conversation—
‘No,’ whispered Natasha, eyes wide, lips gleaming.
The earthquake tore through the town with a single mammoth, clubbing sweep, smashing buildings into pulverised dust like toys stamped under a giant’s boot, spitting chunks of shattered concrete, stone and timber up into the air in cascading arcs with shrieks of tearing and cracking; ripping the civilised world apart with appalling ease. Devastating trenches chewed through the rock, opening up to swallow whole buildings, bucking horses, spinning carriages, screaming pulverised people and in a final giant concussive boom like the ending of worlds the haze of lights that illuminated Zermatt was swept away beneath a tidal wave of evil and darkness ...
In the aftermath, the only sounds were people moaning and the thumping of Air Zermatt’s rescue helicopters fluttering uselessly above the terrible devastation.
Leviathan Fuels: Premium Grade LVA
- go on, make the switch, because you know your children deserve a better future ...
The man wearing the fur coat and glossy yellow shoes stood on the runway staring up at the decommissioned Chinese MIG87 fighter and the small black DigiOpticDV4 camera attached to the nose cone just above the Chinese writing that read ‘Death to All Non-Believers.’
‘Is it attached?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Will it fucking stay attached?’
The technician reddened. His boss, the Big Man, Sir Ronald Xavier IX and Corporate MD of Film & Film© Incorporated, makers of Film and Supreme Advertisements©, currently contracted to make one new high-tech advert per week for Leviathan Fuels - their biggest and biggest paying customer ever - was seriously fucking pissed off.
More than pissed off. He was losing money. And to him that was a crime worse than multiple sodomy.
‘Yes, sir - I’m sure it’s not going to fall off again.’
‘It better fucking not,’ hissed Sir Ronald Xavier IX with passion. ‘We’ve lost a day’s filming, and that’s cost me US$38.7 million. I’d hate to deduct that from your pitiful wages.’
The technician paled. He staggered back as if struck by a pickaxe handle, wondering how long it would take him to pay the money back if the unthinkable happened.
Xavier waved him away with contempt, and with a ‘Fuckwit’ thrown into the employee-abuse list for good measure. He turned his attention to the pilot, who waved in the sort of happy fashion associated with a knowledge of one’s own non-expendability. Xavier frowned.
‘You know the run?’ he shouted.
The pilot nodded, his features insect-like behind his helmet. ‘Like the back o’ ma hand, man,’ he drawled.
‘Well, go on , then!’
The MIG87 taxied along a short length of runway and then leapt into the air. A sonic boom followed soon after as the jet reached altitude. For the pilot, the world became a huge expanse of blue scattered with marshmallow wisps of cloud. The sun blazed from an infinite heaven and he swung the MIG87, banking sharply left with a scream of engines, then right, before settling into a straight and even flight path.
‘Have you patched me through yet?’ came the annoyed voice of Xavier, followed by a low ‘Tut.’ ‘Well, fucking patch me through, you moron! What? He can hear me? Jesus Christ Superstar, you just can’t get the fucking staff these days ...’
The MIG87 howled around in a wide arc, plummeted back down in a steep dive and passed low over Xavier’s head, making his strands of white hair, so carefully placed over his bald pate, wave wildly.
‘Idiot!’ screamed Xavier. There was a period of forced calm as he regulated his breathing - and his pacemaker, using external controls linked to his PDA. ‘If you kill me, none of you get paid, you morons! Now, head for the first Zone.’
‘Roger that.’
That MIG87 slowed, engines decelerating with a heavy whine, and headed for the first Zone. The desert opened up, a sea of undulating sand, towering dunes - a world of harsh and natural
‘No,’ whispered Natasha, eyes wide, lips gleaming.
The earthquake tore through the town with a single mammoth, clubbing sweep, smashing buildings into pulverised dust like toys stamped under a giant’s boot, spitting chunks of shattered concrete, stone and timber up into the air in cascading arcs with shrieks of tearing and cracking; ripping the civilised world apart with appalling ease. Devastating trenches chewed through the rock, opening up to swallow whole buildings, bucking horses, spinning carriages, screaming pulverised people and in a final giant concussive boom like the ending of worlds the haze of lights that illuminated Zermatt was swept away beneath a tidal wave of evil and darkness ...
In the aftermath, the only sounds were people moaning and the thumping of Air Zermatt’s rescue helicopters fluttering uselessly above the terrible devastation.
Leviathan Fuels: Premium Grade LVA
- go on, make the switch, because you know your children deserve a better future ...
The man wearing the fur coat and glossy yellow shoes stood on the runway staring up at the decommissioned Chinese MIG87 fighter and the small black DigiOpticDV4 camera attached to the nose cone just above the Chinese writing that read ‘Death to All Non-Believers.’
‘Is it attached?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Will it fucking stay attached?’
The technician reddened. His boss, the Big Man, Sir Ronald Xavier IX and Corporate MD of Film & Film© Incorporated, makers of Film and Supreme Advertisements©, currently contracted to make one new high-tech advert per week for Leviathan Fuels - their biggest and biggest paying customer ever - was seriously fucking pissed off.
More than pissed off. He was losing money. And to him that was a crime worse than multiple sodomy.
‘Yes, sir - I’m sure it’s not going to fall off again.’
‘It better fucking not,’ hissed Sir Ronald Xavier IX with passion. ‘We’ve lost a day’s filming, and that’s cost me US$38.7 million. I’d hate to deduct that from your pitiful wages.’
The technician paled. He staggered back as if struck by a pickaxe handle, wondering how long it would take him to pay the money back if the unthinkable happened.
Xavier waved him away with contempt, and with a ‘Fuckwit’ thrown into the employee-abuse list for good measure. He turned his attention to the pilot, who waved in the sort of happy fashion associated with a knowledge of one’s own non-expendability. Xavier frowned.
‘You know the run?’ he shouted.
The pilot nodded, his features insect-like behind his helmet. ‘Like the back o’ ma hand, man,’ he drawled.
‘Well, go on , then!’
The MIG87 taxied along a short length of runway and then leapt into the air. A sonic boom followed soon after as the jet reached altitude. For the pilot, the world became a huge expanse of blue scattered with marshmallow wisps of cloud. The sun blazed from an infinite heaven and he swung the MIG87, banking sharply left with a scream of engines, then right, before settling into a straight and even flight path.
‘Have you patched me through yet?’ came the annoyed voice of Xavier, followed by a low ‘Tut.’ ‘Well, fucking patch me through, you moron! What? He can hear me? Jesus Christ Superstar, you just can’t get the fucking staff these days ...’
The MIG87 howled around in a wide arc, plummeted back down in a steep dive and passed low over Xavier’s head, making his strands of white hair, so carefully placed over his bald pate, wave wildly.
‘Idiot!’ screamed Xavier. There was a period of forced calm as he regulated his breathing - and his pacemaker, using external controls linked to his PDA. ‘If you kill me, none of you get paid, you morons! Now, head for the first Zone.’
‘Roger that.’
That MIG87 slowed, engines decelerating with a heavy whine, and headed for the first Zone. The desert opened up, a sea of undulating sand, towering dunes - a world of harsh and natural
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