about it.”

“I will.”

I turned my head to look at him, his eyes were fixed on the sky. I could see the gears turning in his mind through the tiny portals to his soul. I knew he would.

“What do you think of Maddie?” I asked.

He turned his head to face me. “I think you like her, and that’s what matters. Right?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Will you go for it?”

“Definitely.”

“Awesome.”

He raised his forearm, pivoting it on his elbow. I did the same and we bumped fists.

“Okay, I think that’s my cue,” he said, getting up then lending me a hand.

“Great, because my ankles are getting cold.”

“Show Maddie some bare ankle, that will really get her going.” he said, wagging two eyebrows.

I gave him a light shove.

“Goodnight, Chuq,” he said with his big stupid grin.

“Goodnight, Slace,” I said with mine.

When I went back inside and took off the parka, I ran into Maddie in the hallway. She gestured upward with her eyes. Oh yeah, the mistletoe, when did my cursed hands put it up there?

“This town is full of clichés,” I tell her.

She looked up to me. “You get used to it.”

Her lips part in invitation. I take it and lean down... but that’s another story.

Author’s Notes

Alright, this one was fun, but also tough to write. Did anyone have middle-aged AuADHD diagnosis on their Flucks bingo card? No? Me neither.

When I started dreaming up the Flucks Christmas, I had the simple idea of doing it through Chuq’s point of view and setting it in the past. Because, hey, Christmas alone in a warehouse is not very cozy.

Chuq started out as just someone for Slacy to care about and see die from the Flucks before his eyes. She was really just a plot device, but through writing this it allowed me to care more about Chuq and develop her as a character. I think it now shows why Slacy adores Chuq so much. Maybe you can feel why he is sort of lost without her.

I learned more about her through this writing process. Because who the hell am I to write from a woman and lesbian’s perspective. But I hope I hit all the right marks and created a character that seems like a whole person, not just a plot device.

I kind of thought when I was originally writing it, that Chuq’s voice was too young. Chuq seemed like a twenty-something year old person and not the right voice for someone who’s supposed to be in her late forties.

But, then I realized, hey, I’m in my middle forties, and I still feel like a young adult. My knees might creak a little more, but I still like running around and knocking down walls and doing all sorts of other silly things.

I presume that in 30 years we’ll have better healthcare for everyone, so that the older people can have more productive lives for longer. So, after all, it didn’t really seem like a stretch. And it allowed me to kind of relive some of my memories of what it was like doing shenanigans when I was younger. So, I think this is probably the exact right voice and tone.

I still feel like a young adult, just a young adult with bills and obligations. Even if we’re old of body, we’re always young of mind and young of heart.

Maybe that’s the message of The Flucks.

And with that note, I leave you with this.

Merry Flucking Christmas to all and to all a good night.

Chuq’s story is mostly 1 cozy, and set 40 years before the events of The Flucks. She seems like she’d enjoy cozy more than Slacy and his sardonic wit. Chuq died from catching the Flucks early, having lived a long life with Slacy’s endearing friendship. These are her memoirs.

—Ed

Chuq

I met this doofus at the coffee shop, which led to meeting this beautiful girl at the tree lot, which led to me inviting them both to Christmas dinner. What the hell was I thinking?

Looking at this years later, I didn’t realize how much I was holding back. Then me and the big doofus started breaking down barriers.

—Charlotte

Christmas Morning 2055

I knocked on the door. The great part about small towns is that Slacy’s house was in walking distance—I didn’t lose my breath or anything. The sun wasn’t quite up yet, but the smell of water in the air told me this would be a dreary day.

Wearing a red checked flannel shirt and jeans, I waited on the porch, jacket draped over my arms. What can I say? I had to ape Maddie’s fit. The delivery drone dropped it off just in time this morning.

The porch’s vinyl siding was yellowing and dead vines fractaled their way under and over them. Honestly, this isn’t the small town ancient homes vibe I was promised.

Where is this guy? I knocked again. Was that... uh... a power tool? I banged on the door. Oh man, this dude is making me late—he said 7:00 sharp.

I told my watch to send I'm here. The whirring-buzzing stopped. The door was yanked open.

“You’re here!” he yelled, wearing, I kid you not, a full one-piece coverall, “Slacy” embroidered on his left breast.

“Yep, that’s what I said.”

“What?” he screamed.

“Nothing. Good morning!”

“What?” he god-damned screamed again.

This fucking guy. My hands frantically waved around my ears and gestured words vomiting out my mouth.

“Oh, right.” He tapped something on his watch. “Sorry, these new earwigs cancel out everything. Couldn’t hear a thing but my music. You’ve got to protect your ears, you know? I’ve got spares for—”

“Woah, woah, slow down dude.” My hands were trying to calm a rearing horse. “I thought you said you weren’t a morning person.”

“Morning? Oh, yeah, I didn’t go to sleep.”

Oh brother. “That’s not good my man.”

“Oh, no, it’s fine—I’ve got a coldbrew tap in the kitchen.”

“Your mom had a coldbrew tap?”

“Nooo, of course not. That’s the first thing I installed.”

“You?—” If I didn’t change the subject, we’d be here all day. “You going to invite me in?”

“Oh yeah, come on.” He swiftly turned around and walked out of sight before I could take my first step. Shutting the door behind me, I entered the hallway. I assumed since we were doing demolition I should leave on my leather lumberjack-fit boots. What, they were on sale with free overnight drone delivery?

The hallway was rather basic-white-mom. White sheetrock walls, white wainscoting, pictures in gold frames every five centimeters.

I looked at the pictures recognizing that sardonic grin on a boy standing in front of science projects, boy in blue uniform looking like some mini AirForce officer, boy holding up drones, and boy in various poses wearing medals.

Geez this guy has done more as a kid than I have done in forty-something years. No diplomas or academic awards, though. At the end of the hall, a picture of a teenager in front of a prop plane, holding up a... pilots license? “Now, come the fuck on, really?”

“What?” he said from around the corner. A hardhat and goggled eyes slid from the edge of the wall. “This way!”

I followed him, parting draped plastic to enter a room that was in complete disarray. The carpet was gone, revealing plywood floors covered in sheetrock dust. Frosty plastic covered more openings and dimmed the feeble rising sunlight coming through the windows. In the center stood a foldout table covered in gear.

“Okay, so you’ll need this—”, he passed me goggles that I slipped on, “—and this—”, a hardhat, “—these but, don’t put them on yet—”, work gloves. I took them and put on the hardhat—it was too small.

He looked at me grinning. It’s like this guy has two modes: grinning or blank stare. “The button on the back will adjust it.”

I pushed the button and the hardhat slid down and snugged fit. He stood there, holding his palm out, offering two small, green caterpillars. “And these, too.”

“Um. No thanks, I ate already.”

“What? No. You put them in your ears.”

“No the hell I do not!”

He definitely rolled eyes that time. “They’re just earwigs.”

“And that’s supposed to somehow make me feel better about it?”

“They’re not actual insects. Tap them twice to your watch and they’ll pair. Put them by your ears, and they’ll crawl in, making a perfect fit.”

“Your mom will crawl in and make a perfect fit! I’m not touching those things.”

He continued to hold his hand out, staring. Then, continued to stare.

“Uhggg fine!” I palmed the grubby worms, paired them, then put one by my ear, bracing for impact. I took a breath and touched it to the ear, wincing. Nothing happened, so I pushed it into the opening of my ear canal.

It started moving, writhing its way into my ear. The scraping sound was wet and gloppy, like water beads sloshing in an ASMR vid. That didn’t kill me, so I put the other one in the other ear. It wiggled its way in, coming to a stop with a squelch. Then, nothing.

Absolute silence. The sudden sensory deprivation made my eyes go wide. My heart raced. My breathing picked up. With no sounds to occupy it, my mind fabricated noise to fill the void.

⍟⍟⍟

A whine began, then crescendoed. Ringing echoed throughout my skull. Giggling backgrounded, and bassy warbling rattled my teeth. Chu-chunk. Chu-chunk. Chu-chunk.

⍟⍟⍟

Slacy grabbed my wrist without warning, twisted it, and tapped something on my watch. White noise, then the sound of his voice, flooded in.

“It’s alright, it’s alright, Charlotte,” he soothed. He took in a deep breath, still gently holding my wrist that was palm open and rigid, then breathed out. He did it again, this time I mimicked. “In” wiish, “Out” woosh. “In” wiish, “Out” woosh.

I stared at his eyes, his intense focus frightening, but still somehow calming. He noticed my return to this reality and spoke. “Sorry, I should have warned you about that or put some music on or something.” He tapped a few times and Zoë Keating’s cello warmed my soul.

🎼🎼🎼🎼 🎼🎼 🎼🎼 🎼 🎼 🎼 🎼🎼🎼🎼

〜〜〜

My wrist free, I punched his arm. “Dude, what the fuck?”

“Ow!” He rubbed his arm. “My bad—it’s quite disorientating your first time. Let’s leave it so you can hear me, but not eardrum-busting sounds.”

“Okay, I’m good.” I punched his other arm. “I mean, now I’m good, what’s next?”

“Now, we do the most important task—” His stupid smirk was back. “—choosing the right tool.” 2

He waved his hand over the table like he was revealing a magic trick. “The mini-sledge is light, but packs a mean punch. The ten-pound sledgehammer is heavy, but—”

“Hey my guy, does this info-train have a caboose?”

He blinked.

“Just give me the sledgehammer, dude.” I put on my gloves.

“But—”

“Give.” I held out my hand.

He shrugged, picked up the hammer by its neck, one hand just under the head, and held it out. Like he was Thor, and I was accepting Mjölnir. It crackled with electricity. No... but it did in my head, so shut up.

I grabbed it with one hand and lifted. Nope. I grabbed it with two hands and lifted. There was a big taped “X” on the wall. This was going to be so fucking awesome.

Wait, my grip is in the wrong place. I slid one hand down to the end and the other to the middle. I’m taller than the boys, I’m taller than Slacy, I’m a big girl—I got this.

I swung at the “X”, crashing, sheetrock flying everywhere— “Fuck yeah!” —continuing through, off balance, momentum pulling me by the hammerhead, falling into the wall, head poking into a different room, seeing a bed covered in shards of sheetrock and dust. “Aw, fuck!”

I extracted myself from the wall, sheepish grin plastered stupidly on my face.

“And that’s why we wear the hardhat,” Slacy said with two knocks on his own.

“Right. Got any power tools?”

He grinned and held out something pointy, sharp, and with a button. “Sawzall?”

I dropped the sledgehammer head first onto the plywood floor with a thud, the handle reverberating with a hollow clank shortly after. “Gimmie!”

I contemplated the wall, deciding how best to attack, and spied a power receptacle. “Um, what happens if I hit a wire?”

He grinned. “That’s why we shut off the power.” His grin faded. “I think.” He darted out of sight, a few seconds later the overhead light shut off, leaving only diffuse sunlight. “Now?” he yelled.

“Huh? Oh. Yeah!”

He came in, some wand thing beeped in his hand. He waved it around the outlet like he was casting a spell, then roved across the wall like he was looking for water with a dowsing rod. “We’re good.”

“Wait, you didn’t cut off the power before I swung that sledgehammer? You could have killed me!” I pointed the saw thing at him and pulled the trigger.

He held up a finger. “Now now, safety first.”

I’m going to strangle him. There’s already a table and clear plastic everywhere to keep the mess contained. This saw can surely cut through bone.

“I killed a guy once, you know?” 3

“Haha. Very funny. You going to cut the wall or what?”

I huffed out a breath and turned to the wall and started cutting. It vibrated the shit out of my arm but sliced through the sheetrock, studs, wires, probably some stashed rebel gold.

The whole wall was still intact, save for the thin box I drew with the saw. I kicked right in the center with my kick-ass lumberjack boots. The wall segment creaked, then fell, revealing the bedroom I scoped out earlier.

“Fuck!” Coughing, I waved my free hand in the air. “You forgot the dust masks.”

That reminded me that this guy forgets everything. “Wait, is the roof going to fall?”

“Now that—that I checked,” he said solemnly. “It’s load bearing, has a twelve-inch header.”

“30.5 centimeter header” I corrected.

“Right, right. I’m still not used to that. Breakfast?”

⍟⍟⍟

The kitchen was actually pretty nice. Marble counters, blue cabinets that reminded me of that whole farmhouse aesthetic from the 20’s. A few of the cabinet doors were missing and there was no tile yet. About 80% complete.

Oh, right, I mean 2020. Boomers keep telling me they don’t understand when I say that. Get with the century grandpa. The smell of brewing coffee and the splurting sound of it finishing brought me back to the 50s.

Slacy passed me a warm mug of coffee and got fresh eggs from the rack on the back counter. He started scrambling them.

“Oh, do you cook?” I loved cooking. I had the whole meal planned for this afternoon. Most everything waited in the fridge or oven since I prepped them last night. As soon as I had the idea for the dinner and my menu chosen, I placed an order and the drone dropped them off with plenty of time to dice—

“I can cook eggs. That’s about it.”

“Oh, that’s nice.” Well, that’s a point off his best-friend-material tally.

“So, looking forward to seeing Maddie tonight?”

Where the fuck did that come from? “Oh, yeah... sure.”

“Your mouth says ‘sure’, but your eyes say ‘come to momma’.”

“Why are you like this?”

He shrugged. “It’s a gift.”

I grinned. Fuck, it’s contagious. “Uh huh.”

Okay, two points for Slaceindor. Ah, shit, thirty years and I still can’t shake that TERF.

“Do you need me to bring anything?”

“No. A drone delivered groceries last night and I prepped most of the dishes. The ham won’t take long in the flash cooker. Besides, I don’t like people in my kitchen when I’m cooking.”

“Ok, sure. I get it, your space and your work is important.”

Oh my, I might platonigasm. Instead, I said “Mmhmm.”

“I’ll bring the wine and a pecan pie. I can come early to help you assemble it. I’m at least capable of that.”

“You have a pecan pie here already, just for yourself?”

“Yes. Jealous?”

“Actually, yes.”

We ate the eggs and sipped coffee on the porch. The rain had started. I was freezing my ass off out there, but Slacy didn’t seem to mind the weather. The eggs had a cajun seasoning, which was an unexpected combination for me, but tasted yummy nonetheless.

“That was fun today. Thanks, I needed that,” I told him.

“Okay,” he replied. Sheesh man, stoic much?

“Alright, I’m going to head home and shower. I’ll start cooking in three hours. See you then?”

“Absolutely.” He grinned.

Author’s Notes

Okay, Chuq was having too much fun with Slacy. So, now this is a three-parter.

This was meant to be a single Christmas special chapter. 2,600 4,600 words later, a part two three was needed. Expect that tomorrow (right after I actually write it).

I actually like this darkness under the surface writing. Some body horror snuck in, but I think that makes the rest extra cozy.

Continue to Part 3.

Part 3 →

—Ed

Chuq

I never thought of myself as a writer. But a friend of mine has been writing a silly blog for years—long after everyone else stopped doing that in favor of posting short videos. He showed me that anyone can write about anything.

He’s a bit scatterbrained, so if he can do it, then I can definitely do it. I’m not going to publish anything, I’ll just keep this file on my computer, hoping no one will ever find it—while secretly hoping everyone does.

Might as well start with the day I met that lovable doofus Slacy.

P.S. Don’t tell him I said lovable, doofus is fine.

—Charlotte

Christmas Eve 2055

I was curled up in my chair, a velvety blanket on my lap, reading a book while sitting by the fire. I set my book down and took a sip of my tea, enjoying it while it was still at the perfect temperature. The cat jumped into my lap, snuggling into the blanket to make some biscuits.

“I’m trying to read, Hubble.”

He gave me that look of You look like you’re drinking tea to me, your other hand is free.

He was right, of course, so I pet him on his back, which made him raise his tail-less butt in the air, then fall over into my lap. He started attacking my hand with nibbles.

“Alright, I’m really trying to read.”

He nibbled again, so I frantically scratched his belly, my hand making quick back-and-forth swipes. He jumped onto the floor, twirled around, and walked backward-sideways, never taking his eyes off me. I was too cozy in my chair to get up and play, so I pulled off my slipper and threw it at him. He attacked it ferociously.

“Grr, get it!”

He got it. So I went back to reading. But, no matter how much I tried, I could no longer focus on the page. Maybe I should go out, get some fresh air. Except that fresh air would bite at my exposed face, gnawing its way into my bones.

Maybe some poetry would help. What is warm and cozy? The Sun!

〜〜〜

Your light warms,
fills with life,
brightens me

Then spreading thinner,
no longer sustaining us,
collapses under your own brilliance

I swirl around your destructive path,
forever moving forward,
yet never ahead

Wind in mylar sails,
now rusted anchor,
pulling me deeper

You give nothing, 
but cold embrace,
I can’t escape

〜〜〜

Keep it cozy Charlotte, keep it cozy.

“Alright, I’m going out!” Hubble did not give the appreciation my announcement deserved. I tossed the book in my satchel.

Putting on some presentable clothes, then my coat, I went for a walk. A blue sky greeted me, having cleared the clouds away, and leaving crisp air in its place. The warm sun on my skin almost made up for the slight chill.

I forgot about the warm front that had pushed through. Today, we got a reprieve, but once the arctic air catches up tonight, we’ll be paying for it with torrential rain, followed by a frozen week and potentially snow. I hate snow.

Christmas trees were too messy—especially with a cat. But I loved the smell. A walk down to the cafe by the tree lot should lift my spirits. With a day like this, I can sit outside with my book, a hot cup of green tea, and the scent of pine needles on the breeze.

Main street looked like some Hallmark Christmas movie. Even though that channel is no more, the streams keep pushing old movies like The Christmas Contract 2. Fucking Luke Winter. Holly should have ended up with Noelle. I crushed on her so hard when I was a teenager. Crazy what happened to the author 3, though.

“Why, hello, Miss Charlotte,” the café owner greeted.

“Good morning, Mrs. Shaw, and it’s just ‘Charlotte’,” I replied, like always. She insisted I call her ‘Mrs. Shaw’, no matter what I insisted she call me. The faded progress flag in the shop’s window told me she was just old-fashioned, not hostile.

“Yes ma’am, you’ll be having your tea I assume?”

Fuck my life. Why did I move to this cliché town? Oh, right, cozy clichés. “Yes please.”

I took a seat on the patio. The metal seats grated my behind, but I was here for the atmosphere. This place was really happening—ten tables, twenty chairs, two customers.

I checked out the other patron. A middle-aged guy, clean-shaven, average height, I guess—hard to tell because he sat in the same type of torture device I did. He looked like he probably worked out, but was past the age where that showed easily.

He was ignoring the book and coffee in front of him. Really, not much stood out, probably not a creep. Just a guy reaching a hand under the table, moving vigorously—the-fuck?

I looked under his table to see a scruffy dog. What kind? I don’t know, I don’t know dogs, but it was adorable. He was petting the dog in what seemed only to be out of instinct, because his attention was elsewhere. Since I got here a month ago, I’ve walked here every other day, and I haven’t seen this guy.

My tea arrived. “Thanks, Mrs. Shaw.”

I took a sip and opened my book. Dammit, where’s my bookmark. I flipped through, trying to remember what page I was on, reading a few top sentences before I realized I’d never find my place again. Whatever, it wasn’t very good anyway.

My eyes drifted back to the man, his eyes still focusing elsewhere. I grabbed my tea and got up, leaving the book for some other hapless victim. I sat at the table right behind him, peering over his shoulder, trying to figure out what he was looking at, when I spotted his target.

“She’s hot.”

He startled, but didn’t look back. “What? I wasn’t—”

“You should go say ‘hi’.” If he didn’t, I would.

“No, it’s not like that.”

“What is it like then?”

“I think—I think I know her.”

“Uh huh, that’s what all stalkers say.”

At that, he turned his head towards me while simultaneously moving his shoulders away from me. He stared. Then continued to stare. Shit, I think I broke him.

“Use your words,” I prompted. I think he wanted to roll eyes, but maybe he had more—couth? patience?—than me.

“Uh. I mean, I went to school with her. It was thirty-something years ago, so I can’t be sure.”

“Thirty-something? Do you not know when you went to school?”

“Sure, it’s on the calendar, let me get my phone—”

“No no. That’s quite alright. Why don’t you go ask her? She probably knows.”

“I’m just curious. I don’t really want to talk to her.”

“C’mon, I’ll go with you. I can be your wing-woman.”

“No, thanks. Like I said, it’s not like that. I’m not interested. Just trying to reconcile memory with reality.”

Oh, brother. Is this guy from Mars? He’s about the right age for an astronaut. “You should say ‘hi’ anyway. Maybe that will jog your memory.”

“I wouldn’t know what to say.”

“How about ‘hi, I’m your-name-here.’ Besides, you have a dog, the ultimate ice-breaker.”

“I’m not going to break ice like some sort of meet-cute, I’m really not interested. Besides, my name isn’t your-name-here, it’s Slacy.”

Is he really that dense? He was staring directly at me, barely a lift in the corner of his lip. Oh, he got me.

“You ass,” I laughed. His chuckle was obnoxious, but I got the feeling it would grow on me.

I offered my fist. “Hi Slacy, I’m Charlotte.”

He bumped it. “That’s a nice name, but it seems a little—”

“Boomerish? Yeah. Also, we just met, and you’re going straight for the jugular.”

“You accused me of stalking.”

“Oh, right. Well, let’s get to the stalking then, c’mon.”

This time, he got up and his dog dutifully followed. We walked over to the woman sorting out Christmas trees.

She had dark, silver-streaked hair that was clearly long, but braided tight like a horse rider to avoid tangling with twigs. It only helped a little because she had pine needles all in her hair and sap all over her red checkered shirt and leather gloves.

I kid you not, these small towns have a secret rulebook they must follow. But, still... it was working for me.

“Mornin’, what can I do for you?” she asked.

“Hello. We’re not here for a tree, but I wanted to introduce you to my friend.”

At that, Slacy froze. I think he was taking ice-breaking too literally.

“Oh, Slacy, I already know him. We went to high school together.”

I looked at Slacy for confirmation, but I think he needed a few more seconds to thaw.

“Of course, I thought so. What was he like then?”

“A bit like this, honestly. He didn’t talk to me much. We were in different circles, I guess. But I knew he was cool with the queer bunch—I think we were too loud for him.”

“No, not too loud. I was just focused on engineering then.” Slacy, warming up, then smirking. “You were a bit loud though... Mable?”

“Come the fuck on now, Mable? Jesus. Maddie. I’m Maddie.”

“Sorry, yes, Maddie. I’m surprised I got ‘Ma’ right. I’m not great matching names to faces.” Slacy’s own face was beet red.

Maddie’s face twisted in confusion—so fucking adorable. “We didn’t have engineering courses in high school.”

Slacy just shrugged.

“Aw, this is so cute, friends catching up.” Jazz hands framed my face. I don’t know why, they have a mind of their own.

Slacy looked at my performance, then grinned. “Maddie? This is Charlotte. She thinks you’re hot.”

“Oh, now he can talk.” It was my turn to blush. I looked down at her shoulders, broad and firm. Surely not just from tree hauling—maybe she spends a lot of time in the gym. Looking back up, I found my voice. “And, yes, he’s right. Want to get some coffee sometime?”

Maddie smiled and I swear I heard a chorus. She removed one glove and proffered a fist. “I’d like that.”

I bumped it with my left hand and our watches chimed. “Cooowool.” What the fuck was that? “I’ll, uh, text you later.”

Slacy had stepped away and was kneeling down, petting his dog. He must have sensed the conversation was over, but didn’t want to leave without saying anything.

I walked over. “What’s his name?”

“Did you just misgender my dog?” he said, with that smirk I was learning made me want to punch his arm. This fucking guy. “It’s Taylor.”

“Um. You named your dog Taylor, a human name? And how the hell am I supposed to know what gender it is based on this information?” I don’t know why I was giving him shit, my cat was named after a human astronomer.

“Context clues. Why should I not give her a human name? She’s got feelings too.” Her tail wagged.

“Right. Okay. Do you want a sandwich?”

He looked dubious. “A knuckle sandwich?”

“Something a little less violent, c’mon.”

We went to Frank’s for a hoagie. Yes. Frank’s. There was no outdoor seating, so we crammed into curved Formica booths that were too close together. Our legs got intertwined, and we had no choice but to go with it. Taylor lay on the ground beside Slacy. Frank didn’t seem to mind.

“Are you from here?” I opened.

“Sort of. Not anymore.” Slacy replied.

“Going to need a bit more than that.”

“My mom died.”

Shit. That’s what I get for snark. “Oh, uh, I’m sorry.”

“No worries. Sorry, it’s not recent—but still not easy to talk about.”

“Yeah, I understand.”

“You do?”

“Oh, no, not really. That’s just a thing people say. I hated my parents. They might be dead. I wouldn’t know.”

“Oh.”

He sat there for a bit, I think he didn’t know how to proceed. I would have to get this conversation train back on track alone. “So, what does your... mom—have to do with your belonging here or lack thereof?”

“Oh, right. I’m here for a while. Fixing up her house so I can sell it.”

“Ah. Here to oversee the work?”

“No, they’ll just fuck it up. I’m doing most of the work.” He popped open a bag of kettle chips and started crunching, then tilted the open end towards me, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, so you’re a contractor?” I said while digging into the bag for a chip.

He swallowed, wiped his hands with a napkin, took a swig of water, then replied. “I did some construction work in my twenties. Then I watched a bunch of vids. I’ll figure it out.” He waved his hand like he was swatting a fly away.

“Um. Sure. Sounds fun.”

“How about you? You’re clearly not from around here.”

“That obvious? I wanted a break from city life.”

“All right then, keep your secrets.” He grinned.

I couldn’t help it, I grinned back at the reference. But he was on to me. Time for deflection. “How long are you here then?”

“Until it’s done, I guess.”

“No job?”

“Nothing that needs my undivided attention.”

“Is that something you possess?”

“Sorry, what were we talking about?”

If he keeps this up, I’ll have to ask him over for dinner. No, not a date, ew—just ew.

“Any plans for Christmas?”

“I don’t really celebrate. I’ve got some walls to knock down.”

“That sounds fun!”

“It is,” he tilted his head. “You want to try it?”

“I—uh—um.” This guy had me stammering twice in one day. Pull it together Charlotte.

“It’s perfectly safe, I have gloves, goggles, hardhat. All IOSHA compliant. I’m sure I can find some composite toe boots—”

“No no, that will be fine. Yes. But—” What the hell am I doing? “But, you’ll have to come to Christmas dinner at my place. To um... to pay you back.”

“You’re helping me tear down a wall, and you want to pay me?”

“Well, you said it would be fun—entertainment isn’t cheap. And my new apartment doesn’t quite feel like a home yet. It needs a house-warming.”

His eyes twinkled in a way that I would come to know as a bad idea brewing. “To really heat up the place, you’ll need more warm bodies. I’ll come over if you invite Maddie.”

“No way dude!” came out before my brain had a chance to catch it.

That stupid smirk came back. “You pushed me to talk to her, and now you’re the one scared?”

“I’m not scared.” That squeak was only in my head, right?

He bent down and handed some meat to Taylor who had been patiently waiting this whole time—honestly, I forgot she was there. “Do you need me to text her for you?”

“Alright, alright, guy. I’ll do it. I’m not letting someone else do my dirty work.”

“It’s settled then. Wine?”

“Sheesh, what kind of girl do you think I am? It’s too early for that.” I did my best offended look and took a righteous sip from my water. The oh shit look on his face was too much, I couldn’t hold it in—a laugh burst out along with the water in my throat. But not all of it, I began coughing.

I managed a “wrong pipe” wheeze. He raised his arms up in the air, like that would help somehow. Fuck it. I did the same, keeping eye contact the whole time, red-faced, coughing, lips flapping. But staring at him, looking like a walking orangutan, was helping.

Soon, I stopped coughing, both of us sitting there, arms up. Frank came from the back and muttered “What in the world?” We giggled.

Frank turned around, deciding the kitchen was more interesting. “Like a couple of damn children.”

That was it—we both started laughing and choking. Then, Taylor joined in on the howling.

Author’s Notes

Writing cozy is… weird. Fun, though. This was quite a stretch for me. Poetry, a woman’s POV, a lesbian—what did I get myself in to?

I enjoyed considering Slacy from a POV outside his chaotic mind. Also, what was Slacy like 40 years before The Flucks? How has technology changed only 30 years from now? Shitmobile will be born only 10 years from when Chuq met Slacy.

This was meant to be a single Christmas special chapter. 2,600 words later, a part two was needed. Expect that tomorrow (right after I actually write it).

P.S. Only I Chuq would put “mylar” in a poem.

Continue to Part 2.

Part 2 →

Continue reading for Chapter 9, start at Chapter 1, or find where you left off.

Audio performance by

Guest image by

Last time on The Flucks

Shitmobile crept forward until the front wheels left the concrete. By then it was too late, momentum clutched tightly. Shitmobile tumbled ass over hood and crashed below with a satisfying crunch. Seconds later, acrid smoke leaked out as the batteries caught fire. Moments later, it flared bright.

I turned from the warm glow and rolled to the garage-level entrance of Voltivian HQ.

After his last car took a nose dive, Slacy needs a new ride. At Voltivian HQ, he should be able to find one, but biometrics and access restrictions are a constant problem in the digital age. Good thing he has a friend with credentials.

Chapter 9 — Dance til you’re dead

I rolled to the metal door, a message flaring in its small window at my approach.

❌ Access Restricted

Good thing I had a friend with the right credentials. I pulled Sir Terry Hatchet from his loop. His shaft and weighty head felt powerful in my fist. I swung the blunt end into the small window, glass fragmenting into nuggets and tinkling on the ground. A few more smacks and the wire mesh blocking the hole fell away.

Couldn’t reach from the wheelchair, so I used a crutch and reached an arm through. I squeezed the door release and awkwardly pushed-pulled. Nothing. “C’mon dammit.” I jerked back and forth, gyrating like an off-balance washing machine. Nothing.

Duh. These types of things are mag-locked, presumably with emergency power. I dropped the crutch and leaned on the door, passing Terry through its window. I hit the magnet at the top a hundred friggen times until it broke from its bracket.

With no resistance, the door swung open suddenly, dropping me into the wheelchair, rolling it back into the wall. My head cracked against the concrete, bursting a cacophony of colors into my eye sockets and ear holes. Fuuuck!

Sitting there, dazed, recovering, I considered how if this were my old decrepit body, a hit like that might have killed me. This younger body had advantages. Still, I hoped no cameras caught that.

Since Shitmobile was burning in hellfire below, I needed a new ride. The parking garage was full of all manner of Voltivians. I’d need some sort of key. Since this was Voltivian HQ, there had to be something I could use, right? Right?

Could have gone to the top floor, but that’d be all executive offices. They’d have sporty two-seaters. Fun to drive, but I needed gear space for a roadtrip. No, I’d go where I’d most likely find truck or SUV owners and something to unlock one. To nerd central: the research lab.

I had watched every VidVid post coming out of Voltivian’s labs. Every new car, drone, and software update. The feed was called Level 8 to add some mystique. Probably not the best infosec revealing that, but who am I to complain? I’m just glad I ended up near their HQ instead of the abandoned hulks of Shitmobile’s alma mater.

Terry helped me a few more times with credentials as I rolled through the building. Cubicle farms were still a thing, but Voltivian apparently respected their employees more than that. Instead, hallways split into shorter ones, each with ten small offices, maybe three meters per cubed side.

These cubices were encapsulated in smartglass that could be clear for cooperation or frosty for focus. Every hallway had random assortments of translucent and opaque glass. Some frozen mid-transition, as if the power cut suddenly—pearlescent swirls of fog mixed with void. Abstract art capturing a millisecond of dying energy for eternity.

No computers, devices, or piles of dust occupied any of the cubices. With the Flucks pandemic going on, most people would have been working from home. I started to think that maybe I shouldn’t have pushed Shitmobile over the edge.

Since the electricity was off, and it was overcast, scant light reached the interior depths. Further in, only red emergency lighting illuminated the way.

I might have worked in an office like this. But my generation was too late to join the programmer party before AI took over. Now, the only people working in software were specialists who understood complex systems and made technical decisions for AI to implement. That’s why I became a—

Motion caught my eye—a flicker down the hall.

Someone—or something—was in here. In one of the cubices, windows opaque, a dark silhouette jerked awkwardly. It reminded me of Meat Guy’s inhuman movement.

Good thing rolling is quieter than—squeeeak—shit! The dark figure turned in my direction, then slowly turned back. I continued rolling. squeak-squeak-squeak Another head turn. Gotta oil that.

I sat just outside the office, watching the silhouette do its silent machinations. It was big, taller than me—maybe two meters or so. I could see arms moving about, bulk staying in place. Was someone working?

The sliding glass door was closed. I tapped on it.

“Hello?”

The silhouette turned—faint red eyes peered through milky glass. Shit! And returned to flailing about. Well, they didn’t tell me to go away...

I slid the door a crack, peering inside. The figure loomed from the shadows, skin glistening in dim, red light. A gaping hole where its organs should be. Its pure black surface smooth with occasional sharp ridges poking out. A fucking robot?

It turned towards me, regarding me with digital eyes from its featureless face, two fiery comets in a night sky. Again, it returned to its task. Barely-human zombie thing? No way. This? This I could deal with.

When I came here, I bet on one thing: engineers are lazy. They may tell you they’re being efficient, but since I was almost one, I know the truth—lazy. They hate constantly supplying credentials to unlock their computer and will instead spend hours engineering solutions to avoid ever having to.

In front of the robot was an opened laptop, screen unlocked, casting amber hues. I guess the youngsters called this a devslate. It was hardwired to the robot, feeding off its power.

Meanwhile, the robot was trapped in a cycle, dancing to fend off the screensaver. A multi-billion-dollar robot used to fool the occupancy sensor. Genius.

No dust pile around. This person probably stepped away for lunch, only to be told to go home when the pandemic hit. On the screen was a development terminal with an AI chat window, the last instruction clear:

dance in place until I return

This was better than I hoped. This was probably a prototype robot and the devslate its controller. I moved to reach for the devslate, but the robot’s wobbling arms blocked me.

“Hey, buddy, hold on a moment.”

Digital-dot eyes focused on me, blinked to slits, then angled back to the screen.

“Hey, stop moving.”

It ignored me and kept dancing to music only it could hear. It wasn’t trying to stop me, so I reached over and quickly typed into the chat.

stop dancing

It stopped. Now we’re talking!

back up

It complied. Oh, yeah!

I thought about telling it to stand on one leg and hop, but that would be a waste of—just kidding, I absolutely told it to. After a short kung-fu demonstration, it was time to get to work.

Beside the devslate was a neural interface, but I knew better than to touch that shit. Picking up the devslate and folding its thin keyboard flat against its back, I put it in my lap, wire still connected to the robot.

grab the wheelchair and push

“WAIT!”

backspace-backspace-backspace

gently grab the wheelchair handles and safely push the occupant without killing him

The robot complied. We were in business.

✹✹✹

After a few harrowing moments of the robot nearly driving me broken-leg-first into a wall, it carted me to a plush recreation area. Light trickled through large windows dappled with raindrops. Soft chairs and hard game tables were dotted around.

The nice thing about being at Voltivian HQ is all the Voltivian products just sitting around. A one-hundred kiwah battery was being used as a table. I cleared away a couple half-full coffee mugs to power it on. Fully charged, fuck yeah!

Next to it rested a zero-grav chair. I plugged the chair into the battery and transitioned over, its rhythmic pulses elevating me and relieving my seat-sore body.

I needed to program this blank robot to get it to be useful and not roll me down a stairwell. The devslate’s onboard AI was actually pretty helpful since I had no idea how to screw around with software after sixty years of abstinence.

The computer tried in vain to connect to the offline network. It didn’t matter, it probably would be locked from internet access anyway since it was in a restricted area.

After a few hours working with the AI agent, slowly developing the robot’s personality, I managed to get it to respond directly to voice. I couldn’t figure out how to get it to talk, though.

The devslate had a ton of music from the 1980s through the beginning of the century. Its owner couldn’t have been that old, but whatever, it still rocked. I began loading the music onto the robot, spinning Ash’s fidget toy while I waited. When it was done, I gave instructions to play appropriate clips to communicate.

🎵 Hello, is it me you’re looking for? 🎵

“Why, yes. Hi.”

The robot’s red eyes still freaked me out, so I instructed the agent.

Orange—no. Blue—nah. Purple—nuh-uh. Pink—Yes!

🎵 You don’t have to put on the red light 🎵

It must have sensed me changing its appearance to feel more comfortable. The robot’s skin rippled like a cuttlefish and cycled through a variety of human skin tones before finally settling on mimicking mine. With the hole in its middle, it looked like a human donut.

“Oh, fuck no! That’s creepy as hell.”

🎵 I’m a creep, I’m a weirdo... 🎵

To get us quickly out of Uncanny Valley, I told the agent to make the robot a matte silver for now. As its color shifted, I considered the large cavity in its center. This robot had too many edges for civilian use like the smooth and cuddly homebots. The center cavity’s mount might be for extra power cells and the ridges for mounting weapons.

A growl reverberated off the walls.

“Man, I’m starving.”

The robot held up a single digit.

“Do you know where food is?”

🎵 Untz untz untz 🎵

“Alright, take me there.”

The robot pushed me to a break room, natural light drifting in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Bowls were filled with rotten fruit, and I was not going to even think about opening the fridge. Along the walls were cubbies of shelf-stable food.

The robot picked up a bag of chips, opened it, then passed it my way. I looked at the proffered snack, then took it.

“Thanks. Let’s find a ride and go home, Snackbot1.”

Snackbot swayed side to side, playing a jaunty tune, while its pink eyes turned to hearts.

✹✹✹

Snackbot rolled me car to car. I decided on the Voltivian S524, a four-wheel drive SUV. Only two motors, but more gear space and range than the T444 beast. Should be able to go 1600 km per charge.

I sat in the driver’s seat. More room for my splinted leg than Shitmobile. I jacked the devslate into the car’s diagnostic port while Snackbot loaded spoils: 100 kiwah battery, a few aerial drones, and, of course, snacks.

With the devslate’s god-mode credentials, I overrode all security controls, leaving the car permanently unlocked so I didn’t have to deal with biometrics. You never know when you might lose those. I pressed the ‘on’ button and the car lit up.

“Snackbot, please put my chair in the back and ride shotgun.”

It did so with a tune in its step, understanding my idiom without undue bloodshed. I didn’t expect the car to have enough room for Snackbot’s two-something-meter frame, but its legs shortened, disappearing who knows where, to fit perfectly in the co-pilot seat.

Once we hit the highway, I gunned it—feeling rocket acceleration under my control for the first time in decades.

Author’s Notes

I had a lot of fun with this chapter. Hearing bring it to life, with singing? Get out of here! Amazing!

When I first read The Cog from , I knew I had to be a part of that. When I saw Snackbot, I knew how. I mean, Slacy dreamt about a snack-vending, dancing robot in Chapter 7. I know it looks like I’m just making this shit up on the fly—Slacy certainly is—but being spontaneous requires a lot of work dammit.

So now we have this intertwined lore thing going on. This is Snackbot’s origin. We’ll learn about Snackbot’s future, and how it gets into The Cog in the next couple of chapters.

Snackbot won’t be the only Flucks/Cog crossover. There’s a character we forgot about a few chapters back that finally gets their side of the story told. Well, if I ever get around to writing it. 😅

What’d you think about Anthony’s singing? Even if you prefer to read, you’ve got to listen to Snackbot’s portion at the end.

Next Chapter

Continue reading for Chapter 8, start at Chapter 1, or find where you left off.

Audio performance by

Guest image by

⚠️ Content Warning ( see footnote → 1 )

Last time on The Flucks

I checked each and every door and purposefully left the one at the front last—hoping, daring, pleading that this key was not for that car. But none of the others unlocked.

With no option left, I rolled up to the Tesla.

It beeped.

Fuck!

I’m rethinking my blessing for the car owner.

Slacy is getting restless—good thing he found a car. Bad thing—he hates it.

Chapter 8 — Car go brrr

The shit-mobile beeped, but that was it. There were no door handles. I pressed where one should be—nothing. I banged my fist all around the seam until it beeped three times. A door lifted—a chicken pecking for mites under its wing. It stalled halfway, then jerked like a wing once mauled by the neighbor’s dog.

I held the button to move the seat all the way back to make room for my leg. Pressing. Pressing more. Come on! It stopped. I slid in, butt-first, carefully maneuvering my leg into the car without jostling it.

I sniffed, then gagged. It still had that musky smell. The company could never get the smell off them, even after he fucked off to Mars.

Okay, let’s see what we’ve got here. No buttons, no dash screen. But it did have a full-screen display windshield. A big warning icon and message sat in the middle.

⚠️ WARNING: Battery health at 20%. Charge remaining: 50%

“Okay, that’s great, where’s the start button?” I asked no one.

“Good morning, Clint. Would you like me to start?” the car’s onboard AI responded.

“Dafuq? Oh... Yes.”

The windshield display lit up, playing an animation of an anthropomorphic car dry-humping the road, I guess. The message “Welcome, Clint” was briefly displayed.

That name sounded familiar. From the for-real faux-leather wallet, I grabbed the Boomer-grade plastic ID inside. Yep, Clint. That checked out. Nope—still sus. Realization flicked on like a maintenance-required light. It was the name on the inventory tablet for the asshole shift manager. Typical Clint.

“Okay, now how do I get the wheelchair into the car while I’m in it?” I asked no one again.

The windshield displayed a dancing animation of the anthro-car. “Would you like me to help you with that?”

“Uh... Yes.”

“Step outside the car, press the release levers to fold the wheelchair, place it in the trunk, and re-enter the car.”

“My fucking leg is broken!”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Clint.”

“No, I’m saying I can’t do all that because MY FUCKING LEG IS BROKEN!”

“Would you like me to help you with that?”

“No thanks,” I muttered.

I’ve seen people who regularly use wheelchairs fold the chair and pull it across their chest into the back seat. That must take some serious core strength. But there wasn’t enough clearance without hitting my leg. Four-door sedan—worst of all cars—all doors, no space. At least you know what a two-door car is meant for.

A wolf howled, its cry reverberating off the metal warehouse building. With that bad omen and no other solution, I’d leave the chair. There was plenty more in the warehouse.

“Shitmobile, close the door.”

“Clint, is that my new designation?”

“Yes, Shitmobile.”

“Noted, Clint.”

“Can you call me ‘Slacy?’”

“I’m sorry, ‘Lacey’ is not an authorized driver.”

“Forget it.”

The car still had a steering wheel, unlike a lot of more modern cars. So it had manual-drive. It had been a long time since I drove a car, what with being a geezer and most cars being only self-driving. I longed to feel the rocket acceleration of an electric motor buzzing, to feel the future once again.

The path was clear ahead of me, at least two kilometers of open parking lot. I pressed the brake.

“Shitmobile, engage launch mode.”

“Done, Clint.”

I waited for the countdown.

I floored it. Shitmobile lurched forward, a whir warming up as the windshield screen lit up like a warp corridor.

whrrrrrrrr—ztck-ztck-ztck-ztck-ztck-ztck.

I’m pretty sure electric cars are not supposed to make that noise. Judging by the top speed of 20 kilometers per hour, I’m probably right.

“Maintenance required. Limp-home mode engaged. Clint, please drive to your closest authorized service provider. I will find one—”

“There are no more authorized service providers!” I slapped both palms to my face, holding them there.

“Searching... Searching... Recalculating...”

I dragged my palms down. “Shitmobile, thanks, I’ll find one on my own.”

“Happy to serve, Clint.”

When I arrived at the roll-up door, it wasn’t tall enough. So I drove in slowly as the door scraped across the windshield, buckled, then screeeeeched across the roof. The aisles were made for automated forklifts, so they were wide enough to fit the car. I drove to the aisle with wheelchairs.

“Okay, now how do I get out?”

“Would you like me to help you with that?”

“No! Shut up, Shitmobile!”

I managed to slide out, put all my weight on my right leg, and one-foot-shuffled myself around the car, using it for support to get over to a new wheelchair. Crap—I forgot I had to assemble it.

At least I had a car. A piece-of-shit car, but a car nonetheless.

“33% charge remaining,” Shitmobile called out. “Please charge soon.”

That much gone? I only drove two kilometers. Fuck my life.

✹✹✹

A few days later, I had the Shitmobile recharged from a bunch of ten-kilowatt-hour batteries. Real bitch moving them around in my wheelchair. Not sustainable—I’d have to find an alternative.

I didn’t sleep last night—too much anxiety about today’s drive. And probably too much coffee. I finally found the Shmamazon lukewarmbrew hoard.

With a car squared away for the moment, I was going to eat the frog. That’s try-hard corporate-speak for those of you that missed the LinkedIn Era. I mean, do the hardest task first: choosing the best hammer to go with my kilt.

I stood on one leg, which gave only a minor protest, crutch under my opposite arm. Before me lay a table. And on that table, a tablecloth. And on that tablecloth, six hammers fanned out. I lifted the mini-sledge. Big, honkin head—great for smacking. Too heavy for a utilikilt.

Next, the basic carpentry hammer. Relatively light, sits easy on the kilt hammer loop. Claw on one end, good for pulling nails or puncturing skulls. Bit weak overall. Let’s see—no, no, next. Framing hammer—now that’s some nice claws. Great heft, weighted end. Could really crack some skulls.

But, nothing can beat the last item. Hollow composite handle, all the weight is in the head. Flat, blunt edge for cracking nuts. On the other end, a wicked sharp blade. The hatchet. I slid it into the hatchet loop on my kilt. It dozed peacefully, waiting for something to bite into.

With that settled, the next task. Everyone’s favorite subject: math. I sat back down, moving Terry Hatchet to a loop I’d fashioned on the chair. I rolled over to the bored-to-death metal desk, got out a few pages of what was left of Ash’s empty journal, and a pencil.

Doing some quick back of the napkin math, Shitmobile’s 150 kilowatt-hour battery was at 20% health. Spec says 10 clicks per kiwah—should be 300 kilometers. But for some reason, it’s only getting half a click per kiwah. That’s not going to get me far enough.

I rolled over to Shitmobile to work the problem.

“Shitmobile, why are you in limp mode?”

“Fault detected, Clint.”

Sigh. “Which fault, Shitmobile?”

“Parking brake engaged while entering launch mode.”

Sigh. “Why is it engaged, Shitmobile?”

“You didn’t ask to disengage it, Clint.”

Sigh. “Aren’t you supposed to auto-disengage—especially in launch mode?”

“Yes, Clint.”

There are only so many sighs one guy can do. “Shitmobile.”

“Yes, Clint?”

“Disengage the parking brake.”

“Done, Clint.”

Let’s go for a ride.

✹✹✹

It was a rainy, miserable day. Shitmobile was thrilled. “The weather is sunny, high of 100 degrees Celsius, Clint.”

“I’m not boiling, Shitmobile—it’s only 6 degrees. Now, hush.”

Even though we fixed the ‘fault’, max speed topped out at 40 kph. The flat terrain, smooth road, rattling plastic panels, and percussive ztck-ztck-ztck were making me drowsy.

“Shitmobile, I’m going to nap, take over the rest of the trip.”

“Yes, Clint.”

ztck-ztck-ztck

ztck-ztck-ztck

badump — badump — badump

badump - badump - badump

The increasing rhythm of the rumble strips was a great beat.

badump-badump-badump

I jolted awake, slamming on the brakes going too fucking fast. My broken leg jammed into the floorboard, shooting fractals of pain throughout my shin. I screamed, Shitmobile hydroplaned and slammed into the barrier, flinging my head sideways into the glass with a thunk. The side of the car scraped the wall, metal screeching and composites flying off.

I fought the wheel for control, steering away from the wall only to be flung right back into it. With this stupid drive-by-wire shit, I couldn’t feel my way through the hydroplane—long dormant reflexes numb to the wheels skimming across water. My teeth clenched as tires made contact, screeched, and slid Shitmobile to a halt, black smoke racing past us.

Outside the windshield was only sky. On either side, concrete barriers. Behind us, a trail of murdered orange cones. Ahead, a hundred-meter drop. This car—this fucking car—had driven us up an incomplete highway interchange. I needed to vomit, but this fucking chicken door wouldn’t open.

“Open you fucking asshole!” I reached for the hatchet, but it had flown who knows the fuck where. With a clank, the door lurched halfway open and I tumbled out, legs crashing into the wet concrete sending up fresh splashes of agony. On my hands, I emptied my stomach.

Another meter and we’d both be drowning in an icy abyss below. I rolled onto my back, rain pelting my eyeballs. My rapid breathing drowned all sound as I stared at gray clouds wondering why I keep putting up with this shit.

Deep breath in—acrid sweat, stomach acid—then out. In through the nose—burnt rubber, brake dust—then out. In—lake ozone, damp concrete—then out. Gentle waves and pitter-pattering raindrops surface.

Maybe I could throw myself over the side, missing the water entirely. What would I find on the other side this time?

“Shitmobile.”

“Yes, Clint?”

“I will drive now.”

“Yes, Clint.”

We arrived at a parking garage half an hour later. I drove to the top, eight levels up. I slid Shitmobile into a parking space, rolling gently to bump the concrete barrier. I applied juice, using the tenacious torque of the electric motor to push until the barrier cracked, broke free, and fell below.

I used a crutch this time to get the trunk since hopping around would jostle my newly bruised and battered shin. With one hand on the trunk lid, I yanked the folded wheelchair out, expanding it in one fluid motion. I sat down and rolled to the open chicken wing door.

“Shitmobile.”

“Yes, Clint?”

“Park.”

“Yes, Clint.”

Shitmobile crept forward until the front wheels left the concrete. By then it was too late, momentum clutched tightly. Shitmobile tumbled ass over hood and crashed below with a satisfying crunch. Seconds later, acrid smoke leaked out as the batteries caught fire. Moments later, it flared bright.

I turned from the warm glow and rolled to the garage-level entrance of Voltivian HQ.

Author Notes

originally recorded this live, never having seen the text before. He and I talked a little about what it’s like writing and recording The Flucks. You can listen to Chapter 8 LIVE here. I enjoyed the live, especially being able to hear Anthony make a few flubs with stifled laughter.

Since then, Anthony has recorded the version now posted here. I made a few edits around the car accident scene so if you listened to the live, you may notice a few differences in this version.

AI can be a blessing and a curse. Like any tool, it comes down to how it’s creators’ created it and how you use it. The future world Slacy lives in has a mix of good and bad AI.

Shitmobile is clearly bad AI. I think it got the end it deserved. How about you?

Continue to Chapter 9.

Continue reading for Chapter 7, start at Chapter 1, or find where you left off.

Audio performance by

⚠️ Content Warning: Monotony

Last time on The Flucks

I found some pants. First, I found a first-aid kit and a proper, flexible splint to do a better patch-up job. Rolling around made it easier to cover a lot of area in the warehouse. But I could only reach stuff on the ground level.

Then I got kitted out: tactical boots and shorts (pants would have to wait on leg to heal), “CONTAINS MEAT” T-shirt, knife, weather-shield jacket—the apocalypse survivor starter kit.

Oh, and can’t forget my Scar Flucks ballcap and name tag.

Slacy found clothes, but no answers to his questions. Alone in the gargantuan warehouse, he struggles to stay sane. Good thing he’s got sarcasm to keep him company.

Chapter 7 — They see me rollin’

Putting on shorts was a bad idea.

Getting them on over the splint was easy, but taking them off proved harder. Naturally. Once I had the wheelchair, I could get around and grab the real equipment I needed to mend my leg.

I used a couple SAM splints—those are wide, flexible aluminum strips that can be formed into a rigid shape—to immobilize my entire leg and knee. The fracture was in my left shin. The bone didn’t break skin and actually seemed aligned.

The infection risk was low, but I wasn’t taking chances. I had no idea what my current immune system was like. Did I even have gut bacteria in this new body? I cleaned and sterilized the cuts daily.

I took some broad-spectrum antibiotics. I found meds central. A whole pharmacy section in the warehouse with giant bottles of everything—over and behind the counter. Pain meds were doing the heavy lifting. And I was getting nutrients from premixed protein drinks to heal faster.

When I was younger, I had been in the Civil Air Patrol. Along with map navigation and drone flying, I learned field first aid. Honestly, all those skills might be clutch for this Flucking adventure I’m having.

I had no way of knowing if the bone was healing properly. Hm, does Shmamazon sell X-ray machines? Best case, walking with crutches in a couple months. In a few more, I might be able to put weight on it. Worst case, six.

Anyway, the point is: shorts—I could not take them off over the splints without excruciating pain or risking messing up the healing process. I didn’t have many options for bathing—cold-water sink showers—so wearing the same shorts for months seemed like a bad idea. Also, taking a shit was becoming a big problem.

My genius saved the day again, though, because it came up with the perfect solution: skirts. It actually went one leap better and landed on utility kilts. Utili-kilts have a few advantages over skirts. For one, they part at the front, so I could slip into one without having to go over my broken leg.

Also, even though they finally started putting useful, deep-enough-for-phone pockets on skirts decades ago, it’s hard to beat the utility of cargo pockets and a little metal ring to hold your hammer. Oooh, I need to find a hammer.

I didn’t realize how much I enjoyed free-flowing air down there until I went from naked to shorted. Now that I’m sporting a utili-kilt, everything is easy-breezy. Plus, this dark-brown kilt looks like a leather pteruge. I got that Roman Warrior aesthetic back.

It’s been a month since I moved into the Mecca of E-commerce Sin. Ash’s lukewarmbrew ran out a couple weeks ago, even with rationing. Food and water weren’t a problem, though. There’s all this “enhanced” water—you know, those drinks with “pH” or vitamins or whatever that’s supposed to be better than spring water.

This place is stacked with energy bars, chips, nuts—all the nutrition a growing boy could want. I wanted to hack one of the offline warehouse robots to hunt snacks and follow me around, vending them on demand, playing jaunty tunes a guy could really twirl his kilt to. Dreamt that last night—damnedest thing, really got the ol’ cog1 turning. Oh well, a project for another day.

Speaking of meat, I’ve stayed away from that aisle because, man, the rotting was something awful. And there was that whole event there. I went back to look at the scooped-out hole one day. Made no fucking sense. I couldn’t stay long before the smell cranked up my gag reflex. This place was big enough that I could steer clear and find packaged and freeze-dried food instead.

I had spent the month rolling around the warehouse looking for things I could use. One of the first things I looked for was battery banks. If the inventory tablet died, even if I found power later, there’d be no way for me to log back into it. So I’ve kept it on a steady juice diet.

Being in the Kingdom of Infinite E-commerce Bliss was fun. At first. Any product I could imagine could be found with just a few taps on the tablet. Then I’d roll over, slice open a box, and bask in the spoils. I quickly found out how to limit my search to the ground-level boxes. Even limited to only one of the seventy-something levels of shelves, it was a fuck-ton of stuff to loot.

Amazingly, no zombies or other ghouls jumped out at me. Quite the opposite of every apocalypse movie I’ve watched. No more weird people materialized in the warehouse either.

Besides the tablet guy who shouldn’t have gone into work that day and mute, barely-human guy, I found a few more dust piles under neon vests. The shift manager must have been a real asshole, forcing everyone to come in sick.

Every aisle looked like the other, though: box, box—big box. I hadn’t seen outside since I got here. I was afraid if I went outside, the doors would close and I’d be cut off. But the monotony of rolling around New Box City was driving me insane. I had to get out.

But it would be months before I could walk properly again. Cruising around in a wheelchair down dusty streets didn’t seem smart. This warehouse was outside the city. Even though I grew up rural, kilometers of forest seemed more dangerous than city blocks.

What I needed was a car. Vanny no longer booted up. Nor did any of his van friends. There might be a leftover car from the employees, but first, I had to get outside. The roll-up doors somehow had power to let Vanny and me in, but without Vanny or its mates, I couldn’t command them to open to see if they still had any.

Thankfully, the roll-up doors had manual overrides. Pulling a small chain disengaged the motor that opened the door or held it closed. Once disengaged, I could lift it open manually. Well, with a lot of struggling, I could get it just high enough to wheel myself under.

✹✹✹

A crisp chill hit me as I rolled outside. The weather had cooled considerably since I went in. I didn’t really know what season it was. The tablet displayed the time but lacked a calendar function. It just showed time like “1 hour ago” or “1 month ago”. There was probably a way to show the actual date, but that’d spoil the mystery.

I looked left, then right—no cars. Shit. The employee lot was not on my side. I went back inside, grabbed a hoodie, and folded the pleats of the utili-kilt between my legs to protect the boys from catching their death. It was at least a kilometer trek to get around the building.

I could bore you with how tedious rolling beside a warehouse is—about the endless metal wall made of sameness on one side, and the endless pine trees grown of sameness on the other. But I won’t.

There were a few cars. Of course, I had no way to get into them—stupid! I should have thought about that before deciding to get my cardio in. I needed keys, apparently, so I headed back to the warehouse, passing back through the gauntlet of sameness.

Anyone with a car in the last few decades could see where this was going. I searched every dust pile for keys. As one does. Everyone has keys, but no one has keys. To unlock a car, you used some sort of biometric or your phone to gain entry. And everyone’s phone itself required some sort of biometric.

The thing about turning to dust when you die is there’s pretty much nothing bio left to metric. No one thought about survivors of Dust-pocalypse when they designed these things.

One dust pile had a for-real faux leather wallet. Since money and everything else are digitized on your phone, there’s not much reason to carry a wallet these days. But this wallet had actual printed photographs of kids, likely theirs. That wrecked me. Where were they now?

Whoever this person was, they got my blessing because in the wallet was a backup keycard. Phones were reliable enough that you didn’t really need backup keys, but this poor soul had kept one in their wallet. All the lettering on the keycard had rubbed off, so I didn’t even know what brand it was for. I rolled out to the lot.

✹✹✹

All the cars should have kept a charge. The first one was a Tesla. I would have used a fake name here, but that company has been dead almost as long as this thirty-year-old shit heap. I mean, thirty years is a long time for a car to still be usable. But it was only running on pure spite at this point.

No way. I ain’t fucking driving a Tesla. Ever.

I rolled to each door, holding the key near it. I started with the car I wanted most. The Voltivian T444—a four-door, four-motor, four-wheel-drive truck. The perfect post-apocalypse battle wagon.

No dice.

I checked each and every door and purposefully left the one at the front last—hoping, daring, pleading that this key was not for that car. But none of the others unlocked.

With no option left, I rolled up to the Tesla.

It beeped.

Fuck!

I’m rethinking my blessing for the car owner.

Author’s Notes

Shorts just didn’t feel right, you know? What better apocalypse clothing than a utili-kilt?

Is all of Slacy’s running commentary normal, or is he breaking down?

This chapter started out long, then I split some of it into the next. Then I added a whole bunch of words. Then I cut them down. Chapter 4 is still longer. I prefer to keep them around this size. It seems just small enough that “I’ll read that right now” and big enough to get the story in. What do you think?

And who would have thought Tesla would make it another 40 or so years.

Continue to Chapter 8.

Continue reading for Chapter 6, start at Chapter 1, or find where you left off.

Audio performance by

⚠️ Content Warning: Drowning, Suicidal Thoughts, Mostly Naked

Last time on The Flucks

Bones poked through skin at various bloody angles, and his chest moved up and down slowly. He was looking at me, wide eyes pleading for help, almost childlike. His breathing stopped.

A flash of hot white light blinded me. Shit, did that kill me?

When the light faded, I was still lying on the polished concrete floor beside the towers of boxes. All that remained of the man was a pile of dust filling a chalk outline shaped hole.

After a meet cute that was confusing for everyone involved, Slacy assesses his injuries. Severely wounded in an barren, city-sized warehouse, filled with the forgotten relics of a dead civilization, he struggles to find pants.

Chapter 6 — Just keep swimming

After my confusion faded, the searing pain in my legs called out for attention.

I lay flat on my back, contemplating the lines in the metal ceiling. My leg felt like the man looked before he disintegrated. I had to look, but I didn’t want to.

I tilted my head up. A bone was poking out at a rakish angle from my leg, in my mind—but not in reality.

My skin was mostly unbroken. But it felt the opposite. Must be a fracture. Small cuts and abrasions peppered my shins. They must have been torn open by that guy’s bones. I did not want to think about his blood mixing with mine right now.

I sat up, my apron askew. I rolled to my side to test my weight on the leg—fuck! No, it would not hold my weight. I couldn’t just lie here, though, so I tried again.

Push up on two hands, good leg to hold the weight, bad leg stretched out: Eka Pada Phalakasana. Man, I haven’t been able to do that for thirty years. Okay—now what? I look like a flesh tripod.

Maybe if I just use the bad-leg knee—ah, fuck nope. Pain bit into my leg, tripod limbs flared out, chest and face hit the floor. I passed out.

✹✹✹

Waves crashed on the beach. A warm sunny day. Mom digging sandwiches out of the cooler. Dad standing in the water, goofy, wide-brimmed hat, long-sleeve sun shirt, fishing rod in hand. He’s got a bite!

Here’s your lunch, sweetie, Mom says, and I turn to grab the paper plate. When you’re done, you can put on your swim vest and Dad can teach you to swim, she says while I munch my PB&J with Cheetos. I turn back to see what he caught—wait, where’d he go?

✹✹✹

Gasp. I awake—take a deep breath, choking, trying to spit the water out. But there isn’t any. God, I hate that fucking dream.

My face is planted on the warehouse’s polished concrete. I can see the dim reflection of the young man I once was. I lay there, trying to assess the damage, hoping my nose isn’t broken. No, just a split and bruised lip.

Well now fucking what? I could just lie here till I starve, but that’s no fun. I still have the box cutter in Ash’s bag.

If I kill myself, will I come back with a new body? Are there some rules to follow? Who’s the referee? I lived a long life. This new one isn’t going so well. If I killed myself and died for real, then I could finally rest.

I could—but then there’s the water. So fuck that. It seemed that when I died, I’d come back at some random location—most of them deadly.

The Earth is mostly water. I had, like, a one in three or four chance of landing in water. It’s a wonder I hadn’t already. I appeared on a frozen lake once. What are the odds of the next one being liquid?

You see, I can’t swim—never learned. I had died horribly four times already. I’d choose every one of them again before I’d set foot in the sea.

If I landed in water, there’d be a brief struggle, then I’d sink. I’d have total awareness while the CO₂ slowly built up in my blood. My autonomic nervous system would panic—my body would force a breath, even underwater.

I’d inhale fluid, throat would spasm shut—laryngospasm—me staying aware until it relaxed again. Then my lungs would fill, blood oxygen would plummet, and I’d fade out. Sixty seconds of conscious hell, followed by a few minutes of dying asleep. No thanks.

You might think I was a medical professional, but no—I’m no physiologist. I just had search engines and LLMs teach me in intricate detail after—well, after I found out drowning was a thing.

Alright, so that’s out, now what? I rolled onto my back, careful not to jostle my leg. Work the problem, Slacy—think! I checked Ash’s bag, ah, coffee and nuts—that’s a good start. I took a swig and chewed a handful while I schemed.

Time to bodge something together, or as my mom would say, MacGyver it. If only I had some duct tape or zip ties. The journal was hardbound. I ripped the cover off, stowed the thicket of paper, opened the cover flat, and bent it into a half-column.

Then I cut the straps of the apron and tied the journal splint around my leg. I need a few more strips of fabric, so I cut the apron into strips. Janky but functional. Now for the hard part.

I put my towel in my mouth, grabbed the strips, and pulled hard to tighten the splint while I bit down through a scream. I wanted to pass out again, but I vomited instead. Then I guzzled some lukewarm-brew. Caffeine helped dull the pain a little.

With my head a little clearer, I dragged myself to the shelves to pull myself up. Hold the shelf, put a little weight on the leg—okay, didn’t die.

Without the apron, I felt naked. Good thing I remembered my towel. I wrapped it around my waist and was digging the Roman warrior look.

I hobbled forward, using the shelves for support. I could move, but it was agonizingly slow. I needed a crutch. As I stumbled to each box, I cut it to peek inside. Kitty litter. Appliance. Sex toy. Appliance. Rubber ducks. Kitty litter. How many fucking cats did y’all have?

I was about to slice into another box when I saw it, that neon-green-yellow color of a hard hat and vest. A dust pile underneath.

Were all these people working while they had the Flucks? “If you can walk, you can work, just put on a mask,” I could imagine their boss saying. Yep, a zero-particulate mask sat atop the pile. I thought about taking it to filter out the dust outside, but that would be worse than putting on someone’s dusty clothes.

As I approached to loot—I mean inspect—the pile for anything useful, something lit up. A white square. It was one of those ruggedized tablets for job sites like this.

And it was powered on and unlocked. What kind of psychopath doesn’t put a passcode or biometrics on their tablet? My savior, I guess, because it had network access. Poor operational security, though.

On second thought, it was probably intended for shared use with shift workers. The moment I stepped out of the warehouse, it would probably lock. Then I’d need to authenticate to get back in. Not like it’s got incriminating photos on it anyway.

I couldn’t get on the internet or anything. I couldn’t tell if it was connected to some backup wi-fi or satellite. It only had one app. But it was the most important app: inventory.

I searched for crutches, hoping some were nearby. Nope. But it could pull up related items on shelves near me. It had some sort of location awareness within the warehouse. A few shelves over, wheelchairs.

I won’t bore you the details, but it was a real bitch getting over there and unboxing a wheelchair. Then I had to use the stupid little included Allen wrench to connect the wheels. Finally, I was ready to roll.

Once I had the tablet, it was easy to find pants. The problem was they were thirty meters up on shelves. After watching that wobbly, mute, barely human guy fall, I wasn’t going to try climbing them—broke leg or not.

What the hell was with that guy? Is that what it’s like when I appear somewhere? Is that what it’s like when I die? Why couldn’t he speak? Why was he scared of me?

Anyway, I won’t leave you hanging on a cliffhanger. I found some pants. First, I found a first-aid kit and a proper, flexible splint to do a better patch-up job. Rolling around made it easier to cover a lot of area in the warehouse. But I could only reach stuff on the ground level.

Then I got kitted out: tactical boots and shorts (pants would have to wait on leg to heal), “CONTAINS MEAT” T-shirt, knife, weather-shield jacket—the apocalypse survivor starter kit.

Oh, and can’t forget my Scar Flucks ballcap and name tag.

Author’s Notes

You didn’t think Slacy could just kill himself out of every tough situation did you? His stubbornness is a blessing and a curse.

In case you haven’t noticed, every chapter title is a meme. Each one has a double meaning. Swimming doesn’t always help, but sometimes that’s all you’ve got left to do.

Sorry to disappoint those hoping Slacy would stay naked forever. The man’s got business to attend to and can’t go around flashing the empty world that was left behind.

How many of your bosses would have said to put on a mask and tough out the Flucks like Ash and whoever left the tablet?

Continue to Chapter 7.

Continue reading for Chapter 5, start at Chapter 1, or find where you left off.

Audio performance by

⚠️ Content Warning: Awkward death.

Last time on The Flucks

Slacy got some coffee and modest clothing.

While everyone seemed dead, the EV vans were still alive and well, making deliveries. This one would probably return to the warehouse after it finished its rounds. All I had to do was hitch a ride, and I’d have my pick of clothes.

It drove off. My scarf and apron flapped in the wake.

Slacy arrives at a vast warehouse in search of pants. The lights are dead, but something else is alive among the meat and silence.

Chapter 5 — Meet cute

The van drove up to a warehouse bigger than the town I grew up in. On its side were letters as tall as a bus. I still fear being sued by intellectual property owners from the grave, so let’s just say it said “Shmamazon”.

Vanny—I should have named it a long time ago—pulled up to a door that slid up at its approach, then drove in.

This is where my genius really shines because—without me even foreseeing or understanding the problem—it determined that the best way to get into this Fort Knox of E-Commerce was to hitch a ride on a vehicle authorized to enter. I let my genius do all the thinking so I don’t have to.

Vanny parked over a wireless charging pad and shut down. The power was off here, too, so it wasn’t going to eat tonight. A few other vans didn’t get the memo about the apocalypse either, because they were taking off. Probably in an endless loop to try and deliver their load until they collapsed.

The warehouse was more massive inside than it seemed outside. It’s so big—it must be fifty meters tall. A Titan could walk around in here.

In a hundred years, it would have its own ecosystem with green plants, waterfalls, and a bird flying by as I looked up. But for now, it was all metal. The metal roof had translucent panels every few feet, so enough light drifted down for me to see.

We—Vanny and I—were on the outer edge of the building. Rows of delivery vans sat over their dead charging pads. The interior of the warehouse had rows and rows, stacks and stacks, of metal columns with shelves. Each shelf stack was at least two meters wide, so there was a forklift-depth of boxes on each side.

There were millions, if not billions, of dollars of merchandise in here. Enough to jumpstart a civilization. Problem is, none of the robots that moved boxes around were powered up. None of the computer terminals came to life. Every box on the shelf was plain cardboard with only QR codes as labels. I had every item a person could purchase, but no way to find them.

I headed towards the aisle that looked pantsiest. I checked Ash’s bag to see if they had a flashlight. I should have kept the phone because even when locked out, the light would work. Thankfully, Ash comes through clutch—there was a sleek aluminum micro flashlight with a two-thousand-lumen beam. So that’s where all of Ash’s paycheck went.

Since the boxes didn’t have any identifier my eyes could read, I needed a way to cut into the boxes. Nothing in Ash’s bag. While most of this warehouse was automated, there had to be a box cutter that wasn’t attached to a robot arm somewhere in here.

I finally found one at a metal desk that looked like it was made for a human to sit and slowly die of boredom. I started hacking through every crate-sized box I found. Most of them were filled with eco-friendly kitty litter or cheap appliances that needed electricity.

I was wandering around the stacks looking for some clue of what was in the boxes when a flash of light reflected around me, followed by a sharp pop. I’ve never been in the military, but my extensive experience being a soldier in video games told me a flash-bang grenade went off in the distance.

The flash came from behind me, the sound from around a corner. I turned around and walked to the end of the aisle to see what was going on. I couldn’t see anything, but I could hear meat flopping against the concrete.

Every horror movie tells you not to walk towards that sound. So I did. I moved slowly on the balls of my feet, trying to avoid that flip-flap sound bare feet make on slick concrete. I turned the corner and saw rows of refrigerators filled with meat. This Shmamazon also appears to ship groceries. Too bad all the meat was rotten without power.

I walked closer and saw that one of the industrial refrigerators was sliced open. A perfect hole was removed from it, meat and all—like a person-sized biscuit cutter bit in and punched it out. There on the floor was the thing making all the noise. Slick with ground beef slime, the dark shape was flopping like a fish against the concrete.

It stopped flopping.

It pushed itself up on four limbs.

It fell flat with a wet slap.

It pushed itself up on four limbs again.

Then it stood.

It appeared to be a man, naked, about the same age I was now—twenty-five? Thirty? But with the chiseled physique I wish I always had. I thought about how I reappeared like a better version of my younger self after the first time I died.

The man stumbled around, like a newborn calf taking its first steps. It dragged one leg behind it like it didn’t quite know how to walk. “Oh hell no, I did not sign up to be in a zombie apocalypse!”

He looked up quickly, like a deer in headlights. My voice startled the man. He turned around and stumble-ran in the other direction. Wide, awkward, long steps like you see when people wear stilts for the first time in a Sasquatch costume, trying to fool the camera.

“Hey! Where are you going?” I shouted at him.

He kept stumbling, fell to the floor, started to crawl. “Wait up!” I called. “I just want to talk to you about your car warranty!” He didn’t seem to understand English, because that should have made him halt and laugh.

I ran towards him, feeling like I was now the super-zombie chasing a lame braindead zombie. He found his footing and took off with his unwieldy gait. Before I could reach him, he came to the corner of a shelf stack and started to climb the metal column like a tree, the shelves its branches.

It was as if he were a chimpanzee trying to reach the safety of the tree tops to evade a landlocked predator. Am I the baddie? I walked up to the stack, looking up, watching him climb at least ten meters. For being naked with no gear, he was doing a pretty good job. Climbing like an ape must be deep in our DNA—well, at least for this guy. I didn’t do so well climbing back in the jungle.

I called out again, “Hey man! Hola amigo! Bonjour mon ami! Wie geht’s?” What other greetings did I learn from pop culture? Oh—there was that show when I was a kid—”Nǐ hǎo!” He didn’t stop to greet me. My pronunciation must be off.

He slipped. I watched in slow motion as he waved his arms trying to find a branch. I stumbled back a step to avoid being hit, but tripped, falling to the ground. He landed on my legs with a crack. All my nerves cried out at once, feeling like shattered glass.

A sharp whine pierced my skull, soon drowned out by static. As the static receded, I realized the whine was coming from the man lying across my legs.

Bones poked through skin at various bloody angles, and his chest moved up and down slowly. He was looking at me, wide eyes pleading for help, almost childlike. His breathing stopped.

A flash of hot white light blinded me. Shit, did that kill me?

When the light faded, I was still lying on the polished concrete floor beside the towers of boxes. All that remained of the man was a pile of dust filling a chalk outline shaped hole.

Author’s Notes

Oh crap. Is it time to write Author’s Notes again already?

Both Chapter 4 and 5 came to me when driving home from the hardware store one night. That’s not really an exciting story.

Almost all the time, some untold part of a story is rolling around in my brain. Then it forms nearly intact and I must write it down, usually a couple chapters at a time. That’s not really an informative story.

It didn’t always use to be this way—thinking of stories. If I thought of stories, it was what I needed to solve some continuity issue in one of Jan’s stories. Since I started writing myself, Slacy won’t shut up.

It’s actually quite distracting 😅 (send help!). I listen to a lot of audiobooks, anytime my ears aren’t occupied but my hands and eyes are. Lately, I can’t focus on the audiobook because some part of the story that needs solving pops into my head.

How about you? Does writing stories distract you from consuming them?

Continue to Chapter 6.

Continue reading for Chapter 4, start at Chapter 1, or find where you left off.

Audio performance by

⚠️ Content Warning: Existential crisis, nudity, death.

Last time on The Flucks

These weren’t ashes. Those weren’t randomly placed clothes. This wasn’t Hell—it certainly wasn’t Heaven. This was no video game or grand architect simulation. This was the same world I went to one last slumber on my deathbed.

Now why the hell can’t I die in peace?

Slacy finally puts on some clothes. The wind howls through empty streets, stirring the remains of a world that vanished overnight. Machines go through the motions, clinging to order amid decay, while Slacy hitches a ride.

Chapter 4 — But first, coffee

I stood there in shock, letting the gravity of this shitshow sink in. Time must have passed, but I didn’t sense it. The wind howled, sandblasting my skin with the dust, whipping the scarf around me. The white noise was calming, and the debris gently tapping my sunglasses was like ASMR.

I thought about just giving in to a full existential psychotic breakdown. But the dust blowing into my crotch was really starting to itch. I guessed I should find some clothes. I hate wearing other people’s clothes.

You ever see those apocalypse movies where everyone is dirty all the time, as if there suddenly wasn’t water? Like, you shot ten zombies and have guts all over you. First thing I’d want is a hot bath. Imagine the stench of their bodies and clothes. These clothes of people who fell to dust? Nah.

Rather than standing around letting my skin erode, I started looking for a store. At street level, I could see plenty of places to eat, but I wasn’t feeling hungry. Maybe that had something to do with me just materializing in—hell, I don’t know where I am. It’s windy, so is this the Windy City? Chicago? I’m no geographer.

What I wasn’t finding was anything like a clothing store. I hadn’t even been into a clothing store in decades. Today, well, yesterday at least, you scan your body with your phone, order anything you want, and it arrives in a couple of days by drone, fitting perfectly.

Can you even go to the store and buy clothes anymore? They certainly didn’t seem to have this problem in all those apocalypse movies. I spent all my life watching them, and not a single one has prepared me for this moment.

To get a break from the wind, I walked up to the first door I saw and pulled. It opened. I guess no one decided to lock up shop for the apocalypse. The lobby looked like what you’d expect, from my extensive knowledge of movies in a big city: marble floors, tall columns, a receptionist desk, and elevators in the distance.

All the power was off. The elevators would be off, too, so there was no point trying to go up unless I wanted to get my steps in today.

It was a bit odd because everything was powered by fusion. That was mostly automated and unlimited, so there was no reason to turn it off. Unless, maybe some AI shut it down for some safety reason, because, sure, not having power wasn’t a safety hazard.

In the lobby to the right was a coffee shop. I won’t say the name for fear of being sued, but it rhymed with “Scar Flucks”. My throat was still raw from breathing in all the dust, so a quaranta-sized cold brew sounded great. I walked over to the little cafe.

Behind the counter, on the floor, was a gray pile of dust covered by a green apron. I jolted back a step. All the dust outside had been smeared into one layer with occasional bumps. It was no longer recognizable as individual entities. But here, it hit different.

I’d have to get used to seeing these piles, these remnants of people who had a life, who had a job. A barista. I made the mistake of glancing at the name tag: “Ash”. You’ve got to be kidding me.

Ash was blocking my way to the cold brew tap. I wanted to be respectful and not step on them. I looked around and spotted a broom and dustpan. I considered it for a moment, but no—that was a bit too much, even for me.

So instead, I backed up, hesitated for a second, took a big step, then lunged over the pile, dangly bits jouncing, and landed on the other side of the workspace. My bare feet hit the terracotta tile, and the contact patch jerked them to a halt, sending my upper body and palms slamming into the end countertop.

It’s been a long time since I even attempted to jump. At my age, that’s how you break hips, and I didn’t want a new one like Chuq got. Well, the age I was. So, give me a break if I flubbed the landing. Only after I hit the countertop did it occur to me that I could have simply hoisted myself over the bar with these new, strong arms. Live and learn.

I grabbed a cup, put it under the nitro cold brew tap, and pulled the handle. Brown liquid streamed into the cup. You probably thought I was going to say nothing happened on account of there being no power. That’s where you’d be wrong because this coffee was in a keg pressurized by nitrogen. The nitrogen pushes the coffee out.

Science lesson over. I took a sip. The dark brown nectar of the gods poured into my throat, soothing the scrapes inside. It would have been perfect if it weren’t room-temperature coffee. Apparently, you do need power for the refrigerator to work.

From the merch stand, I took a couple of the insulated bottles—got to keep that room-temperature inside—and filled them up. I’d need a way to carry them. Maybe Ash has a bag. I went into the backroom looking for something, anything I could carry on my shoulder. Then I saw it.

On the shelf, still wrapped in a clear plastic film, was an official Scar Flucks green apron. I took it out of the wrapper. I shook it out. Freshly starched. I sniffed. Yes, that new just-from-the-industrial-laundromat scent. I put the top strap around my neck and draped the apron over my naked body, tying it around my waist in the back. It’s no fig leaf, but it will do for now.

A brown leather messenger bag sat in the corner—probably Ash’s. I looked inside, hoping to find a charged computer I could get online with to see if anyone still existed. Nope, of course not. Someone working at Scar Flucks can’t afford a laptop. There were a couple energy bars, house keys, a fidget toy, and—a phone!

I dropped the bag and tapped the screen. It glowed! Yes!—a charge. Face not recognized. “What do you mean, face not recognized?” Oh, yeah, not my phone. I would try to use Ash’s face, but it’s gone now.

After punching in a few common PINs, it yelled at me about too many attempts and refused to answer. I threw it at the back wall. Not because I was angry, but because why not? No one else is going to need it. I picked it up—not a scratch on it. So, I kicked a mop bucket in retribution.

I reacquired the bag and looked through the rest of it. There was a journal, but it was completely empty. I got the feeling Ash was a bit of a café-nerd poser. Chic leather bag, cool moleskin journal—no substance. I’d keep the journal, though. Maybe it was time to re-learn how to use a pen.

Before leaving the backroom, I needed a couple more things. I grabbed an official Scar Flucks black ballcap and a blank name tag, wrote in “Slacy”—good to go. After putting a few bottles of lukewarm brew and all the little bags of salted almonds in Ash’s bag, I voiced my thanks to Ash for keeping the tap fresh, then left the cafe.

I looked around the lobby for anything else useful. There were things here and there, but more than I could reasonably carry, and no clothing or shoes. I looked into the maintenance closet—nothing useful unless I wanted to start sweeping up the dust. I did wash the dust off me in the sink and dried off with a towel. I put a clean towel in the bag, so I’d always know where my towel was.

The wind howled as I pushed open the door. I stepped into the street, looking for my next destination. I was thinking about where I could get some clothes, when it hit me. An electric delivery van bumped into my leg. Aren’t these self-driving things supposed to stop sooner? The dust must be messing with its sensors.

While everyone seemed dead, the EV vans were still alive and well, making deliveries. This one would probably return to the warehouse after it finished its rounds. All I had to do was hitch a ride, and I’d have my pick of clothes. There were no door handles, no windshield—nothing for me to get into.

It beeped three times and drove off. “Hey! Stop! Get back here!” I shouted. I tried chasing it for five blocks before I saw it turn into a back alley a couple kilometers ahead of me. When I reached it fifteen minutes later, it was backed up to a loading dock. It should have automatically unloaded, but the dock was already overloaded with boxes.

It must have gotten tired of waiting for someone to move them because it beeped three times. So, I stepped onto the bumper, grabbed tight onto the hinge nubs, hugged it for dear life, smushing my front bits into the apron, letting my naked ass hang out the back.

It drove off. My scarf and apron flapped in the wake.

Author’s Notes

See, as the teaser said, Slacy finally gets some clothes. If you’re not sure what to wear for Halloween yet, go as Slacy.

If it wasn’t for his own reluctance to wear other people’s unclean clothes, he’d already have a solution. You’ll notice that while he has been placed in extraordinary circumstances, many of his problems are of his own devising.

He’s also carrying around a lot of coffee now. That can’t possibly come back to bite him in his naked ass.

What do you think? Is Slacy acting reasonably for the cluster fuck he’s been dropped in? How would you react?

On the next episode, we get to see how well does voicing Slacy speaking other languages.

Next Chapter

Continue reading for Chapter 3, go back to Chapter 2, or start at Chapter 1.

Audio performance by

⚠️ Content Warning: Death, body horror (yes, even more), existential crisis

Last time on The Flucks

Dammit—there was that white light again.

✹✹✹

I heard sounds before the light faded. Birds and… monkeys? I’m no zoologist. I looked up. Trees loomed over me. A jungle, of course. What is this, some sort of Minecraft-biome bullshit? If I die again and respawn in the plains, I’m going to have some words to say to God… or Satan… whoever’s running this farce.

The jungle presses close around Slacy, thick with heat, rot, and breath. Something moves, stalking. When the trees clear, all he finds is dust and the bones of a dead world. He finally realizes where he is—but all he wishes for now is death.

Chapter 3 — This is fine

I started to walk yet again. Why pick a direction? I just put one foot in front of the other, tripping over roots every step. The canopy above was thick, strangling the sunlight into narrow shafts. There wasn’t much plant life growing on the forest floor.

It was, however, teeming with other life. Insects whizzed by, but not all of them. Half of them tried to eat my flesh like it was a newly discovered delicacy. Swatting them away, I soldiered on.

Hey, at least I should be able to find water this time. My mouth was no longer dry—probably the humidity. The air clung to my skin like a wet towel. It’s not the heat, you know, it’s the humidity that will get you, or so I’ve heard. I was starting to believe it because I was missing the dry heat of the desert.

Did I just hear a growl?

Does Heaven /(slash) Hell have wildlife?

I noticed the birds and insects, but I didn’t really think of them as wildlife. They’re just the background noise of life.

The noise rattled my bones, low, guttural. Yep, that was definitely a growl.

I spun around and saw…. nothing but trees.

Our ancestors could climb to evade predators, so I thought I’d give that a try. I started trying to climb the tree closest to me. The lowest limb was at least ten meters above me. What kind of forest has trees you can’t climb? This afterlife business was really starting to suck.

There I was, scraping my arms against the bark, trying to get even an inch off the ground, when it hit me. Something gripped my throat like a vice and dragged me backward.

A warm liquid slicked down my face and got into my eyes. I tried to wipe it away with the back of my hand, but my hand refused to respond. I moved my other arm to feel for my unresponsive hand. It did not budge.

Spots filled my vision, and the sound of teeth crunching my bones shifted into a high-pitched ringing. I had a clarity of thought about how great adrenaline is at masking pain.

When the light claimed me this time, I was certain I was in some simulation. This felt too much like respawning in a game.

✹✹✹

The light receded. I hoped I would be in a nice, cozy bed this time. Instead, I found myself on pavement. Skyscrapers loomed over me instead of trees. Are there skyscrapers in Hell?

The street was abandoned. Windows were busted. Cars littered the road—half of them burnt shells. Your typical post-apocalyptic scene.

I’d never been to a big city, but this looked vaguely familiar. I walked block to block–they’re called blocks, right? I saw no one.

That was good, because I was still naked. I saw random clothes lying around in piles, but I didn’t grab any. None were my style. Who am I kidding? I have no style, and I was terrified of looking under them.

Automated delivery trucks moved about, delivering boxes to empty stores. Yeah, I’m certain Hell does not have self-driving EV vans.

The wind picked up and blew dust everywhere. The dust was fine. Like, not “it’s fine”, but tiny particles. It scratched my eyes, dried out my sinuses, and cut my lips. Every breath felt like I was scrubbing my lungs with fiberglass. You guys probably don’t know what that is—we stopped using it a long time ago.

I gave up and picked up a scarf lying by itself to cover my nose and mouth. I found a pair of wraparound sunglasses to shield my eyes. I still didn’t grab any clothes, even though I should have, because the dust was going places you don’t ever want. Who’s got style now?

Every sidewalk, street, and store had the same thing: small piles of dust. The wind was smoothing them into an even surface, like walking on moon dust.

I was starting to think this was another game level, but I had seen this not too long ago.

✹✹✹

I was watching Yeoman on VidVid. They were always talking from the streets in some city or another. I didn’t grow up or live in the city, so it was always fascinating to watch—seeing how people lived in a jungle made of concrete.

They were showing scenes of their city right after the Flucks hit. First, there were protests. There was no shortage of food or supplies. People were just pissed that no one was doing anything. Then, when people started to die, the riots started. Cities burned. There were piles of dust everywhere.

I thought the dust was from the fires.

✹✹✹

As I said before, I had outlived everyone. Friends, relatives, nearly everyone. But I had one friend who was there with me until the end: Chuq.

For those audio listeners, that’s “Chuq”, with a “q”. Her real name was some old Boomer thing, and she felt like no one from our generation took her seriously. So I christened her “Chuq”. That’s what our parents would do: take a name from the past, swap out a letter with a Z or Q or X or whatever. Instant Zoomer name.

Anyway, we were roommates. Her wife had died a few years back. We both caught the Flucks at the same time—nearly the whole world did. What the streams didn’t show, at least not by the time I stopped watching, was how the Flucks killed you. It didn’t kill me, but Chuq wasn’t so “lucky”. I said that with air quotes—you couldn’t see.

First, you get the virus. I guess it’s a virus, who knows. It’s not like the flu or COVID. I had plenty of those. With this flux, your body starts leaking fluids from all sorts of places—some I didn’t know I had.

But I recovered. I thought that was the worst of it. I felt fine after a few days.

But not Chuq. The virus triggered something—a runaway reaction that made the molecules in her body unravel. Bonds that were supposed to hold proteins and tissues together just… snapped. The scientific term might be “de-molecularize”—I dunno, I’m not a biologist either.

Your organs fail, and that’s the good part. Your insides go from a warm, squishy mess to a fine, powdery mess. Cells didn’t just die. They fell apart in waves—whole body parts collapsing, like watching city buildings implode one after another.

I watched Chuq slowly crumble, and she still tried to cheer me up. On the last day she spoke, she said through cracked lips, “Slacy, don’t look so grim. You’ll outlive this, too.”

“That’s what I’m worried about, I’m too damn old—”

“Yes, yes. You’ve been saying that for years, you ol’ grump.” Her voice rasped, dry as paper, but her eyes were steady. “You’ll never be too old.”

There were a couple more days of agonizing pain and confusion for Chuq. She coughed dust. Her skin cracked and peeled in strips, each breath scattering more of herself into the air. Then she just… stopped.

But the Flucks didn’t. Over the next few days, the rest of her body disintegrated into a pile of dust. All the atoms that make you you, no longer bound in molecules—just a heap of loose elements.

A body is something like sixty percent water. And water, when broken down into elements, is just oxygen and hydrogen. The gases floated away. What was left was mostly a fine pile of carbon and ash-gray dust.

For days, I watched as Chuq’s body slowly disintegrated. I didn’t dare go outside while the world was ending.

Chuq had a hip replacement a few years back and a pacemaker. Apparently, the Flucks doesn’t touch non-organic material. Lying there on her bed in a pile of dust were her hip joint and the small metal circle that once kept her heart beating.

✹✹✹

These weren’t ashes. Those weren’t randomly placed clothes. This wasn’t Hell—it certainly wasn’t Heaven. This was no video game or grand architect simulation. This was the same world I went to one last slumber on my deathbed.

Now why the hell can’t I die in peace?

Continue to Chapter 4.

Continue reading for Chapter 2, or start at Chapter 1.

Audio performance by

⚠️ Content Warning: Death, body horror, existential crisis

Last time on The Flucks

The sun blazed directly overhead, leaving nothing to steer by. Not like I knew where I was or where I was going anyway. My dark-winged companions weren’t going to help me navigate.

The dune ridges looked easier to walk. I picked one, then chose randomly from my two choices of direction and started walking.

Hell has no sunscreen, and Slacy’s learning that the hard way. The desert burns without mercy, buzz-vultures buzz, and time itself feels like it’s melting. Every step forward is punishment, but somewhere ahead, the heat starts to fade.

Chapter 2 — How it’s going

It didn’t take me long to realize Hell has no sunscreen. I could really use an umbrella right now. My skin cooked, tight and prickling, red meat left too long under a broiler. Every step made the air burn hotter, until I was roasting from the outside in.

The buzz-vultures kept pace overhead. They knew the game: fresh meat shows up in Hell, staggers till it dies of exposure, then dinner time. I wasn’t planning on being their meal, but I had no other plans for the day, so it was an okay backup plan.

After hours of walking—or was it minutes?—my mouth was parched. Does Hell have no sense of time, or is that true of all people walking in the desert? Either way, I considered testing if it was possible to drink sand.

I looked up, trying to see if the sun had moved. That was a bad idea. White fire stabbed my eyes. I dropped to all fours, dizzy, half-blind. The skin on my shoulders split as it baked. I let my eyes adjust to the merciful shade my head created directly under me. Is it still noon? I guess there is no time here.

I stammered back to my feet and started walking again. Man, this is boring. Shouldn’t there be mirages or something to convince me to walk towards them, just to fall into the mouth of a giant sandworm? A delusion would be much more entertaining than this.

My skin peeled, flakes falling to the sand. Blisters rose on my shoulders and burst, stinging in the heat. The sun did not give up. Neither did I. I was going to make it to that other dune if it killed me.

Wait—which dune was I walking towards? I spun around. My sense of direction had abandoned me. I looked for the buzz-vultures. They, too, had abandoned me.

I flipped a coin and chose a new direction. At least, I imagine I did because apparently, there was no place to put coins when you’re naked. At least not anywhere I’d want to consider. Besides, no one has used coins since my midlife crisis.

If the desert wasn’t going to entertain me, I might as well reflect on life to do it.

I know I grew up Gen-Z with stupid phrases I’ve mostly dropped—at least in my formal writing. This blog counts as formal, right? But this generation was worse. With no central media conglomerates left, there was no singular voice for the news. Just streams. Just vids.

People posted about everyone getting sick. Everyone dying. They said this flux gives zero fucks and will fucking kill you. It took about five seconds for someone to call it “The Flucks,” and it went viral. For those listening to the A.I. reading my extended eulogy, that’s F.L.U.C.K.S. Cute. But not really.

It‘s great that the fall of centralized information and news led to the fall of fascism, but the price was more generations making up words faster than I could keep up. I was too old for that shit. I guess I still am.

When did I end up on the ground? I was lying on my back, staring at the sun. I guess I didn’t really need my eyes anyway. A shadow flickered. Hey, look—the buzz-vultures are back. Thanks, friends. I closed my eyes—just a little nap.

An iris opened before me, letting in a bright light. I should really stop looking at the sun. Oh, wait—this was that light at the end of the tunnel… again? Good. I’d rather die of heat death than wait around for the heat death of the universe.

The light swallowed me.

✹✹✹

Just as I was warming up to the idea, the light started to fade. I assumed it would stop right above me and dump me back where I started in the desert, like I was climbing the Dark Tower.

But it didn’t stop—it kept fading. The only thing left above me was a twilight glow. I began to shiver. Huh—there’s a sensation I’d forgotten.

I sat up and checked my body, hoping having two feet again wasn’t just a dream. Yep, there they were. So, that was good. The issue was that my feet were resting on ice. I looked around. Yep, my entire body was splayed on a frozen slab.

The sun was a pale dot, low on the horizon. Considering my ass was freezing to the ice, I could be at one of the poles. So, the sun was either due north or due south.

No buzz-vultures this time. They probably don’t like freezer meat. Knowing the drill by now, I hauled myself up and started walking. Closer to the sun is warmer, right? I headed toward it.

I figured a long walk across the icy tundra would be prime time for more exposition. But my brain was moving too slowly to think. Could your brain freeze while your heart still pumps?

With each step, the skin on my bare feet fused with the ice, peeling away, leaving behind flesh-patch footprints. It had to be well below zero—my new skin was frosting over, stiffening, splitting in fine white cracks. Brittle shards flaked off and scattered like snow whenever I moved.

My lips split when I tried to lick them, the taste of iron sharp on my tongue. My mouth was as dry as the desert, but I didn’t dare think of water—I was sure it would freeze solid in my throat before it hit my stomach.

No one told me that the cold kills you faster than the heat. At least I didn’t have to wait any longer. I fell to the ice, my skin sticking. It tore as I shifted.

I didn’t bother to look up. Here’s good, I’ll just lie here and nap for a while.

Damnit—there was that white light again.

✹✹✹

I heard sounds before the light faded. Birds and… monkeys? I’m no zoologist. I looked up. Trees loomed over me. A jungle, of course. What is this, some sort of Minecraft-biome bullshit? If I die again and respawn in the plains, I’m going to have some words to say to God… or Satan… whoever’s running this farce.

Continue to Chapter 3.

Continue reading for Chapter 1.

Audio performance by — Music by and .

⚠️ Content Warning: Death, body horror, existential crisis

Slacy has seen the world rise, burn, and rebuild across nine decades. Fascism fell, fusion lit the Earth, and humanity colonized Mars. Now, alone and tired, he lies down in bed, prepared for the end. What more could life offer someone who has already lived through everything?

Music pairing: Buzz Vulture — Jan Herrington (mixed and Buzzardified by Ed Herrington)

Chapter 1 — How it started

I was ready to die.

I lay in bed, waiting for the end to come. What was there left to do? To see? In nine decades, I had seen all I needed.

I witnessed the rise and fall of fascism, the fusion energy revolution, and the end of the combustion engine. A permanent presence on the Moon, people living on Mars. Across Earth, everyone with housing and food. Hard to believe sometimes, but there we were.

I might be making it sound like a utopia, like a perfect life. Nothing was perfect, but it was good enough. The good outweighed the bad.

And I’m not going to lie—it seemed like we finally figured it out as a civilization. Unlimited energy, humans all over the solar system, and everyone with a genuine shot at opportunity, no matter their creed or color.

But I’m done with all that now. I’ve had enough of life. I thought I’d be dead already. The Flucks tried to take me, but it didn’t stick. At my age, I was used to everyone dying around me. I’d outlived most of my friends and relatives. But there was always new life—always babies being born.

That’s probably my biggest regret: never settling down and starting a family. No kids. But everyone around me had kids. I had no shortage of baby showers and weddings to attend. But that’s all done now.

Lately I got tired of watching the streams for news. It might have been from coming of age during the COVID era. Stuck inside with nothing but the internet, I would constantly be watching some news creator posting vids.

When people started getting the Flucks, the streams lit up. I’d pull up VidVid and watch the first reports. First a trickle, then a flood. Every continent, every country—one hundred percent of the world caught it. It killed so many. It should have killed me, yet here I am.

I logged on yesterday to post my last farewell. But the streams were silent. Either the VidVid algorithm had finally listened to me blocking and muting content, or nobody was posting. I figured I’d just write my last words instead.

I looked for paper and a pen, but I don’t think I’ve had either of those since… I can’t remember. Not that you’d be able to read my handwriting anyway. I haven’t written by hand since I switched to virtual school during COVID.

So, here I am, typing a eulogy of sorts for myself. I don’t think anyone is left to give me one. I survived the Flucks when pretty much no one else did, just to die of old age anyway.

If you’re reading this, then I guess there are still people—and they still read blogs. If you’re watching a vid, then someone is giving you the TL;DR and taking everything out of context. If you’re hearing this, then some AI is probably reading it to you and getting my voice completely wrong.

I’m too damn old for this shit.

—Farewell.

I thought that was all I had left to write. I thought they were the perfect last words.

I closed my eyes, expecting the end. Finally, there it was. The tunnel of light they never shut up about.

Here it comes.

༚

Any minute.

༚

Almost there.

༚

༚

W

༚

༚

T

༚

F

It swallowed me.

All sound thinned. Gentle waves sliding up the beach. Then, silence.

But the light was still there. Man, that light is bright. I raised my hand to block it. That helped—barely. My eyes adjusted. I could see the creases in my palm and the… so much blue.

As I lay there trying to make sense of the sky glaring through my fingers, I began to get warm. Hot actually. Was I having fevered hallucinations? Do you get fevers when you have a heart attack?

I sat up. There was no ocean, but there was sand. Sand in every direction. Sand under me. Dunes surrounded me. The sky was crystal clear, blinding.

A shadow passed over me.

I looked up to see buzzards circling. Vultures? Well, whatever, they say to follow buzzards because there’s usually food or water nearby. Except they were circling me. So I guess I was the food.

I glanced down, wondering what was left for them to eat. At least they wouldn’t have to tear through my clothes because I was naked.

I looked at my feet.

Wait.

I looked at my feet. I lost my left foot to diabetes five years ago—dead flesh, sawed off at the ankle, gone.

Yet here were two feet, sitting neatly at the ends of my legs. I admired them for a while. They looked nicer than I remembered, back to being mirrored twins.

My legs were trim, like they were when I was younger. And my middle, well, that’s less shriveled than it was before. I felt my head for my hair—yep—still there. Okay, so I didn’t just wake up in a pod, hairless and new, like some Matrix bullshit.

New body, no clothes…. was I in heaven?

“Hi, is this Heaven?” I shouted into the air.

No one answered, not even the buzz-vultures.

Heaven would be a surprise to me because I was squarely in the camp of ‘don’t give a damn about religion’. I thought the likelihood of heaven existing was way less than, say, the entire world catching a disease and dropping dead before I did.

So, what the hell was this? Wait. Am I in Hell?

I shouted, “Hello, am I in Hell?”.

No one answered—typical Hell. My throat was dry as the dunes around me. So, enough talking aloud.

The place fit the Hell motif. Not quite Dante’s Inferno, but it was hella hot. Nothing was happening, and the sand was burning my ass. What the hell—let’s try out these new legs.

I pushed up and realized the ground wasn’t loose sand after all. It was packed hard, split with deep cracks, like a giant waffle in negative relief. A dry lakebed, salt glimmering.

The sun blazed directly overhead, leaving nothing to steer by. Not like I knew where I was or where I was going anyway. My dark-winged companions weren’t going to help me navigate.

The dune ridges looked easier to walk. I picked one, then chose randomly from my two choices of direction and started walking.

Continue to Chapter 2.