"Oh, I'll never eat another rarebit again, really I won't."

Puts “the Matrix” to shame.

Takes place in some kind of combination of the SF International airport terminal, and the biggest Costco you ever seen. Boxes of products tower to the rafters 100 ft high. Initially product details abound. Stacks of giant chocolate covered mint marshmallow cakes the size of basketballs, have their boxes ripped open by rats, and are being laid waste. I’m trying to report the vermin problem, but obstacled by bureaucracy. Plant Services consulted, all requests processed in triplicate. But as I run out of request forms, they must be reordered from Materials Management. And as I’m out of MM request forms, new forms necessitate a requisition.

Centuries of stalemate pass.

The setting evolves into a different plot in the same place, but with more marble, public art, and less fluorescent lights. We’re similar to Jedi knights on steroids with ninja derived fashion aesthetic, karate gi’s, but no light saber-ILM derived bullshit, and no honor code. Strictly monomolecular filament wire for us, the better to flay large flaps of your skin away with, my dear. Our forms plastic, endlessly stretchable, distended. Dueling endgame with arch-nemesis, bound by blood feud, as if we had killed and raped each other’s deepest love. Tendrils of flesh and viscera from both bodies coil and intertwine to impossible lengths then grow teeth and bite and tear, becoming metal blades, trying to slice the attacking other away from its principal form enough to finally slay them. Stealth, attack, stealth, attack, each more twisted and violent, drawing blood and bodily fluids then the last, even our very organs are in on the act, forming into machetes and flamethrowers. Not wanting half-measures, our tissues secrete enzymes and chemicals to burn the other, or neutralize the latest corrosive attack. Running to separate corners, seeking stitching for the skin, drugs for strength. Trying to find our doctors in the halls, retreating to coffin closets, trying to catch breath, finding new weapons before the other attacks again. Eternity at war passes, ever-more complex fighting configurations abound, attrition, scars accumulate.

When I awake my right hand is tucked behind my head trying to prop my pillow up higher, and the ache tells me it’s been that way for hours, my neck cocked at an obscene angle.

Cocktail consumed 3 hours before bed:

Grand Sazerac: (from diffordsguide to cocktails 5.2 D-K)

Glass: Old-fashioned
Method: POUR absinthe into ice-filled glass and TOP with water. Leave the mixture to stand in the glass. Separately, SHAKE liqueur, bourbon and bitters with ice. Finally discard contents of absinthe-coated glass and fine strain contents of shaker into absinthe washed glass. (Note that there is no ice in the finished drink.)

1/2 shot La Fée Parisian 68% absinthe
Top up with Chilled Mineral Water
1 1/2 shot Grand Marnier liqueur
1 1/2 shot Bourbon whiskey
2 dashes Angostura aromatic bitters
3 dashes Peychaud’s aromatic bitters

Origin: Created in 2004 by Simon Difford
Comment: An orange twist on the classic Sazerac

Note: As we didn’t have La Fée’s absinthe at my house. I actually used pure absinthe imported from France illegally probably as cheese or something, as far as customs was concerned. Big shout-out to JW for providing that party favor for my bachelor soirée five years ago. This was my first use since. Finally got back on the horse, and aside from night visions, this drink was excellent. I highly recommend it.


With sincere apologies to William Gibson and Winsor McCay (I can’t control my subconscious).