My name is Kathian Castielling Kont. As a child I helped my father the goats. I would hold them down whilst he slit their throats – there was always a horrible bit where suddenly kick kick kick, the goat would shake suddenly and pointlessly, my own hands stopping its struggle. By the third kick it would lie there still alive but without stength, the blood flowing through the incision quick and fast. I liked to think the goat knew what was happening and knew its struggle was pointless. Father use to say it was because he severed the spinal column whenever I helped out as I was too weak to hold it. I still think I was more right than he. The main reason being that when I slit his throat I found he would not stop struggling till I had cut most of his head off. Then again, experimenting with a live body by flowing a huge quantity of blood back into the incision into the arteries with a steam powered heart was slightly – well heartless I suppose.
That joke gets less of a chuckle at parties than I’d hope. Lord Grimshaw used to tell me that it was because the guests all knew it to be true and I should try it on some folk from outside the village. I did, they didn’t laugh either. Nor later when I tried to show them exactly why it had been funny.
It took me days to run back home – then I had had to take the less direct route.
* * *
‘Alright Cunt!’
In a mumble another voice spoke, ‘Where?’
‘Over there,’ the first voice said to the other, quieter than when it shouted.
Kathian for a number of very unfortunate reasons knew exactly who the voices belonged too. The first and most severe unfortunate reason being that she happened to know those two people and in fact work with them.
Kathian turned to the voices. Wibble and Wobble as she liked to call them when not speaking out loud were crawling towards her. They were perfectly human. Perfectly being more an adverb than an adjective.
‘It’s Kont.’ Kathian explained making sure she pronounced every syllable and tone in each word correctly. Unfortunately for Kathian she has a very strong lisp.
‘Yeah that’s what I said.’ Wibble explained.
‘I thought you didn’t like us using sexually explicit words to describe your sexual organs anyway?’ Only Wobble could get such a long syllabic sentence out so quickly and still managing to maintain, what to any passer-by would take as true innocence. ‘Shouldn’t we just call you Kathian?’
‘No.’ Kathian answered, coldly, dully, pointlessly.
‘Oh well, when will I be riding Cunt?’ A problem in being the only Female super on the base was that she was constantly bombarded by sexually explicit comments. A benefit was she was also able to enjoy the fact that she could enjoy sexually explicit activities with any of the men she was half-attracted too, and continue with the knowledge that the men she didn’t like would likely end up making similar comments, after getting used to making them, to one of the attractive men on the base’s girlfriend or wife.
Kathian liked strong muscular men. The usual.
Ignoring Wobbles real meaning, Kathian coldly answered the question. ‘You’ll be out riding at 2000 hours. Wibble you’ll be fucking my cunt at 7.’
‘Yes maim.’ Only Wibble answered. Kathian hated the man, but working on the base was a very stressful environment and she had become accustomed to his shape and size.
Did we mention? Kathian is now a fighter pilot for the Galactic Federation Defence Force...or something like that.
* * *
Across the gulfs of some black space stuff that 21st century scientists mistakenly called ‘Dark Matter’, rather than the more accurate description as ‘Organic Waste’, atop a large floaty rock thingy (No not an asteroid thanks) lies what can best and only accurately be described as ‘a big gun’. The ‘big gun’ is one of the single most destructive forces in existence. It was not created by the force of any living being, nor any dead beings. Instead it was formed by nature itself, in all the randomness of the universe.
If you think the idea of nature being the creator of such a complex thing just remember what stupid people say about infinity:
‘In infinity Monkeys would eventually create Shakespeare if given a typewriter.’
Now just think if people are stupid enough to accept this as an argument and not point out that actually the monkeys may necessarily never create Shakespeare, one big reason being their monkeys, a second big reason being they can’t read nor understand any form of English, and of course thirdly because of the way a typewriters keys are set out the monkey would probably end up hitting more than one at a time, making things nonsensical.
Sure they might – which does not mean they necessarily will – but likely they won’t.
Now if you think that a human like being could create a gun so complicated and intrinsic that the ‘big gun’ could actually blow itself up 6 months before it fires and actually still fires 6 months later, despite being completely destroyed.
Right at this moment in time the big gun explodes in a moment of bright white and olive light, the gun disapparates from the force of firing. Both it and the firer are completely removed, their entire time line wiped out – never existing.
Somewhere else a digital watch on a rather hairy wrist has began to count down.
At the centre of the closest sun to the big gun a science team from Earth have calculated the exact time it takes for the solar system nearby to rotate around the sun. On their screen ‘3 days, 5 minutes and 2 milliseconds’ flashes up. One scientist thinks it’s broken claiming the seconds are missing. Another scientist calls him silly and points out it’s actually 0 seconds. They all laugh, before clapping one another’s back, believing that their research will eventually lead them to working out what exactly ‘Dark Matter’ is.
Did we mention how strong this gun is? No? Are you sure?
Well we’ll just say, for the sake of common decency that nature may have been in an extremely suicidal mood when it created the big gun.
* * *
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