CHAPTER 4

The semester before the summer our school had to be blasted for "mold" problems, Rice, Socialite and I came through and hit the proverbial balls of academia with everything we had, sometimes to spectacular effect, sometimes just enough to get the guy at the back of the class to stop drooling and actually pay attention. In my more magnanimous moments, I like to think that we helped loosen the screws in some of the schools more hung up students, but mostly, and I figure this goes for all of us, I take pleasure in thinking we motivated them right the hell off the grid.

The recipe was simple. After a museum excursion where the main attraction was a blank canvas, the three of us were struck by the old adage that less is more. In fact, from that point on we categorically refused to submit any work at all. Our presentations consisted of silently trawling the classrooms, dressed in black, randomly selecting one student, and bullying them without purpose. There was the guy we battered with insults then gave a comforting hug. Huntarr actually cried that time.

The last work we did was developing a website built around a prototype machine we were building that would envelop the user in a special cocoon that would set a mold of their body, and spit out a wardrobe made of latex on the other side. We hadn't rigged up a system that would allow the user to breathe yet, but other than that it worked like a dream. However, seeing as how it was a work in progress, the site we built was a simple mock-up. Not functional as a web site, but laid out and ready to code. The design was deceptively simple, and beautiful. But one student took exception to the fact that he couldn't navigate the site.

"It doesn't work?"

"Sure it does, as a mock up. It'll work perfectly when it's coded."

"But it doesn't work right now."

"It's a mock up."

"So what. You guys are totally unprofessional. If the client was here..."

"It's a MOCK UP."

"If the CLIENT was here, what would you show him?"

"A MOCK UP."

Socialite pulled out his dictionary and started folding. The poor kid never had a chance.
___________________________________

By now everything was being run from 2-cock towers. It doubled as a recycling centre, and Rice brought cash in to the operation by crushing used aluminum into hyper-dense, easily transportable cubes with his buttocks. He also financed the entire east wing with royalties from pantone, as he copyrighted and named the 20 most successful colors in printing history right under their noses. A couple of years later he'd actually run Pantone, and gleefully run it into the ground. Literally.

Socialite meanwhile had become something of a digital florist, using his scimitar to sculpt Bonzai trees into highly complex 1 and 0 combinations that would eventually overgrow into a flawless portrait of Yoda. He had a whole tourist industry going in the west wing nursery, mostly Japanese and highly grateful for the access. Sometimes they'd buy souvenir portable aluminum cubes on their way out.

But they'd always drop a wad on my 2 cocks, springing up to 50 bucks for a thirty second glimpse at their splendor and the feats they could perform. Only one person was ever able to stomach watching me use them to fight off a raccoon, and he got his money back and a hug from yours truly. Only Rice and Socialite could appreciate that sight otherwise, and I'd be damned if I was going to hug them.

To cap it off, we owned all Iranian rice. If you bought Iranian Rice anywhere in the world, we got a piece. If you tried to smuggle it in or out of anywhere, we knew about it. We'd catch you and force-feed you your entire shipment. If you farmed it, we'd know. If you ate it, we'd know. If you shat it out, we'd know. And if you didn't shit it out we'd know that too. All this after we whole-heatedly embraced the credo that a little knowledge goes a long way.

Huntarr, on the strength of one visit, gave us passing grades for the year, and automatic pass cards, valid for any course we'd eventually take with him. As he put it, we were C students, but "strong" C students. Rice was the only one concerned about his grades figuring that Iranian rice and flashy buttocks couldn't last forever. I assured him they could and every once in a while threw a clump of Rice in his mouth to whisk him off to whatever fucked up place it took his mind. "Ah. Ah! Virginia. Make me a sandwich Virginia. Do what I tell you Virginia!" From what I could tell, she did.

For my part, I was content to walk around naked all the time and ponder my future. Everything seemed possible at the time, with 2-cock towers at our disposal and all kinds of financing rolling in from world-wide satisfied clients, these were indeed the salad days. Socialite was starting to talk in more than mono-sylables, giving us a taste of just what that dictionary of his had taught him, and Rice... kept us in rice.

The year end party was held at 2-cock towers that year. From the numbers I saw, every student in the city came. Some of them even made it out. But most importantly our year's work came to fruition. We'd developed a sound system so powerful and focusable that it could liquefy matter. It took most of the city's power-grid to do it, but the important thing is it worked, and that meant we were looking at a new age of peace in the world.

And throughout the summer months, until the next semester, like the naive fools we were, we believed that.

CHAPTER 3


"Y'all are stupid. You need to check out the dictionary, 'cause y'all are stupid."

Rice doesn't remember the moment, but it's burned into my memory, when Socialite first spoke in our presence.

"Can you elaborate a little for us?"

Our prof, Huntarr, had been exceptionally indulgent up to then, letting the dime store geek students list off their fave masturbation sites, and the tech freaks describe the best way to make napalm in a fruit cellar. He seemed to be a pundit of zen mastery, and that was alright with me since I'm the kind that generally likes to let things go. And somehow the freak in the baseball cap and the goatee, who seemed to be on the verge of going postal on the room, had finally gotten Huntarr's goat.

It's hard to say why. The guy's attitude was anything but challenging; more like a half-baked attempt at sliding an opinion under the radar, but still getting an opinion out there, that happened to be outwardly hostile. Maybe Huntarr liked the guy and just wanted to let him have his say, to break the monotony of hearing another repressed guy who just wanted to rant about the last game he played while stroking a joystick in a frenzy of saliva spraying monologue. Whatever the case, while the rest of the class twitched under assault, Huntarr waited for the guy's answer with a mildly curious smile on his face.

"Well?"

The guy somehow managed to slump even more in his chair.

"I'm listening to y'all and none of you know how to speak. So dictionaries."

Huntarr waited.

"They're cool."

"Cool. I guess they are, if..."

"People suck."

"What. All people?"

"Yup."

"You too.?"

"Yup"

And with that, the guy I'd dubbed the "socialite" stroked a couple of keys on his keyboard and fell silent. Huntarr looked instantly bored.

"Thanks for enlightening us. Now, how about you. What's cool?"

He gestured to the child prodigy in the corner with no skin. I kept an eye on Socialite, anticipating his snap at any moment. I looked to Rice, trying to warn him of my fears. He just waved his hand, said don't worry about it, and showed me how he could crush his computer tower with his buttocks. Huntarr looked over at the screeching metal and plastic, a little enviously I thought, then went back to the no-skin kid.

_______________________________________

" I heard that that's a good read."

Socialite put down his dictionary and looked up at me and Rice, standing over his table. In no time flat he'd origamyd the dictionary into a super dense, recyclable scimitar.

"Don't make me use this you bastards."

Rice surprised me by staying calm and sitting at the table.

"Dude. Don't worry about it."

In a blur of motion, Rice swooped a tupperware of Rice onto the table and flashed a winning smile.

"You ever tried this ?"

Socialite sliced the top of the tupperware off with his scimitar, and a hail of Rice cascaded over the library floor.

"Aw man! That tupperware was from Persia."

"You mean Iran."

"I mean Persia! Bastard."

And with that Rice swooped around and grabbed Socialite by the throat in a buttocky grip of iron. Socialite dropped the scimitar and desperately tried to pry Rice's buttocks apart.

"May as well try and stop a flood with a tampon you retard."

Socialite turned green. Then blue. Then yellow with red poka-dots. A thought hit me to jump in and pry the cheeks apart myself. Then I thought better of it.

"Rice. Let 'im go man."

But he attacked Persia."

"He attacked a tupperware."

"Full of Persia!"

"Full of Rice."

"That's what I said!"

"Man that Rice is good."

"Yeah? You like it?"

That was all the distraction I needed. He relaxed his buttocks enough that I managed to quickly pry socialite free. Rice was pissed, but now Socialite had his scimitar back, so there'd be no quick, retaliation-free grab.

"So you guys gonna chill out or what? This is getting pretty annoying."

Socialite lowered his scimitar and rubbed his throat.

"What the hell do you freaks want anyway?"

"We want you to join our group."

Both of them looked at me incredulously. I gave Rice an annoyed look.

"Shit! Yeah, that's right. I totally forgot when he attacked the rice."

"I didn't attack your goddamn..."

"Whaddayasay?"

Socialite unfolded his scimitar back into dictionary form and started skimming through.

"I don't know. Who are you guys anyway?"

"I'm Rice, and this is 2-cock."

"You've got 2 cocks?"

"Yeah."

"I'm in."

"Groovy dude. I got a good feeling about this."

The group hug lasted a long time. I don't know what the hell Rice was talking about (something like the GDP of some country called Payamastan), but Socialite was running through words from the dictionary, in alphabetical order, listing the words, definitions, and etymologies of each of them in turn. There was a Paul Anka song I couldn't get out of my head, driving me slowly insane, and I was loudly humming it.

We all stopped simultaneously.

The smell that permeated the room was familiar; sickeningly sweet and fleshy, but indefinable. We eventually found the source in the corner, at the air vent, in the form of an odd drip. What was odd was that it was dripping upwards, and I'd swear that each droplet of whatever it was was smiling at us. A chill ran up my spine. Rice threw a clump of rice into his mouth and started hallucinating, saying "don't worry about it over and over." Socialite sneered at the drops.

"Hope both those cocks of yours work dude."

CHAPTER 2


My favorite food is Indian.

Can't say it's always been because it hasn't, but it is now. I love cooking it, and I love eating it. And we're talking about the regional stuff here. Weird curries you never heard of , semi-greasy nan bread, tandooried everything. I love a spicy food that's equally enjoyable in the winter and in the summer, and both for the same reasons. It's as simple as that.

What I really can't resist in Indian restaurants is the abundance of delicious safron rice. when it's good it's really great. And luckily for everyone it's the kind of thing that's pretty hard to fuck up.

No, for fucked up Rice, you have to go to Iran.

I recently had McFadden slither in to do an analysis of Iranian rice, and what it discovered was chilling. A rare eastern element, identified only as DFAR, permeates the stuff. What it does exactly remains a mystery, except that it tastes great. Disarmingly great. Frighteningly great.

Now, a bit of background.

The year before the year of McFadden was the year I started my second degree in digital arts. I was a fair bit older than the other students, but far from being a problem, it actually made things a lot easier.

So I'm waiting for the first class to begin, sitting outside the classroom. This small latino boy strolls up and sits down across from me. He looks scared and vulnerable, so I reach out a hand and introduce myself.

"Hey man. Name's Rice," he says to me.

"Rice?"

"Y'know, like in Iran."

I just look at him.

"Omigod. You never had Iranian food? That's messed up."

"Iranian food?"

"It's the craziest stuff man. Ahh you never had anything else like it."

"You're Iranian homes?"

"Yeah. Well my family is."

I blink at him.

"I was born on a beach in Puerto Rico. My family found me there while they were wandering across the country."

"I need a cigarette homes."

"Nah. Here, put this in your mouth instead."

He hands me a tupperware. I open it and the thing is filled to the brim with rice. I look at him.

"Pretty crazy, yeah. I scored 200 points in basketball yesterday."

I blink again and look back at the rice. I dip my fingers in the tupperware and blast a clump of the stuff in my mouth.

Colors. sounds. Suddenly I'm salsa dancing in a turban and chopper pilot shades. I grab the first person that comes by and hold her wrist in place while I spin around and around.

I come to with a jolt. Rice had thrown a clump of rice at me as hard as he could and snapped me out of my fantasy. I can see how he scored 200 points in one game.

"Thanks man." He helps me up.

I look at the girl I'd been dancing with. "Sorry about that."

"How'd you do that?" she asks. "Was that software? Was it VRML?"

"Rice."

Rice slides in front of her with the tupperware.

"Yeah! You want some? It's the craziest thing."

Next: Rice's true pectoral powers and the anti-everything power of the socialite.

CHAPTER 1


A man?

Hardly.

A place?

A state of mind?

McFadden is all around us. It seeps, and slithers and coils itself around all that is living and renders it lifeless.

I had the unfortunate luck of seeing McFadden in its refined form, almost human, working as a teacher at a mediocre school in Montreal a few years back. It immediately aroused suspicions in the students, myself included, but it wasn't anything you could put a finger on. Not at the time anyway.

There was a noticeable lethargy to the way it moved and spoke. We all asumed it was because it didn't give a damn. We know better now of course, but at the time, he seemed to be just another temp trying to make a few extra bucks, and who didn't give a rat's ass how he did it, or whether his students paid the price for his lack of interest.

That was our first mistake.

It was, of course, the first of his properties to manifest itself to humans. He was lethargic, yes. And slowly but surely, we humored him about it. I don't remember who the first one was to notice that our work was dropping in quality, unfocussed. Some of the students passed out on their computers during the "lectures." Others simply stopped coming to class. Those that did come would innevitably leave with drool in the corners of their mouths. Even the guy who the year previous had delivered his final project in a frenzy of masturbation, merely sat at the back of the class, holding his flacid penis and staring at it like he was trying hard to remember something, but had no idea what. I was smoking a lot more, troubled, but too uninterested to do anything about it.

Seared into my memory, shot into it like a diamond bullet, is the moment I spotted McFadden standing in front of an air vent, its crotch ground tightly against it. It was gyrating its hips rhythmically around and around, making a sound half-way between a mumble and a laugh. I dropped my cigarette and crushed it out, and it turned around and sent my mind reeling. From its tiny penis, a huge glob of green matter emerged and stuck. The smell, my god the smell, was too appaling to imagine, but suddenly I didn't mind. It wiped the slime from its "penis," and licked its fingers clean. All the while smiling that horrible little smile, his mouth not moving, except his lips... His lips quivering like an audio waveform. and that laugh sound still softly resonating.

I looked back to the vent. The remaining slime seemed to crawl in and disappear.

I've never seen documented what I felt at that moment. Imagine you're about to get into a fight. Your heart is racing. Adrenaline swells your body. Anxiety, stress. You're anticipating what's to come with nervous energy and dread. Now imagine that's your body, but your mind is calm as a hindu cow. You see what's going on around you. You undrestand the situation, but all your mind can do is coldly process information.

That was me. And all McFadden did was smile that waveform smile, and laugh that muttering laugh. like the bastard knew I wasn't going to do a goddamn thing about it.

"See you in class then."

It zipped up and severed its penis. It looked down at the writhing member on the ground and shrugged before picking it up and putting it its pocket.

"No worries kid, this is old school to me."

As it walked away I just lit another cigarette. But my body was screaming. For blood. For interevention. And, though I didn't know it at the time, it was screaming for Rice.

NEXT: Rice, and the taming of McFadden!