The old man leapt up from his desk and confronted me. “You weren’t trying to resuscitate me, were you?” He demanded. “Everyone’s trying to resuscitate me,” he went on, shouting and drawing attention to himself. Eyes turned to me since I was the one getting reamed out. “Can’t a man keel over at his desk and fall lifeless to the floor without a bunch of damn do-gooders and screwball Samaritans bothering him?”

Ricardo stared at Lavanda as she struggled to place the cap on his Styrofoam cup. He marveled at her beauty. Her eyes captivated him the most. Behind her unnaturally long eyelashes were dark blue irises that gave off vibes of equal parts wonder, confusion, and naivety with a pinch of mischief. At times, Lavanda reminded Ricardo of a lost puppy, a very attractive lost puppy.

I ruled as far as the eye could see, providing you didn’t stand on any hills. From my people’s ringfort above the confluence of waters, I succored my beloved subjects and scourged my— “Oh mom, look at this! Gross!” Listen here, kid. Like you’ll look any better after two millennia, presuming you survive that long.

[continue reading…]

It was nine in the morning, and Leon was well into the story mode of the latest Call of Duty. He had beaten all the Call of Dutys, or Calls of Duty, depending how you approached the pluralization. He didn’t know what this one was fully called—Call of Duty 19: Carnage of Vengeance or whatever. They were all pretty good. Leon was high, anyway.

Grant’s tire crushed a hypodermic needle as his BMW rolled to a stop at a red light. He was explaining wireless internet to Taylor, the woman riding shotgun (a 7.5, he will later rate her to his buddies). Grant observed his pre-gentrified surroundings with an arrogant ease that relied entirely on being inside of an automobile. They were headed to a pop-up concept in an abandoned warehouse in Denver Arts District that was doing a $250/head tasting menu.