Ground Control to Leroy Quade
Words, Fiction
Denver, CO

The gun’s muzzle pressed hard against the base of Leroy’s head. A strong recoil and muffled sound. Not a bang, more like a snap, followed by a sharp metallic jab deep into his brain. The echoes of a cruel sting, and then the incoming stampede of a migraine.

A small plastic cup was handed to him.  In it, two 1000 milligram beasts claiming to be medicine. His throat was very dry and feeling very, very tight.

“Can I take these up the ass instead?”

Leroy was a futurist. Nothing to do with the fascist futurism of Marinetti, or the transhumanist futurists of Silicon Valley bent on unattainable immortality. Leroy liked the idea of death. He believed that without death, people would likely be far shittier than they already were. Knowing we’re only here for a short while drives us to be productive, he thought, to be good to one another, to leave behind a good, sound reputation. But then again, plenty of folks are shit because they know they’ll be dead. They operate on the basis that they ought to live their short existence to the fullest and to hell with the world and anyone else inhabiting it.

Not Leroy Quade.

Excerpt from Ground Control to Leroy Quade, a short story (and illustration) for Creeper magazine’s inaugural issue from Oh Nothing Press out of somewhere in Australia.