Keeping Your Spirits Up

"Still below the weather, hon?"
"Much better now."
"The nap helped?"
"No, finding the poison you used on me and dosing your tea did."

Finding Your Inner Freak

“Huh. We tried abuse, vinyl, shoes, nothing.”
“Can't I just not have a fetish?”
“C'mon,” she said, lashing me from below, “that’d be weird.”

The Final Battle

“I’m a wizard,” he cackled, from his room below our stairs. And maybe he was. But it turns out that the wizard’s natural enemy is the Taser.

Results will be posted January 7th, and I'll be sure to harangue… um, ask nicely for your vote, if I make it that far.

Recap: NYCMidnight's "Tweet Me a Story" gives contestants 5 hours to write a story of 140 characters or less which must include a supplied word. My word was BETTER. Entrants could submit up to 3 stories, and 25 finalists were chosen. Two of my stories made the cut. Now the judges will select the top winners, but there will also be a reader's choice winner and that's where my shameless begging comes in.

If you've got a mind to, please consider going here and voting for my stories. They are:

From my blanket, I watched the surf. "It doesn't get any better than this."
From his time machine, me from 2023 sighed. "No, it doesn't."

"That's it, I have to know. You've been with me and with Mike. Which one is the better man?"
I smiled. "The one who didn't have to ask."

Both are marked as BY CHRIS BRIDGES. You can vote for as many as you like, but only once. No registration required.

VOTE VOTE VOTE VOTE VOTE VOTE VOTE VOTE VOTE VOTE VOTE VOTE VOTE VOTE VOTE VOTE VOTE VOTE VOTE VOTE VOTE VOTE VOTE VOTE VOTE VOTE VOTE VOTE VOTE VOTE VOTE VOTE VOTE VOTE VOTE VOTE VOTE VOTE VOTE VOTE VOTE VOTE VOTE VOTE VOTE VOTE VOTE VOTE VOTE VOTE VOTE VOTE VOTE VOTE VOTE VOTE VOTE VOTE VOTE VOTE VOTE VOTE VOTE VOTE VOTE VOTE or not, you know. Up to you.  You can see the rest of the finalists in the other groups here. Voting ends 6 p.m. EST tonight.

Thanks.

The results of the first round are in, and of the 25 top stories selected in my group, two of them are mine. This pleases me, and causes me to weep for the next generation of writers.

Starting at midnight, you can vote for your favorite Tweet Me a Story story, and I'd appreciate it if you would consider voting for mine. If you thought them worthy, of course. Or even out of misguided friendship, shameless pandering, or guilt. It all works for me.

The stories chosen were:

From my blanket, I watched the surf. "It doesn't get any better than this."
From his time machine, me from 2023 sighed. "No, it doesn't."

and

"That's it, I have to know. You've been with me and with Mike. Which one is the better man?"
I smiled. "The one who didn't have to ask."

And you can vote here. Vote early and vote often!

Self-Improvement

“Dammit, could you be a better man just once in your life?”

"Oh, sure," he laughed, lunging for her.

“Could you hurry?” she said, and fired.

Memories

From my blanket, I watched the surf. "It doesn't get any better than this."

From his time machine, me from 2023 sighed. "No, it doesn't."

Dying to Know

"That's it, I have to know. You've been with me and with Mike. Which one is the better man?"

I smiled. "The one who didn't have to ask."

I'll keep you posted on the results, because you know you're desperate to know. And here's one that didn't make the cut:

Keeping Your Spirits Up

"Are you feeling better, hon?"

"A little."

"Did the nap help?"

"No, but finding the poison you used on me and slipping it in your tea did."

We love Dollhouse. And we know from Buffy and Firefly that Joss Whedon fans are across-the-board smart, insightful, and involved.

So we’ve teamed up with Jane Espenson, Dollhouse writer and Mutant Enemy veteran, to put out an essay anthology on Dollhouse composed entirely of fan-written essays. Everyone, novice to seasoned writer, is eligible to enter; the only requirement is that you are fan of Dollhouse!

Write a great essay on Dollhouse, send it to us, and your essay could be published in a Smart Pop book edited by Jane.

They'll be using 18 fan-written essays, but one grand prize winner will get $1000!  Three first prize winners will get $250 and the remaining fourteen will get $100.  Not bad for doing what you[re already doing for free at Whedonesque.

Deadline is February 1, 2010. Check the SmartPop site for details and rules.

Most of the entries so far seemed to be variants of the existing one — many of them submitted by the same few people — so I decided to go a different direction with just an image depicting his trademark white mic stand.

Winner gets a T-shirt with the new design, signed by Jon. In my case, winning would mean an ecstatic Teresa, which is way more fun. We'll see if this is anything close to what they were looking for.

The Kitten, the Flame Demon, and the Car Wash
by C. A. Bridges (1,000 words)

Jess watched from the car wash lobby as the screaming flame demon roamed the streets. It wasn’t charging yet, but it was definitely rampaging in their general direction.

“The heat is on, ladies,” she said. “Maybe this can happen faster?”

“Gimme a second, OK?” Amanda said, before turning back to kneel in front of the weary young girl they’d rescued the day before. She was maybe 7 years old, but her eyes now belonged to a very old, very tired woman.

They had found her in an abandoned mall surrounded by roaring flames and smoldering bodies. She didn’t respond to them, wouldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep. She’d been utterly silent and listless since they brought her back, as if she knew she was already dead and was vaguely wondering when she would fall over. “Honey?” Amanda asked her gently. “I need you to listen to me.”

There was an explosion. “Just torched the McDonalds,” Jess called.

“That thing, that fire thing that attacked your… that you saw? It’s coming this way. No, no, hold on,” she said soothingly as the girl stiffened. “We can stop it, but we need your help. Do you know where those horrible things came from?”

A pause, and then the girl shook her head.

“Do you know what magic is? Casting spells?”

A nod.

“Well, some very foolish people thought they could teach a computer to do magic. They thought they could program it with all the spells, the knowledge and the rituals of thousands of years, and then push a button. Do you think that was a good idea?”

The girl looked out at the angry towers of smoke rising from all around the city and shook her head violently.

“That’s right. They learned how to do magic, but didn't understand that power without wisdom is dangerous. Last year they accidentally called up a host of demons, and we’ve been fighting them ever since.”

“The boutique’s gone now,” Jess yelled. “If we’re gonna do this, we need to do it now!”

“And we have help,” Amanda said quickly. “There’s a race of very intelligent, very powerful beings already on the earth, here to protect us, hiding their abilities until now.” She stood up, opened the door to the office, and pulled out a cardboard box, which mewed. The girl’s eyebrows rose. “You might have met some of them already.”

A kitten’s head appeared, looked around wildly, and then focused on the little girl. “Blert!” it told her. Her expression never changed, but Amanda saw her relax ever so slightly.

“Cats can do magic,” Amanda told her, “every one of them, and their real job is to guard the doorways into the demon worlds. Those doorways are everywhere; under bridges, in the backs of closets… It’s a very important job, and they’ve kept us safe for a very long time.”

“Getting closer!” Jess yelled.

Sweating now, Amanda scooped up the kitten. “OK, short version. Jezzalyle here can fight the flame demon. Don’t underestimate her, she’s like 85 years old and a battlecat warrior. But we need your help. They don’t understand English but they can read our thoughts, and children are better at talking to cats than adults are. Adults never pay enough attention.” The girl nodded at that and even smiled a bit. “Could you ask her to help us? Please? Quickly?”

Jess started backing away from the glass. “It’s almost here!”

The girl took Jezzalyle from Amanda’s hands and held the kitten up to her face. The kitten looked her directly in the eyes with a disturbingly level expression.

Time seemed to stop as the girl visibly concentrated as hard as she could, and for the first time she spoke aloud. “Hello, Jezzalyle. I’m Laurie. Would you fight the demon for us? Would you save our lives?”

After an agonizingly long moment, Jezzalyle leaned forward and head-bumped Laurie’s face. The girl actually giggled a little hysterically at that. Amanda grabbed the kitten carefully. “Works for me. OK, you guys get in the office. I’ll get her positioned. Ready?”

She left and returned almost immediately, without Jezzalyle. They all heard a tiny snarling noise.

“What’s happening?” Laurie asked.

“Stay down, hon,” Jess said. “She’s challenging it. We can’t look directly at her when she–”

The demon began lumbering toward the car wash, beelining toward the tunnel and the hissing creature that was confronting it. A wave of heat washed over the women, who ducked out of the way.

“Down!” Amanda yelled and pushed Laurie’s head below the counter.

There was a loud clang. There was a series of roars like crashing waves, and a furious hissing noise that went on and on. Then there was silence.

The demon was gone. Steam billowed through the tunnel and out into the street. Laurie started to scramble over the counter.

“Where’s Jezzalyle?” she asked frantically.

Amanda pulled her back and hugged her. “She pulled the demon back through the doorway!” she said happily. “She’s going to banish it forever. Another cat will watch us till she gets back.”

Laurie took a deep breath and smiled. “She’s amazing.”

“Yes, she is,” Amanda said. “Now you go clean up, and we’ll see about some food.” Laurie hugged her back and left.

Jess took her hands off the car wash controls she’d been operating and they both watched the hoses retract and water swirl into the drains, along with what looked like a tiny bit of charred fur. “I think it’s adding the premium wax job at the end that finishes them off.”

“Probably.”

“Seriously, ‘Jezzalyle’? ‘Battlecat warrior’?”

“Didn’t hear any better ideas.”

“She won’t thank you when she finds out flame demons actually snarf cats like popcorn.”

“Yeah, but she’ll be alive to hate me, and that’s good enough.”

Jess sighed. “We’re going to go to hell for this, you know.”

“How will we tell the difference? Get ready, you’re going back out.”

“Food run?”

“No,” Amanda said, watching the girl skip away. “We’re gonna need more cats.”

———————————————

You can read my previous entries here.

If you saw the Emmys last night, along with Neil Patrick Harris' amazing performance as the host and the revamped show that finally seemed to start treating awards ceremonies the way they should all be treated — with respect, humor, and John Hodgman providing color commentary– you also saw the first time Dr. Horrible ever appeared on broadcast television. At least, outside of a news show reporting on the death of TV.

I almost missed the damn thing.

It was the accountancy part! If there was ever a safe time to hit the bathroom, it should have been the accountancy part! But no, NPH had to make it all "fun" and "entertaining," as he did throughout the rest of the show. There were some clunkers — the fan getting lousy seats got old even before she was on the screen, the presenter banter was only slightly better overall, and the reality show montage and the ultra-violent Family Guy clip just forcibly reminded me why I don't watch reality shows or Family Guy. (Isn't Dirty Jobs a reality show? Why isn't Mike Rowe winning Emmys?) But overall this was the most entertaining Emmys broadcast I've seen in years. Light-hearted, respectful, and it combined the genres to make the show move faster (something I, ahem, suggested last year).

The fans seemed to agree: despite predictable winners and competition from the Giants/Cowboys game, the 61st Emmys saw a million-person jump in ratings from last year.

I think it was Dr. Horrible's doing. Somehow his evil plan backfired and saved the industry. And in recognition of that, and of Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog winning its own Emmy, I'm giving one away. Post a comment below and tomorrow night at 9 pm EST I'll pull a name at random and send that winner a Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog DVD, just for the hell of it.

One entry per person, must be 18 to win, must be a mailing address in the U.S. or Canada (unless you're willing to cover shipping charges). Begin!

Note: Winning entry has been drawn,. will announce after I get a response from the winner I just e-mailed.

If you know and like movie maker Kevin Smith, you already know you want this collection of transcripts of the best of SModcast, the weekly podcast Smith does with his longtime friend and conspirator Scott Mosier. If you've seen Smith at any of his personal appearances or seen any of his live DVDs you know he's loaded with great and bewildering stories. This… is different.

First, these are not the well-weathered and practiced stories he tells so well. This is Smith getting ripped and talking off the top of his head with his friends, giggling and pushing each other to extremes, most of them inevitably involving deviant sex. And he goes straight to the NSFW well right off the bat, talking candidly about his masturbatory habits, the Godzilla Jesus movie, whether Annie Sullivan ever had sex while Helen Keller was in the room ("It's not like they were, 'We gotta keep it quiet'"), whether the Make-A-Wish Foundation covers forced celebrity hand jobs, and the sickest question Kevin's ever been asked. Smith and Co., left to their own devices, are more twisted than anything he's ever put on film (so far). And I've got three to give away.

How to enter: Just post in the comments below the answer to this question:

Which Kevin Smith character would you nail, and why?

Rules: Any character is fair game, from his movies to his cartoons to his comics to, hell, his Roadside Attractions bits if you want*. Please keep the entries less than 50 words. US and Canada entries only, unless you're willing to cover postage. Must be over 18 to win. One entry per person, please. Make sure you leave a valid e-mail address so I can contact you (your info will not be used for any other purpose). And you've got till midnight EST next Friday, Sept. 25. Three winners will be chosen at random. Go!

UPDATED: Contest is over, three names have been chosen, e-mail sent out. I;'ll post the names once I get confirmation back. Thanks everyone who entering!

"Shootin' the Sh*t With Kevin Smith" hits the stores Tuesday, Sept. 22, and you can preorder it now. Or you can order a signed one from Jay and Silent Bob's Secret Stash. And be sure to check out the SModcasts for a taste of what you'll be getting.

* My own response? I'd bang God, in Her guise as Alanis Morissette. She's a total hottie, and Alan Rickman would have to stand next to the bed and make all her noises for Her. Doesn't get any better, sir.

The Final Score
By C. A. Bridges (1,000 words)

Being a coffee shop barista, even an emergency temp one, was everything Aly thought it would be. “Here you are sir, have a nice day, die in a fire,” she muttered before turning to her mother, who was filling the large catering pot. “How do you keep from murdering your customers?”

“That gets you talked about,” her mother said. “Try making terrifying designs in their latte cream instead, that always cheers me up.”

Aly sighed. Helping out her mom was one thing, but she couldn’t take being back in this town for long. At least she didn’t have to go near—

“You know where Electricland Arcade is, right?” her mother asked suddenly. “I need you to run a delivery… Aly? Why are you hitting your head?”

—

Matt stood ready, his hands dry, his shoulders loose, a retired gunslinger here for one last battle. Looming in front of him was his old archenemy.

“So, Donkey Kong,” he said grimly. “We meet again.”

The high score screen mocked him. An unbroken string of MNAs, with a single FRC arrogantly perched on top.

“FRC, whoever you are, you’re going down.” Matt settled comfortably on an old wooden stool and checked his gear. Snacks, check. Heap of change, check. Massive amounts of caffeine, on the way.

A quarter brought the machine to life with music he hadn’t heard in years. A broad smile spread across his face.

“Bring it on, you damned dirty ape.”

—

This place hasn’t changed a bit, Aly thought. It’s still a total dump.

But where was everybody? Everything was turned off; all she could hear was one game playing in the back. She followed the sound and almost dropped the box she was carrying.

It was him.

It was goddamn Matt Archway, at the same goddamn game, on the same goddamn stool, ten years later. And if anything he looked even better, which was infuriating. This just couldn’t get any worse.

“I smell coffee!” Matt called without looking. “Thanks, honey, just bring it here.”

Aly set her jaw, wondering why God hated her so and if dousing her ex-boyfriend with boiling coffee would bring closure. “Here you are, sir. Is there a party…?.”

“Nope, just me. You can set it there,” he said, whipping the joystick around like a madman.

Good to know he ignored everybody equally, she thought, turning to flee.

“Hey, could you pour me a cup? I’m kinda in the middle of something here.”

“Of course, sir. Right away, sir,” she muttered, yanking out the coffee pot. “Die in a fire, sir…”

“What?”

“Nothing, you just keep playing your little game,” she grumbled. She placed the cup on the console where it wouldn’t be in his way, held the pot in shaking hands and tried not to notice how strong his shoulders looked.

“Oh, that’s perfect,” Matt said. “How did you know to…” He looked at her reflection in the monitor, his jaw dropped, and Mario almost got hit with a barrel. “Aly? What are you doing here?”

“Revisiting my nightmares, apparently,” she said bitterly. “Have you seriously been coming here all this time?”

“What? No, they’re tearing the place down tomorrow.”

“So of course you’re the last thing to get moved out. God, you haven’t changed a bit.”

“Sure I have. I don’t drink Cokes anymore,” he said, timing his jumps carefully so he could pick up the cup. “Now I can afford Jamaican Blue Mountain.”

“You’re having your video game catered?”

“Hey, this is a special moment for me. I spent a lot of time playing this game.”

Aly just stared at him. “Really.”

Matt granted her a rueful glance for an entire two seconds before turning back to the game, effortlessly jumping over beams and dodging fireballs. It was like talking to an air traffic controller during a blizzard. “Right, sorry,” he said. “But tomorrow they’re selling it off and I wanted to get the high score again before they did.”

“You’re insane! That’s the legacy you’re passing to the generations, your freaking initials? Hell, Matt, even Mario moved on from this game.”

“Yeah, but his girlfriend stayed with him.”

“Well, maybe if I went ‘ding!’ and points flashed over my head when you touched me, you’d have noticed me more!”

“Hey, that’s not fair,” Matt said, finally turning to face her. “You never told me you were upset, you just dumped me and moved away.” Behind him Mario was struck by a fireball and died. Aly actually felt a twinge of guilt at that.

Matt stood up and looked at her. “I didn’t pay enough attention to you, and that was ignorant of me. But you never gave me a chance to do better. I haven’t played here since the day you left.”

“Then why…?”

He pointed at the screen. “MNA stands for ‘Matt ‘n’ Aly.’ Always did.” He laughed humorlessly. “I wanted it to last somewhere. Stupid FRC.”

“Matt—“

“Screw it. Thanks for the coffee. Tell your mom I’ll see her later.” He gazed deep into her eyes as if memorizing her. “God, you look amazing. I hope someone out there deserves you.” And she watched him walk away.

After a long moment Aly grabbed the cup, drained it, and poured another as she reached for her phone. “Mom? Bring the generator. Don’t ask why.”

Then she put down the pot. “Right, then,” she said. “FRC, you’re going down.”

—

A week later Matt walked into the coffee shop feeling miserable. Good thing Aly was probably gone by… what?

She was behind the counter, looking beautiful. And next to the water fountain in the back was the Donkey Kong machine. He couldn’t help himself; he went and looked at the new top score.

MNA.

“Hey, I watched an expert for years,” Aly said, smiling and hugging him. “You learn a few things.”

“Me too,” he said. “I learned you don’t win until you get the princess.”

There was a distinct “ding!” when he kissed her. And somewhere Donkey Kong roared in defeat.