0xdeadbeef – I don’t know why but phones seem to be built/sold with weird limitations – like only four short memos. They tend to seamlessly support only the things that pay someone money.

Ahh, yes, because nobody ever brings up “carefully engineered cold cells delivering a prolonged payload of top-flight methamphetamines directly to the spongy flanges of his right hemisphere” in real conversations. Nor should they.

Spike was 14 when he first jacked in, trying to impress a girl with the hottest rig he’d ever seen. Dyson 465 airwatt centripetal engine straight out of the Chinese development labs – you couldn’t even get them in this country yet – 150 CFM and a 65 decibel threshold. He took one look at it and he wanted to do her mother, just to see if another one like her would pop out.

Girl like that wasn’t going to look twice at some burb cleaning suck geek with an ’07 Eureka bagless rebuild, a hand-me-down from his dead sister Slice, plastered with emo band stickers and blood spatter on the cowling. No, Spike knew if he wanted a bit of that, he needed to walk the edge, he needed to really cut loose and ride the tornado. He needed to jack into the central flow downtown at the source, the Hoover Tower itself. Dyson girl wouldn’t even plug her system into that.

But Spike did, because he was young, dumb and immortal and topped off with testosterone. And he liked how she got a little scared when he used his dad’s petol valve wrench to pop the metal cap on the access pipe in the alley behind the tower – the banshees shrieking down, down in the cavernous vacuum chambers far below the street. She licked her lips, whispered “do it,” and he heard it as “do me” as he slammed the hose attachment into place and then the street was gone and Spike was there.

He felt those raw airwatts flashing behind his eyeballs, pollen concentrations spiking into hay fever nirvana – 50 ppm, 100 ppm, higher. And then the fumes from a million cigarettes, dander of a million pets – and yes, the salty arginine smell of semen in the background. All of it slashing into his brain like a million CFM of genetically reengineered Japanese hash smoke. And Spike forgot all about the girl. This was it, baby. This was what he’d been looking for all along.

Yep, they’ll Tase your sorry ass for that sort of thing back where I come from.

It also works on the iPod Touch, at no extra cost!

I’ve been describing it as “a serial novel of supernatural apocalypse about a global plague, zombies, and a small group of survivors making their way across a very weird Midwest.”

I’m consistently getting terrific feedback (including a lot of people, though I’m not sure I believe them, telling me its as good as Wellington’s work) and I’m around half way in (50,000 words as of now). New parts go up once or twice a week and the traffic has been rather good (over a hundred people on the email list).

If you like zombies, apocalyptic stuff, or weird Mormon mythology, you should check it out.