Normal Man In A City of Superheroes

A writing prompt I just did.  A normal man grumbles about being in a typical superhero city.


I hate superheroes. There, I said it. It was time for me to get to work, and I could already hear the explosions outside. Something that people that watched the news never understood was that those explosions were human lives. Often dozens at a time.

When I was a teenager, I proudly bought my first car with my own money. Know what happened to it? Some guy in tights picked it up like it was nothing and used it to beat someone down. He was declared a hero. Meanwhile, I had to go through insurance claims. They had the decency to rule it as vandalism. Not that the vandal in question would ever be reprimanded. Nobody even knew who these people were, which was the scariest part. No accountability ever. I’ve seen them kill. Are they ever punished? No. Not that we could punish them. How do you stop a guy who can smash through brick walls like they’re Styrofoam?!

I sipped my coffee as I headed to the elevator. It was time for me to work. Yes, work. What normal people do. What do these people do anyway? The state swears up and down they’re not paid with taxdollars. Which have skyrocketed by the way. No other way for the city to repair itself after these regular battles. What were they fighting over? Shit if I know. The news always hails them as heroes, and always paints the villains. Never do they say what either side was fighting for.

Outside, the air was thick with debris dust. For several blocks, crumbled remains of buildings marked old battlegrounds. Some of them had construction crews. Sights like these had become routine. What the hell happened to us that this carnage is routine?!

Another explosion sounded in the air, and I saw them fighting. They were barely visible. Newscrews below filmed everything. What they’d never report is what happened to these energy blasts that missed. Lives. Dozens of lives.

My own car had been grazed by plasma blasts and dented to unrecognizability. It would be worth nothing now. I drove to work and went to my office. I buried myself in paperwork. It was the only way to get my mind off this insanity.

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Father Goes For Cigarettes and Disappears For Twenty Years

Another writing prompt.

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I walked into the gas station. “Marlboro Reds, please.”

The cashier smirked. “You really shouldn’t smoke.”

“You really shouldn’t stick your nose into my business.”

“That was rude.”

“Ya know what? Fuck you, I’ll go to the next gas station.” I knew she didn’t care. She was paid minimum wage to run that register and didn’t give a shit how good business was. Still, it felt good to not spend my money there.

As I headed to the door, a tingling sensation came over my body. At first I just ignored it, but it got stronger and I felt something like an electric shot when I touched the door handle. I nearly fell over, but I caught myself.

Things around me seemed strange. They were mostly the same, but different. A guy was staring at some sort of device in his hand. It looked like a cellphone, but wasn’t anything like a cellphone I saw. Must’ve been a rich kid, but he didn’t dress like one. As I looked around, I saw more and more people with them.

I reached in my pocket and called my wife. She seemed amazed that I had called and demanded to know where I’d been.

“I just stepped out for some smokes.”

“Why did you leave?”

“Like I said, I needed smokes.”

“Don’t fucking play games with me!”

“Honey, what’s wrong?”

“Where are you?!”

“At the gas station, sweetie.”

She called me a pig and hung up. I wasn’t sure what was wrong with her, and I went to my car. Except it wasn’t there anymore. Someone stole my car! As I reached for my phone to call the cops, a woman with a man in his early twenties approached me. She looked like my wife, but older.

“No way,” she whispered. “You haven’t aged a day.”

“Is it really him?”

She nodded. “It’s him. I don’t know how, but it’s him.”

“What are you two going on about?”

“You called me. Luckily I happened to be in the area, and we decided to pop in.”

“No, I called my wife.”

“I am your wife.” She gestured to the twenty year old man. “And this is your son.”

“No, my wife is twenty five. No offense lady, but you passed twenty five a while ago.”

She walked to the stack of newspapers for sale and showed one to me. Blood rushed to my head and I nearly fell over. September 27, 2016. What the fuck?! It had been 1996 a second ago! I darted for the other newspapers. Each one had the same date. “How is this possible?!”

A familiar female voice spoke behind me. “You really shouldn’t be so rude to strangers.”

A writing prompt

On the subreddit, /r/writingprompts, a prompt was posted for an intervention for a guy who has gone far too long sober.  All drugs are common and sobriety is frowned upon in this setting.

—-

They were all there. Uncle Bob was tweaking out on uppers. My mom was drunk. Dad was spaced on hallucinogens. And here I was, sober as could be.

“Son, what the hell is this?” Mom clumsily threw a baggy of ground up green herb.

“Holy shit, it’s a tarantula!” Dad climbed over the couch and hid behind it.

“Mom, it’s my weed.”

“Bullshit.” Mom hiccupped. “This is oregano. You think I don’t know what oregano smells like? I was young, I partied once too!”

“Mom, come on.” I tried to laugh it off. “I wouldn’t have oregano as fake weed.”

“That’s not weed!” Mom pointed at the baggy. “I know weed!”

Tears streamed from my eyes and I collapsed into the chair. “I’m so sorry everybody.”

Uncle Bob said nothing while he smoked meth in the corner and gave Dad another drop of acid. It was Mom that came and put her arm around me. “There there son.”

“It’s just, sobriety made me feel so alert and active.” I let the tears flow. “I just couldn’t stop once I started.”

“How long?”

“One year.”

“Take this.” Mom thrust the whiskey into my hands. “Take it now!”

I chugged and felt the vaguely familiar sting of alcohol. “Thanks. I needed this.”

Back to my webcomic

73. Do You Believe In Santa

It feels good to make a comic again.  For anybody following the webcomic, I do apologize for not having one for so long.  Just been busy.  I will try to make this more regular and will try to make it at least bi-weekly if not weekly.

This page brings up an issue that I’ve often wondered in Christmas-y movies about Santa.  He’s always a secret and adults never seem to believe.  If adults don’t believe in Santa, just where do they think all these gifts come from?

As for why Phil got coal, well, you’ll just have to wait and see.

Read more at http://myroommateisanelf.comicdish.com

Breaking Bad fanfiction

Here is a Breaking Bad fanfiction that I wrote a while ago.  It’s set after the show and features Walter White Jr. and what he does with the fortune left to him.

 

Walt Jr. supported himself on crutches made of solid gold. A silver chain holding a diamond encrusted ‘W’ hung from his neck. Black sunglasses hid his eyes that were bloodshot from smoking weed and staying up late.

The journalist followed him closely as he led her into his mansion in the desert. “Is this drug money you got from your father?”

“H-h-hell no, b-b-bitch! I got this from his old friends at Grey Matter!”

“So, you maintain that none of this is drug money?”

“B-bitch, you ain’t nothin’ but a h-hater!” Walt supported most of his weight on his left arm for a moment so that he could pimp slap the disrespectful reporter. “This my house! Wit my money!”

“I’m so sorry Mr. White. Let me kiss your ring.”

Walt generously extended his right hand. Every finger had a ring on it, each with a different jewel. There was a ruby, a sapphire, a jade, an emerald, and some pink thing that only Uncle Hank knew what it was called.

“Which one do you want me to kiss?”

“All of them, bitch!”

She looked up at him with green eyes as she tenderly kissed each rock. He thought of her doing something else from that position. There’d be plenty of time for that.

“So, this is how you spent your money that you received?”

“Hell yeah. My money, my mansion!”

Jessie Pinkman was busy scrubbing the counters when Walt came in with the reporter.

“Bitch, where our refreshments at?”

Jessie quickly got two beers from the fridge, and gave one of the reporter and one to Walt.

“Why ain’t there music playin’? Where the bitches at?”

“I’m so sorry Walt.” Jessie stopped in his tracks as he released his error. “I’m so sorry, Pimp Daddy White.”

Lights darkened as rap music blasted from the surround sound speakers. Women dressed in bras and thongs walked into the room and grinded against Walt and the reporter.

Walt snapped his fingers. “Yo, I want girl on girl!”

One of the black women grabbed the reporters long blonde hair and pulled her in for a deep kiss. Clothes began to come off and Walt cheered as he sipped his beer. Another of the bitches unzipped Walt’s pants and her mouth opened. “This is the l-l-life!”

Writing contest on reddit

While it is just reddit, every bit of exposure helps. I put up a 1041 word story on reddit.  Any support would be appreciated if you have an account.

The theme was deal with the devil. My story is ‘Repo From Hell’.  Let me know what you think. Link to post is here.https://www.reddit.com/r/fantasywriters/comments/3qe86d/spooky_october_2015_monthly_writing_challenge/cwevfvk

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If you enjoy my writing, please buy my books at amazon.http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00V2UT95Y?keywords=jacob%20wallace&qid=1445983009&ref_=sr_1_1&sr=8-1

Zombie short

Here’s a flash fiction story I wrote.  It is about one of the last humans getting turned into a zombie.

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Zombies bashed down the barrier to my shelter.  Adrenaline moved me and I was barely aware of grabbing my shotgun as they started to enter.  Brain, blood, and bone splattered on the walls and floor.  Gunpowder smoke rose, while I frantically shot each one.  A terrifying click came from the mechanism when I got ready to shoot the last one.  I swore before reaching for a shell.

Clumsy arms grabbed onto my barrel and I bashed its head with the butt.  It snarled in reply before latching onto my forearm.  I put my foot on its chest and thrust the creature away.  It stumbled back and I loaded the shotgun shell and blew its head off.  I breathed out a sigh of relief and let myself fall to the ground to sit and lean on my makeshift wall of sheet metal.

Something warm and wet slid down my arm.  Sharp pain burned on my wrist and my heart jolted when I saw the bloody teeth marks. I swore as I frantically tried to clean it. Somewhere deep inside me, I already knew it was already too late. Nobody lasts after a bite, and there was no reason that I would be an exception. Denial kept me from killing myself. I wanted to believe I was the one exception until my fever started to set in. Beads of sweat form on my face and there was no way to deny it. At that point, it was over.

All of my extremities started to go numb and I lost control of my fingers. Everything became blurry and I panted as my strength left. Thoughts of using my gun to blow my brains out crossed my mind. I didn’t want to be one of those monsters that I had spent months fighting, but even more I feared death. Part of me wanted to chuckle at how pathetic I was. All this prep, all those times I had to shoot friends and family after they were infected, and I was too cowardly to shoot myself when the time came.

I grabbed a shotgun shell.  At least, I tried to.  It was near impossible to get my fingers around that thing and the round bounced all over.  A feeling of triumph radiated through me when I held it, and I brought it to feed it into the ammo slot.  My hand didn’t have the strength to push past the spring, and it fell to the ground.  I didn’t even have the energy to be angry.  Everything became darker and all I could do was shut my eyes and accept it.

When my eyes opened, I had a sense of unity. Zombies may seem dumb, but we were still social creatures.  After months of watching everybody I care about die, and weeks of being alone in a shelter that I made, I finally belonged somewhere. None of our perceived differences mattered. Rich and poor was a thing of the past. Alpearances mattered little since our flesh was peeling off.  Zombies never fight each other, and I knew any zombies I met would have my back.

All the aches in my body were gone and my hand didn’t hurt at all. Hunger only pained me when I thought of it, and even then it wasn’t the growling pain in my stomach from rationing non-perishables for the past several months. It was more like I just knew that I needed to eat flesh.

I shambled from my destroyed shelter with the rest of the hoarde. There were no hard feelings that I killed half a dozen before that one bit me. All that mattered was that I was one of them now, and we searched for food in the form of any living being left in the world.